I took a seat on a sort of vinyl platform. The bedroom, if bedroom is the right word, contained a sink and a rudimentary shower and was lit in a deep red, and I thought for a moment what a terrific place it would be for developing photographs. A cheap fan blew ineffectually, a kettle sat in the corner. There was a microwave, and a powerful smell of some chemical approximation of coconut. ‘I watched the whole thing from the window. You are a very unlucky man, Paul Newman,’ she said, and laughed. ‘They were big guys. I think they might have killed you, or at least emptied your bank.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him to claim on insurance. He has insurance, that is what insurance is for! You are shaking.’ She illustrated with juddering hands. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Tea would be lovely. Thank you.’ While we waited for the kettle to boil I became very aware of her bare bottom, which was large, dimpled and never more than half a metre from my face. I turned to the window onto the street, intrigued to see the booth from this point of view, and noted that she had exactly the same swivelling office chair that I’d once had in my lab, though I didn’t point this out. Instead I turned to the TV.
‘Ah, I see that you have
Regina shrugged. ‘You want to watch something else?’ she said, and indicated a small pile of pornographic DVDs.
‘No, no.
Regina told me that she had been doing this for six or seven years. Her parents were Nigerian, but she had been born in Amsterdam and had started working here through a friend. The winter was depressing and it was hard to pay the rent on the little booth without the tourists around, but she had some regular customers that she could rely on. Summer, on the other hand, was too busy, too much, and she shook her head woefully. ‘Stag nights!’ she said, and wagged a finger at me as if I had been organising them all. Apparently a lot of men required drink to get their courage up, then found themselves unable to perform. ‘They still have to pay, of course!’ she said, pointing a finger with some menace and I laughed and nodded and agreed that this was only fair. I asked if she knew her colleagues and she said they were mainly friendly, though some girls had been tricked into coming here from Russia and Eastern Europe, and this made Regina sad and angry. ‘They think they’re going to be dancers, can you believe that? Dancers! Like the world needs all these dancers!’
After a moment, she said, ‘What do you do, Paul Newman?’
‘Insurance,’ I said, giddy on my whimsical flight of fancy. ‘I’m on holiday here with my wife and son.’
‘I have a son too,’ she said.
‘Mine’s seventeen.’
‘Mine’s only five.’
‘Five is a lovely age,’ I said, which I’ve always thought an idiotic remark. When do ages stop being ‘lovely’? ‘Five’s lovely, but fifty-four’s a bastard’ — that should be the follow-up. Anyway, Regina’s five-year-old son, it transpired, lived in Antwerp with his grandparents because she didn’t want any of them seeing her at work, and at this point the little room took on a sombre air and we sat in silence for a minute or so, watching events below stairs at Downton and contemplating the anxieties of parenthood.
But all in all, it was an interesting and informative conversation, not one I’d expected to have that evening and I did feel we’d made some sort of connection. But I was also aware of eating into her time and also that she was practically naked, and so I stood and reached for my wallet.
‘Regina, you’ve been really kind, but we’ve been talking for a while so I really want to pay you something …’
‘Okay,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s fifty for complete service.’
‘Oh, no. No, no, no. I don’t need a complete service.’
‘Okay, Paul Newman, you tell me what you do need?’
‘I don’t need anything! I’m here with my family.’
She shrugged again, and took the mug from my hand. ‘Everyone has a family.’
‘No, we’re here for the Rijksmuseum.’
‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘I hear that a lot.’
‘My wife’s off with my son. The only reason I’m here at all is because I was looking for a Chinese restaurant.’ This made her laugh even more. ‘Please, don’t laugh at me, Regina, it’s true. I was just looking for somewhere to … I just wanted to find …’ And I imagine that at this point some kind of delayed shock kicked in, combined with the stresses and strains of the last few days, because for some reason I seemed to be crying in absurd, jagged gasps, hunched over on the vinyl bench, one hand pressed across my eyes, like a mask.
