I will

The smell of the dew washed trees in Soho Square reminded Asja of home. She pulled her coat tight to her neck and clacked steadily across the road.

Slow, calm, stately, she told herself. No hurrying, no sweating.

She smiled at the mock Tudor hut in the square. Was it mock? Perhaps not. London was funny; even at this time of the morning.

She stopped, frozen as a black fox ran across her path just a few yards ahead. He glanced sideways meeting her eyes. He held a chicken leg lightly in his mouth. A treat for the cubs? He sped round the corner and the very tip of his tail, which was white, slipped from view.

Perhaps I will see you tomorrow.

She checked her phone. On time, on schedule. She walked on.

Her boot heels echoed around the forest of restaurant glass windows as she cut through Tottenham Court road Square Plaza; Clacking on smart new paving around the quirky modern seating.

A bike shot past, wheels whistling. The rider’s head turned slowly, eyes locked on to her for a second as he sped past, bringing a small smile to her carefully painted lips. She checked her reflection in the windows. Yes, I look good.

At Tottenham Court tube she was glad of the long roads stretching away from her. She missed horizons. So often in London she only saw a few feet ahead. No distant mountains. No looking across the lake.

As the clouds made dark designs across a morning sky, a buss wasted yellow headlights in the dawn light. Crouched brown-grey individuals sprinkled along the dirty seventy three double decker were being shuttled to dull destinations; the unambitious trading estates and small factories of the suburbs.

Few people were about: Staggers of wide eyed party goers, refusing to give up their night, clung together in the chill air outside a twenty four hour café, talking loudly to each other’s dive abused ear drums.

Turning east, she smiled to stout, sleepy cleaners who were polishing the chrome exterior of a casino.

Early workers, sucked into the underground, discarded cigarette buts, tossing them into gutters. The tarred filters found a home among the dead chips and kebab wrappers being picked over by breakfasting pigeons.

In this world of hunched shoulders, Asja was straight and confident. Under a well-chosen, stylish fawn overcoat her fresh laundered and ironed uniform covered her freshly showered, one hundred percent perfect young body. Her not so perfect face was awake and concentrated. Today was an important day, the first day of her plan.

At an ornamental black lamppost, she checked for traffic before crossing over to the north side of the road.

She had a pragmatic plan. She was realistic. Everyone knew, didn’t they, that Ally McBeal was the last professional woman in the western world to believe in true love. She has studied economics. Supply and demand. Men wanted wives and in London there was a shortage of women who would stay at home to care for a provider. She ran her plan through her mind as she walked toward the hotel.

Don’t waste money. Spend money only on finding a man.

I will always eat at home, cheap cuts of meat. No desserts. Save money.

Feminine clothes, shop for bargains, but always subtly sexy and stylish.

I will move if I find a cheaper room. All I need is a bed, a wardrobe and a mirror.

I will Work hard. No sick days. Conscientious, keen. Always accept overtime.

Free exhibitions. To seem cultured and educated.

She noted the nearest post office to the hotel. It’s good to know these things.

Some expenses are necessary. Gym three times a week. Expensive hair stylist. The blonde highlights cut her apart from the throng of dark east European girls. Light careful make up to make the most of her youth and show her eyes. Men liked her eyes.

I will Date. Twice a week. The men pay. Don’t drink too much. I will make them feel special. She imagines her flirting smile. “I don’t drink so often; I don’t go out much. You’re the first man that’s asked me out in London. No, really.”

She imagines him. He’s young, he works hard, earns good money. He’s kind. He doesn’t need to be six foot, or stunning, or bright. He wants a wife.

Four dates before I sleep with him at his place. Contraception, no accidents until its time.

Twenty one now. Two years in London. Then a small wedding.

”I will.”

Married and buying a flat. Pregnant at twenty five.

There was nothing to be done about a slightly crooked mouth. She liked the Michael Bublé song ‘My funny valentine.’ She sang it in her head. Ran the words through her mind as she turned into Bloomsbury Street.

‘Is your figure less than Greek. Is your mouth a little weak.’

My mouth is weak, but Michael still loves the girl he’s singing to. My figure is more than Greek. I will be fine.

Turning from Bloomsbury Street to Great Russel Street. The route she has rehearsed. Stay to the right; The pavement outside the museum is wavy, tricky in heels.

No British museum today, I’m not a tourist. I live in London. I work in London.

Small clusters of neon started to flicker to life in cafe windows as their owners shifted cardboard-boxed deliveries into still cold kitchens.

The trees of Russel Square ahead. A good place to eat sandwiches made at home. There’s a fountain and squirrels. She loved the squirrels. The squirrels and foxes and pidgeons. They are survivors, they live in your city, adapt, feed on what you discard.

There it is.

Five minutes early; perfect. The door is heavy. It’s an expensive hotel. Status by association.

Her eyes flick to the large ornately framed mirror. Her coat and new hairstyle looked good in the harsh light of the reception. The receptionist, a plump blonde in her thirties, looked bored after a long dull night; a spot of sleep in the corner of her eye.

I have a pocket mirror in my purse, there won’t ever be sleep in my eyes.

“Can I help you?”

Asja reads her name tag.

“Hello Jayne, I’m Asja, I work here. This is my first day.”

“Oh right, yea. Hang on.”

Asja’s imperfect lips mouth the number she dials. Nine six for Mrs Reardon. She has memorised all the numbers.

“Hi, yea, Asja thingy is here. Yea, will do.” She hangs up, points to the sofa by the door. “She’ll be down.”

Asja rehearses in her head, ‘please take a seat Miss, Mrs Reardon will be down to see you shortly.’ Then she smiles warmly to Jayne.

“I will.”