That night, it took thirty-six minutes to get from Liverpool Street Station to St Katharine Docks. As we made our way through the crowds standing outside pubs and wine bars, already celebrating the New Year, I told myself it was the atmosphere that made me feel drunk. But I knew it was because of you.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Layla.’
‘I expected something more Scottish,’ I admitted.
‘I was lucky, my mum got to choose my name. My dad chose my sister’s name and she wasn’t so fortunate. He’s originally from Islay so he called her Ellen, after Port Ellen.’
‘It’s still a pretty name.’
‘Yes, it is. What about you? What’s your name?’
‘Finn.’
‘Irish?’
‘Yes. I was born and raised in Ireland,’ I explained.
You couldn’t get over the size of the Tower of London, proudly illuminated against the night sky, or the majesty of Tower Bridge. By the time we reached the docks, where people were partying on the various yachts and boats moored there, you were completely overwhelmed.
‘This is London?’ you asked.
‘It is,’ I said, pleased at your reaction to the city I loved. I stopped in front of my apartment block. ‘And this is where I live.’
‘Where you live?’ You seemed suddenly doubtful and I remembered that I was meant to be finding you a hostel or hotel.
‘Yes. You’ll never find somewhere to stay tonight so you can stay with me and Harry. Tomorrow, we’ll find you a hostel.’ You still weren’t convinced. ‘We have a little study with a sofa-bed, you can sleep there. You’ll be fine, I promise.’
I tapped in the door code and after a moment’s hesitation you followed me inside. In the lift, your unease grew – but of course, I had more or less kidnapped you. I wanted to put your mind at rest, to tell you that I hadn’t been lying, that you would never have found anywhere to stay that night because every hotel, every hostel would have been booked up months ago. But we were already on the third floor and I hoped that once you saw the flat, you’d feel more comfortable.
‘Oh my God, is this really yours?’ you breathed as I showed you around.
‘Mine and Harry’s.’
‘It’s beautiful!’
The next couple of hours passed in a blur. You were hungry, do you remember? So I made an omelette and while we ate, we exchanged information about our lives. You told me you’d lived on Lewis, a remote island in the Outer Hebrides, all your life and had been fairly happy until you were fourteen and your mother died. After, things had become difficult, you said. Your father became an alcoholic and ever since, you’d been counting the days until you could leave.
‘I stayed for Christmas,’ you said. ‘Then I packed up and left. I was determined to be in London for the first of January.’ You paused, and the light from the massive lamp that hung above the dining room table bounced off your hair. ‘A new year, a new life. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.’
‘What about your sister?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t she want to leave?’
Your eyes had filled with tears. ‘Yes. But in the end she couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
You took a long time answering. ‘My dad has cancer. He’s also diabetic. Somebody has to look after him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
You laughed suddenly, unnerving me. ‘Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to be sad on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I’m meant to be going to a party tonight.’ I pointed through the window at a building on the opposite side of the dock. ‘My boss lives on the top floor. We should go.’
You looked doubtful. ‘I don’t really have anything to wear to a party.’
‘You’re fine as you are,’ I told you.
I don’t remember much about the party except feeling as if I’d stepped into a parallel universe. You were completely out of place among the women in their dresses, their nails manicured and polished, their hair styled, and I couldn’t believe it was a world I’d inhabited just a few hours before. It felt stifling and dull, and when Caroline slid her arms around my waist and asked me how I’d enjoyed the theatre, I had trouble remembering she was my girlfriend. I introduced her to you and explained something of what had happened. Maybe it was the mention of a youth hostel, but the story amused her and when she turned and raised her eyebrows at me, I knew she was laughing at you. And my fists clenched, hating her for it.
Now
It’s amazing how those two Russian dolls play on my mind. It would be easier if I’d thrown the one I found away, or at least confined it to the drawer in my desk along with the other one, the one that had belonged to Layla. But I keep it close to me, in my pocket, a reminder that I can’t be complacent. Inevitably, though, it brings back memories of Layla. It doesn’t help that Ellen has left her family of Russian dolls standing in a row on the kitchen worktop, instead of stacking them back together again, one inside the other, and returning them to the dining room. I don’t want to ask her to move them because I don’t want to give too much importance to the fact that she hasn’t, or make her think that they make me uncomfortable. But the fact is, they do. Maybe it’s the way Ellen’s eyes are continually drawn towards them, reassuring herself that the smallest one is still there, that it’s not going to suddenly disappear, like Layla did all those years ago.
I’ve just dropped her off at the station in Cheltenham in time for the ten o’clock train to London. She has a lunch meeting with her agent to discuss illustrations for a new book, and is going shopping in the afternoon, so she won’t be home until late. I could have gone with her, gone into the office, but I tend to work from home nowadays. There’s not a lot I can’t do from the bank of screens I’ve installed in my office.
I check the markets, catch up on the news, make a couple of calls, look for new shares to invest in. I usually read the newspapers online, because it’s more practical, but today I have physical copies, bought at the station earlier. So at lunchtime I return to the kitchen, make myself a pot of coffee and a sandwich and, with Peggy at my feet, spend a couple of hours reading the papers cover to cover, instead of only the financial sections, as I normally do. There’s a small paragraph in the Financial Times about Grant James’s investment in Richmond Global Equities, and I’m glad all over again that I managed to pull it off. Harry has done a lot for me in my forty-one years, so it’s a relief to be able to do something in return.
If anyone has shaped my life, it’s Harry. He was my brother’s best friend at the LSE, and when Liam was killed in a motorbike accident not long after graduation, Harry had been there for me. Since then, he’s got me out of trouble and back onto the right path more times than I care to remember. He was there twenty years ago, when I needed to get out of Ireland double-quick, inviting me to stay with him in London while I sorted myself out. A couple of months later, fed up with me mooching round his flat, filled with self-hatred, he gave me a job at Villiers, his investment firm, where I became fascinated with the workings of the markets and quickly earned a reputation for being ruthless. He was there during