1
I suppose it all began with finding the apartment in East London. Everything unfolded from there. The whole account of those crazy nine months at the beginning of this century: the story of Ethan and Elena. Amanda too. All of three of them gone for over twenty years now.
It’s been my therapist’s idea to put it all down on ‘paper’. She thinks it will help to get it out of my head. Before it’s too much. Or too late to remember.
The first visit to the apartment was in early February 2001. I’d only been back in London a week. I was still getting used to winter in London – that very specific damp gentle chill that creeps through your nostrils, different to the pungent aroma of southeast Asia I’d left behind.
The morning had been abortive: cancelled viewings in Hoxton Square and Bethnal Green. I was in a pub near Victoria Park eating lunch when a text message arrived to confirm the next appointment. I dialled the contact to ensure that I wasn’t going to be stood-up again. A woman answered. I didn’t catch her name first time: Samantha? No, Amanda. She had a sophisticated, business sounding voice and reassured me that our appointment in thirty minutes still stood.
The apartment was a short taxi ride away in a part of Hackney near the canal that I’ve been told is now very fashionable. But on that day in 2001 it was rather off the radar.
When I got out of the cab we had pulled into a short cul-de-sac containing only two large buildings. On the left was a five-storey redbrick industrial warehouse converted into flats. Opposite was a taller modern concrete building that matched the address on my phone. Looking upwards, I counted eight floors with large windows and balconies.
The main entrance was closed and I rang a buzzer marked ‘Reception’ but no one answered. I checked my Nokia but there were no messages.
Walking back onto the pavement, my mind drifted to my unfurling to-do list for the following week: collecting my shirts from the dry cleaners; a haircut; skim-reading the company induction manual; trying to get to bed earlier, dialling down the recreational drugs over the weekend with Jay.
After a few minutes a taxi arrived. A woman got out. She had razor-straight blonde hair that neatly framed her cheekbones. She was pretty. Dangerously pretty. She lifted her sunglasses to reveal large brown eyes and dark eyebrows. Olive skin. Pulling my headphones out of my ears, I hurriedly put away my minidisc player. She shook my hand and introduced herself.
‘Amanda Duval. You must be Mr Barron?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Please call me Alex.’
‘And you can all me Amanda.’
She was in her mid-twenties and spoke in a posh accent with a staccato, double-espresso briskness. Home counties, but somehow street-wise, like she wasn’t anybody’s fool. Medium height. She was wearing a long black wool coat that opened to a white silk shirt and dark jeans with snakeskin high heels that co-ordinated with her handbag.
‘Come in. Please.’ She led me into the empty reception. The floor was dark wood and the beige walls studded with chrome light fittings. The air smelt of pine needles, like an indoor alpine forest.
‘We’re still waiting for the new concierge to arrive. Something to do with his background checks. Thank you for being so punctual. Please come this way.’ She guided me towards one of two lifts in the far corner of the lobby.
The lift doors closed on us. Her perfume enveloped me like a hug and I felt the effects of the lunchtime’s beer in the pub. Discreetly I prised a chewing gum from its wrapper.
‘Thank you for coming to see the flat. It’s got quite a view,’ she said. Then in a more reserved tone: ‘Well, you’ll see for yourself anyway’.
The doors of the lift opened on the top floor.
‘Pretty great huh?’
She was right. Ahead of us were thirty yards of floor-to-ceiling windows that flanked the length of the landing, framing the westwards expanse of London in the late afternoon sun. The rooftops of Hackney spilled out below us. Further out were the Square Mile’s huddle of towers and cranes. Westwards the thin needles of Centrepoint and the BT Tower. Northwards the upward swell of Hampstead Heath.
I looked along the landing. There were only two doors. Amanda noticed my confusion and explained. ‘The first door is the landlord’s penthouse. The flat we’re looking at for you is at the far end.’
Her heels tapped ahead of me along the floor. At the second door she produced a silver card from her handbag and slid it into the lock. A series of electronic clicks and the hinges of the heavy door rolled smoothly open.
Walking past her outstretched hand, I entered the apartment. It smelt dry and fresh, as if the air molecules inside had been individually scrubbed clean. It was more than double the size of my twenty-third-floor apartment on Caine Road and I thought back to leaving Maggie the previous month in Hong Kong. The salty warmth of her tears on my face in the lobby of my building the night before my flight here. Her Christian Dior perfume. The flickering blue lights on the fake Christmas trees that were outstaying their welcome into late January. The electric doors that had shut behind her as she headed to a waiting taxi. Me left standing there. Frozen. And then running out into the warm evening rain, heart beating. But she was already gone. My shirt sticking closer to my chest as the rain beat down ever harder from the sky above.
‘What do you think?’ said Amanda.
‘The rent is just fourteen hundred a month?’
'Thirteen fifty including bills and service charge. A steal, and so convenient for the City.’
I looked around. The hallway formed a large L-shape that merged seamlessly with the wide-windowed lounge. She pressed a remote control that was nestled in a holster near the door and the window shutters began to rise. The distant towers of Canary Wharf appeared, several thousand window-panes glistening back at us.
The lounge was unfurnished and painted in off-white. A small but immaculate kitchen, and bathroom ran off the hallway. There was, however, something wrong. Where was the bedroom?
Amanda had been watching me closely and reading my thoughts pressed another button on the remote. In the far corner of the lounge there was a quiet hum and behind a thin partition the wall unfolded to reveal a large double bed. It reminded me of a James Bond film: 007 caught in the folding bed by a treacherous girlfriend. Somewhere in Asia? A firing squad entering and assassinating him with machine guns before the opening titles and the swirling John Barry score. Which one was it?
’You Only Live Twice.’ I said out loud unintentionally.
‘I beg your pardon?’ She began to laugh.
‘Oh. I was trying to say it’s very nice.’ I said, feeling my cheeks redden.
‘You can leave the bed down if it’s just you.’ She was sitting down on it now. ‘Try it out. It’s extremely sturdy’ she informed me, patting the mattress.
‘I’m sure.’
‘It’s just you moving in?’
A reproach or solicitation? Her expression was perfectly ambiguous. Brown eyes staring neutrally at me.
‘Yes, just me.’
‘Good. Perfect bachelor flat if you ask me. Enough built-in storage space along the hallway for your clothes. Let me show you.’ She got up from the bed and began to open the built-in closets.
‘Thanks, but I don’t have so many clothes.’
She smiled and watched patiently as I gazed around the room.
The flat was pretty much ideal. Within my budget and the right side of town. It was exactly what I needed. I’d soon be out of Jay’s hair.
I turned to look again out of the window at the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf rising above the Docklands. Since I’d last been in London the original pyramid top of the central tower was now flanked by two nearly completed towers. The top sections still shrouded in cranes.
‘There is something I should perhaps tell you before you go ahead and sign on the dotted-line or anything.’ She said, shifting on her heels.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Well, this flat has something of a history. Or rather next door, the penthouse has.’ She blushed ever so slightly then continued. ‘It has a famous past. Or rather infamous past. The top floor of this building was used as a set for a television show that was on about three years ago. It was called 'Surrounded'. You’ve probably heard of it?’
‘No, I haven’t. I’ve been living in Hong Kong for the past three years. I don’t watch so much television really.’
‘Hong Kong, that sounds great.’ She said, relieved, curious almost. 'Can you speak Chinese?’
‘Just a few phrases to get by.’ I thought of Maggie giggling at me with an undercurrent of resentment as I spoke mangled Cantonese to the concierge, whilst she sat in the lounge chair in my cramped flat.
‘What brought you back to London?’
‘Work mostly. New job. Time for a change of scene.’ I said. ‘But tell me about this television show.’
She paused, as if she was weighing her words carefully. ’It was one of those reality shows that’s been so popular lately. People kept in a studio for three months. Filmed twenty-four hours a day. Not allowed to contact the outside world.’
A feeling of unease rose up my spine.
She continued, gesturing at the walls. ‘Well, this flat is where the crew and cameras were located. You see those square panels along the far wall and down the hallway?’ She moved aside so I could inspect the barely visible two-foot square panels with my fingers.
‘The TV company filmed into the penthouse next door through them, one-way glass on the other side. I mean they had cameras all over the penthouse. Even in the toilet. But these were for wide shots looking in, I guess.’ She paused. ‘But don’t worry they’ve been sealed up tight for a few years now.’
‘What happened in the show?’
She stifled a nervous laugh. ‘You’ve really no idea? You see it was all rather awful. This guy, one of the contestants, went completely berserk. He had been acting a bit strange since the beginning to be honest. But then he tried to throw one of the other contestants off the balcony and before the security team could break into the flat, he jumped down himself. Killed instantly when hit the pavement. It was dreadful.’
’That’s terrible. On TV?
‘Well yes, I mean no. They cut the cameras pretty much straightaway, but apparently there’s some footage of it on the Internet. I mean how sick? But this all happened next door in this penthouse. Not in this flat.’
‘And the landlord?’
‘The landlord, Mr Blake, Ethan Blake, he took over the building from the TV production company a few months after the accident. I should have probably told you straight away: I work for him, I’m his business assistant. He’s a busy man, and he’s been travelling a lot lately, so the penthouse next door is often empty. He really doesn’t need the money but I think he feels having somebody living here would improve security. But really, as you can see it’s like Fort Knox in here.’
‘What kind of business are you and Mr Blake in?’
’Investments. Our company is called Question Capital. We focus on technology and IT sectors. But Mr Blake also owns shares in some TV and media companies, although they’re really just passive investments. He doesn’t get overly involved.’
‘Sorry, I’ve not heard of you.’
‘Don’t be sorry. We try and stay out of the spotlight. But we have a full book of loyal clients that keep us fully funded. Where do you work Alex if you don’t mind me asking?’
’Of course not. I’m starting at Chrysalis.com next week. It’s an internet and telecoms company in the City. Don’t know if you’ve ever heard–’
’Of course, we know Chrysalis. Who doesn’t? The IPO last year drew a lot of attention. But the new management team seemed to have steadied the ship since.’
I thought back to the FT Lex columns from the previous year and the few days when I’d hesitated over taking the role and moving back here, before realising I had no better options.
‘I’m sure it’s a great time to join them.’ She continued. ‘What will you be doing for them?’
‘I’m an accountant. I mean, I work in corporate finance. I’ll be working in their strategy department.’
‘Su-u-pe-er. Sounds very important.’ she said, dragging out the syllables along a knife edge that teetered between either sarcasm or genuine flattery. She fixed me with a close-lipped smile that left me even more unsure if she was impressed or not.
‘Oh, you know – it’s no big deal.’ I said.
‘I’m sure you’re just being modest. You did well at school, I bet.’
‘I got by,’ I said, wanting to change the subject. ‘Are you showing anyone else around the flat?’
‘No one today.’
‘Can I let you know tomorrow?’
'Sure thing sugar pie.’
Did she really call me that at our first meeting? She might well have. It was a very Amanda thing to say I would later discover. A quiet little tell. A way of showing that despite the apparent formality of the circumstances she didn’t give a shit about playing by the usual rules.
‘I can hold it until tomorrow lunchtime,’ she said, a veneer of professionalism returning. ‘You have all my contact details.’
‘Yes, I think so,’ I said. But she pressed a business card into my hand to be sure. The card had an embossed letter ‘Q’ in the top right corner, and below lettering that said:
Amanda Duval
Managing Partner, Question Capital
Running along the bottom were phone and fax numbers, an email and an address on the Clerkenwell Road.
‘Give me a call as soon as you’ve made your decision.’ She said.
In truth I was merely playing hard-to-get. Amanda Duval had already got under my skin in under twenty minutes. And although at that stage I knew nothing about her, somehow, I knew something had started.
Later that evening I would call her and leave a voice message accepting the apartment. It seemed to be all I wanted.
