Lullaby by Claire Seeber Page A

avoided glancing at the saucy underwear in the window of Agent Provocateur. Avoided thinking about Mickey’s slow smile the other day. What would someone like him see in me? We were worlds apart.
    But when I went back into the office, against my better judgement, I pleaded a headache to Pauline. Was it my imagination, or did she have a knowing look about her? At home I lay on the sofa in front
of Richard and Judy;
I decided not to go. I had a neat vodka. Then I had one with ice. And then I dressed for dinner as best as I could in the ten minutes I’d left myself; anxious I wouldn’t get there in time, anxious that I couldn’t afford the kind of glamour Mickey was obviously used to. Anxious I was imagining a situation that didn’t exist.
    When I eventually arrived in an extravagant andvodka-fuelled black cab, Mickey was slouched languidly against the wall outside. It was much chillier than yesterday, and I shivered in the breeze.
    ‘Hi,’ I said shyly. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’
    ‘Hi,’ he said calmly, kissing my cheek and leading me inside. ‘I like your plaits. And that’s a nice coat. Very Anna Karenina. Though I think I preferred the petticoat. There was something very disturbing about you in it.’
    ‘Really?’ My insides felt all funny. I didn’t tell Mickey I’d nicked that petticoat from my mum many years ago. I accepted the wine glass a waitress offered me.
    ‘You looked about sixteen.’
    ‘Oh. You like sixteen-year-olds then?’ I looked up at him from below my fringe.
    He smiled—not quite a cruel smile; more the smile of someone used to getting his own way. Not a very nice smile. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
    ‘What did you mean?’
    ‘You know, Jessica…’ I liked the way he said my name, the slow drawl of it. I found myself holding my breath.
    ‘What?’
    ‘There’s something about you I can’t put my finger on.’
    I looked at his long, thin fingers wrapped round his glass. The vodka was singing in my blood. ‘How do you know?’
    ‘How do I know what?’
    ‘How do you know that you can’t put your finger on it?’ I prayed he couldn’t hear my teeth chattering as adrenaline coursed round my body.
    He laughed. ‘You remind me of myself, I think that’s what it is.’
    ‘In what way’s that then? Mean and moody?’ I looked down coolly at my nails, but I didn’t feel the least bit cool inside. I was sure I’d stepped too far this time; come Monday, I’d be collecting my cards. But he just laughed again.
    ‘Sure, I’m not sure. Appearances are deceptive, they say. You’re deceptive, that’s what I think. You look like you need looking after, but—well—’
    ‘Well, what?’ I said, taking a long sip of the cold white wine to hide my nerves.
    ‘I reckon you’re one of life’s survivors.’
    I looked him square in the eye. ‘Yes, well. I tend to generally survive.’
    ‘And you’re so different—’
    ‘Mickey Finnegan, you old devil,’ a red-faced fat man slapped him on the back. ‘And who’s this gorgeous young thing?’
    I nearly choked on my drink but Mickey didn’t turn a hair. Nor did he bother to introduce me.
    ‘Charles. Back from New York already?’ I half-listened as Mickey chatted to the art dealer for a while; looked around for the waitress for a refill. One of Emin’s pictures on the wall behind them disturbed me, a sketch of a naked young girl. There was something very innocent about her, I thought, despite her nudity. Something sad. I peered closer; it was called
If I could just go back and start again.
Finally the fat man wandered off in search of further sustenance that he really didn’t need, and Mickey turned back to me. I looked up at him flirtatiously.
    ‘What were you saying? I’m so—different?’
    A cloud crossed his face. ‘Forget it.’
    My own foolishness walloped me in the gut; I’d read things wrong. Quickly I changed the subject. ‘Don’t you think that print’s a bit—tragic?’
    I pointed behind him to the