Afterward, feeling overwhelmed and afraid, the kid sat up all night until dawn; clutching a cup of coffee in Euston Station. Trying not to think, trying not to feel.
He sat there through the early-morning rush hour—a depressed waif, ignored by the sea of commuters. He counted the minutes until the pubs opened, and he could get a drink.
Finally, the dingy pub across the road opened its doors, offering sanctuary for the lost and disheartened.
The kid went inside and sat at the bar. He paid cash for a vodka—it was the first time he had ever tasted vodka, come to think of it. He knocked it back, wincing as it burned in his throat.
Then he heard a husky voice at the end of the bar:
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a shithole like this?”
This was—on reflection—the first, and last, compliment she ever paid him.
The kid looked up, and there was Barbara West. A lined older woman, dyed-red hair, an excess of mascara. She had the darkest, most piercing eyes he had ever seen; penetrating, brilliant, and scary.
Barbara laughed—a distinctive laugh, a throaty cackle. She laughed easily, he discovered, mostly at her own jokes. The kid would grow to hate her laugh. But that day, he merely felt indifferent. He shrugged—and tapped his empty glass in answer to her question.
“What’s it look like?”
Barbara took the hint, nodding at the barman. “Give him another, Mike. Me, too, while you’re at it. Doubles.”
Barbara had gone to the pub that morning direct from signing books in the Waterstones bookshop next door—because she was an alcoholic. Character is fate; and without Barbara’s need for a gin and tonic at 11:00 A.M., she and the kid would never have met. They were from two different worlds, those two. And were destined, in the end, only to cause each other harm.
They had a couple more drinks. Barbara kept her eyes on him the whole time, sizing him up. She liked what she saw. After one more drink for the road, she called a cab. She took the kid home with her.
It was only meant to be for one night. But one night led to another, and another—and he never left.
Yes, Barbara West used him, taking advantage of this desperate child in his hour of need. She was indeed a predator; even if, unlike her alcoholism, this was not immediately apparent. She was one of the darkest human beings I ever encountered. I dread to think what she would have done with her life if she hadn’t had a knack for writing novels.
But let’s not underestimate the kid, here. He understood perfectly well what he was getting into. He knew what Barbara wanted, and he was happy to supply it. If anything, he got the better deal. In return for his services, he received not only a roof over his head—but an education, which he needed just as urgently.
In that house in Holland Park, he had access to a private library. A world full of books. “Can I read one?” he said, staring at them in awe.
Barbara seemed surprised at his request. Perhaps she doubted he could read. “Take your pick.” She shrugged.
He randomly chose one book from the shelf: Hard Times.
“Oh yuck, Dickens.” Barbara pulled a face. “So sentimental. Still, I suppose you’ve got to start somewhere.”
But the kid didn’t find Dickens sentimental. He found him wonderfully entertaining. And funny, and profound. So he read David Copperfield next; and his enjoyment grew, along with his appetite. Not just for Dickens, but for whatever he could find on Barbara’s shelves—devouring all the great authors he could lay his hands on.
Every day spent in that house was an education—not just from her books, but from Barbara herself; and from the circle she moved in—the literary salon she ran from her living room.
As time went on, and the kid was exposed to more and more of her life, he kept his eyes and ears open. He tried to absorb as much as he could from her guests’ conversations; what all these sophisticated people said, and how they said it. He would memorize phrases and opinions and gestures, practicing them when he was alone, in front of a mirror; trying them on, like uncomfortable clothes he was determined to squeeze into.
Don’t forget the kid was an aspiring actor. And, frankly, this was his only role, which he tirelessly and meticulously rehearsed over the years—until he honed it to perfection.
Then, one day, staring at himself in the mirror, he could see no trace of the kid.
Someone else was staring back at him.
But who was this new person? The first thing he had to do was find a name for him. He stole one from a play on Barbara’s shelf, from Private Lives by No?l Coward.