Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [19]
The ‘club’ proved to be little more than two dimly lit rooms, cluttered with assorted chairs and tables. An upright piano stood in a corner of one room, another was dominated by the bar, from which one of Tilda’s barmen served Chris with a glass of greasy Italian red wine. Despite Tilda’s disparaging remarks, Saeed was friendly and attentive, asking Chris which gym he ‘worked out’ in and flattering him on his pectorals.
Chris settled at an empty table and spent a few moments people-watching.
The club was about half full, with an equal balance of men and women. The men wore suits, as did a few of the women, although most were wearing simple dresses adorned with floral patterns. Loud chatter filled the room.
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Chris looked up as Tilda joined him at the table – a wineglass in one hand, a bottle in the other.
‘How do you like them?’
Chris was nonplussed.
‘My punters. They’re my life’s work. Some people paint on canvas, others write for the stage. This is my art: the atmosphere that I create in my two little rooms.’
Chris realized that he must have looked unimpressed, because she added after a moment, ‘Oh, I know they don’t look like much but they’re a marvellous mix. From titled folk to impoverished artists: all human life is here. Well, except for the dullards and the drearies – I really haven’t any time for them at all.’
Chris looked again at the people in the bar, trying to see what could be so special about Tilda’s guests. His eyes fell upon a small, unremarkable-looking woman in a long coat talking quietly in a small group. ‘What about her?’ Chris said, describing the woman. ‘Is she a great artist?’
‘Ah, now she’s new to me. I think she is with the art crowd. Drab little number, isn’t she? Dreadful raincoat and poor skin. Probably one of those abstract expressionists. Yes, very abstract I should say.’
Tilda called over a friend to identify the woman for her. Tilda’s opinion changed radically when she learnt that the woman in question was a young aristocrat and among the richest women in England. ‘Really?’ Tilda gasped, gazing back at the woman with new interest. ‘Now that you say that, her complexion does seem more radiant and her hair has gained new lustre. Yes, very attractive number that little one. I shall have to have a little chat with her after I’ve dealt with Miss Cwej here.’
‘Dealt with me?’ Chris laughed. ‘That sounds ominous. What did you have in mind?’
‘Well to start with I should like to know everything about you,’ Tilda said, her tone light and conversational as she refilled Chris’s glass and poured a larger one for herself. ‘You really are very different to most of the people around here. At first I thought you might be a labourer, but your hands are too soft and well-manicured for that. A boxer, then? But no, your pretty face hasn’t taken that kind of punishment. A bodybuilder, perhaps?’ Tilda leant back in her seat to appraise his impressive form. ‘Possibly. But then I wondered why a bodybuilder would be hanging around Soho with. . . well with whatever your friend the Doctor turns out to be. I don’t know quite what to make of you, young Christopher. You like girls, blonde ones particularly.’
Chris raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Oh yes,’ Tilda continued. ‘I’ve seen you giving a few of the women here the once over. You’re less accustomed but not necessarily uninterested in the 32
attention of men – mind you, you completely missed Saeed’s attempt to chat you up. And then there’s your clothes. They look new and they’re certainly expensive, but they’re twenty years out of date.’ She raised her glass in a toast. ‘You interest me strangely, Christopher Cwej, and frankly, few men of your age do.’ She drained her glass and added, ‘So tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Everything.’
‘Can’t a girl get any peace?’ Patsy Monette’s disembodied voice wailed from the other side of her dressing-room door. Jeffrey waited for a moment and then opened the door, only