year, the windowsills of the houses sprouting boxes of conifers so manicured they looked artificial. Only one of his original neighbours in the block remained – a cantankerous sitting tenant called Ron; the rest were junior investment bankers, or something in branding. Whenever Janusz bumped into one of them, he relished their evident confusion and shock at finding a big Polish guy in a shabby greatcoat, here in their exclusive block.
Abandoning his attempt to locate the elusive lug A, a critical component of the cabinet, he went to join Kasia at the window. Threading his arms around her waist he noticed that the first leaf buds were emerging on the plane tree outside. ‘Nie, kotku,’ he said. ‘Practically all my work is in the East End, and from here I can be there in twenty minutes.’
He was looking forward to playing house with Kasia, especially the novelty of sleeping together every night and waking up next to her, but some things were non-negotiable. He’d be wearing an oak overcoat before he’d consider relocating to some suburban hellhole in Zone 6.
‘Nie, nie, I love it here!’ she said. ‘And only ten minutes to get into the West End!’ She turned her head up to him, eyes wide. ‘We could join the National Film Theatre!’
‘Sure. Why not?’ Janusz smiled to see her excitement. In her youth, Kasia had graduated from Lodz Film School, whose alumni included world class directors like Kieslowski and Wajda, but since Janusz had known her she rarely expressed any interest in film, and if he tried to bring up the subject, her manner seemed to say it was all a piece of a long-lost youthful foolishness.
Taking her hand, his fingers encountered her wedding band. She tugged at it. ‘I can’t get it off,’ she told him, ‘not even with oil.’
He sensed tears at the edge of her voice – most unlike Kasia.
‘I have a bolt cutter, if you want me to …?’
There was a tiny pause, before she said, ‘Okay. But not now. Next time I come, misiu.’
He kissed the nape of her neck, where wisps of hair had escaped the ponytail she’d put it in to do the cleaning. Leaning back into him, she turned her face up to his. Their kiss was just getting interesting when the entryphone buzzer shattered the mood. She arched an enquiring eyebrow.
‘It’s probably Oskar,’ murmured Janusz. ‘We’re going over to his place, to pick up the bathroom tiles.’ Kasia hadn’t asked for many improvements to his admittedly down-at-heel apartment, but on one score she’d been resolute: the vintage avocado bathroom suite and mould-streaked tiles had to go. Women were fussy about things like that.
Thirty seconds later, the barrel-shaped form of Janusz’s lifelong mate Oskar burst through the door. ‘Put your pantyhose on, ladyboy, I’m on a single yellow …’ He stopped in mid-flow. ‘Oh, przepraszam, Kasia, I didn’t know you were here.’ They kissed three times on alternate cheeks in the Polish manner, but – not for the first time – Janusz wondered if he didn’t detect a certain … reserve in Oskar’s body language. Had it always been there and he’d simply not noticed before, or was it a new development?
‘You boys go ahead,’ said Kasia. ‘I’ve got to get back to the nail bar anyway. Saturday afternoons are always busy.’
‘You haven’t eaten anything all day!’ Janusz chided; her lack of appetite was clearly another sign of the strain she was under. ‘Have a couple of pierogi at least, before you go?’
‘No time!’ she said, picking up her coat. ‘I’ll grab something in Stratford.’
‘I could manage a few pierogi,’ offered Oskar, before clocking the meaningful look Janusz sent him. ‘Dobrze. I’ll go and wait in the van, Janek, head off any traffic wardens. They’re like sharks round here.’ And with a lubricious wink at his mate, he disappeared.
Janusz drew Kasia to him by her coat lapels, getting a waft of the cinnamony scent he’d bought her for Christmas. She was tall, for a girl, but the top of her head only came to his nose. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea to go back to the flat tonight?’ he asked.
‘Tak, why not?’ She lifted one shoulder.
‘Well, you said you’re not sure whether Steve really believes it yet – that you’re leaving?’ His voice darkened. ‘I don’t want him giving you any trouble.’ In the past, during domestic arguments, Kasia’s husband had been known to compensate for the poverty of his vocabulary by resorting to his fists.
‘Don’t worry. I told you, he hasn’t laid a finger on me in years.’ She reached up to set her hands on his shoulders. ‘Listen, I promised I’d stay for his birthday and I won’t go back on that. He says there’s something important he wants my advice on.’
Janusz didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Like what?!’
‘I don’t know – he won’t say. It’s probably just one of his business ideas.’
‘And what if he tries to talk you out of leaving?’ Janusz scowled at the floor, appalled at how needy the words made him sound.
‘Janek, kochanie. He knows I’m moving out Monday evening. I already booked the cab to bring my things. I know I’ve talked about leaving before, but you have to believe me.’ She cupped his jaw in her hand, let her seaweed-green eyes linger on his. ‘This time it’s different.’
After she’d left, he went over to the bay window so he could watch her crossing the Fields. Her figure, while no longer girlish, was still slender, and her brisk and hopeful walk gave her the look of a woman on the cusp of a great adventure. He craned to keep her in sight until the last possible moment before turning away, a lop-sided grin twisting his big jaw.
Had Janusz been able to keep Kasia in view for another twenty or thirty metres he would have seen something else: the outline of a black-clad figure hurrying across the park towards her.
‘I made three and a half grand off the last shipment, and I can barely keep up with the orders!’ Oskar was in high spirits as the Transit van sped off Highbury Corner roundabout. The two men were heading east to Oskar’s lock-up garage, to collect the tiles Kasia had chosen for the bathroom.
Janusz grunted. Importing ceramic tiles from Poland, where they cost a fraction of the London price, was the latest in Oskar’s long line of moneymaking ventures and, even allowing for the inevitable exaggeration, it did sound like it might prove his most lucrative yet.
‘The tile factory’s in Torun, so I’ve been able to see Gosia and the girls twice in the last month.’ Oskar’s round face was flushed with excitement – or perhaps from the half-drunk can of Tyskie sitting in the cup holder between them. ‘I’m thinking I might hire a bigger van for the next run.’
When Janusz and Oskar had left Poland in the eighties, its economy had been flatlining, decimated by decades of Communist rule and the ideological inanities of a state-run economy. Nowadays, the rationing and queues for flour were ancient history, but like so many of their compatriots who’d arrived in the UK more recently, Oskar still couldn’t earn a decent income back home to support himself and his family – wife Gosia and two girls under ten.
‘Kurwa, Janek! I said, does that mate of yours in Hackney still have a Luton van?’ Janusz had been gazing out of the window, lost in thoughts of Kasia. ‘You should see your face!’ crowed Oskar, making loud kissing noises. ‘You look like a schoolgirl just back from her first date!’ Janusz rearranged his face into a scowl but it was too late – Oskar was on a roll. ‘What’s she got you doing next, loverboy, after the new bathroom? New carpets? Flowery curtains maybe? Mind you, that would be right up your street.’
‘If I need any advice on patterns I’ll give you a call,’ growled Janusz, digging in his pocket for his smokes – despite all his attempts to cut down he still got through a tin a day of the small slim cigars he’d smoked