Now there was a woman, though she was getting harder and harder to keep in line. She was like a man in many respects; she thought like one, she worked like one, and she could fight like one when the fancy took her. The only downfall was her mouth. Cynthia never knew when to let something alone, and she would push an issue to the hilt. Lately, that had begun to irritate him; he had enough going on without having a five-point crisis every time he saw her. He understood her loathing of the lap-dancing clubs – most women disliked them. And yet the brothels didn’t bother her one iota. She was a strange, contradictory creature. He cared for her deeply, but she was hard work; ‘high maintenance’ was the expression men used about women like her these days, and it described her totally.

All the same, when he was with her, deep inside her, was the only time he really felt content, the only time he felt fulfilled. He didn’t analyse these thoughts, he just knew them to be true. What it was about her he could never put his finger on. All he knew was she drew him to her like a moth to a flame. And he hated that it was being spoilt by her constant wanting for more and more of his time.

He shrugged the thoughts away and concentrated on what he was doing. He glanced at his watch and realised he was already late for a meeting. Where did the time go, and why was he still working fifteen hours a day? But he knew why; he didn’t trust anyone around him to do the job properly. He was wary of delegating too much of the big stuff; once you took your finger off the pulse you lost the beat of the world you were in, and that was a dangerous situation to be in. You only had to look at the likes of Kevin Bryant to see the truth of that statement.

Chapter Forty-Two

Gabby hated her life. She hated school and she hated the nuns there. She was thirteen, and her whole existence was a big drag, at least it was this week anyway.

But there was one high spot, and his name was Vincent O’Casey. He was seventeen and he was gorgeous. She had met him at Chrisp Street Market last Saturday and she was seeing him again tomorrow. She couldn’t wait.

Like all her friends, Gabby’s Saturdays were for doing the markets – the Roman Road, East Ham, Chrisp Street, Romford of course and, occasionally, Soho Market – not that they bought there, but it was wonderful to look at all the strange things. Sundays were for ‘the Lane’, as Petticoat Lane Market was called. Romford was Gabby’s favourite though; she loved that it was far away from her mother, because her mother was a giant pain in the arse.