Mind the Gap

Not now. Not at this very moment.

Jazz slipped the gold bangles from her wrist and started to offer them back to him. Terence closed her hands in his, bracelets inside, and through sheer force of will made her meet his gaze. His eyes were full of a grim determination and kindness that belied his profession.

"Put yourself in my hands, Jasmine. You won't regret it."

She stared at him. "I can't."

"I understand why you wouldn't trust me —"

"I don't trust anyone."

Terence released her hands. His face lit up, and she could not turn away from those mesmerizing blue eyes.

"Then you've got nothing to lose."

Chapter Fourteen

invincible

The shop smelled like an explosion in a perfume factory. The scent was cloying and sickening, hanging heavy on her throat and in her nose. Her eyes smarted. How can people work in here? she thought. At every counter there was an-other made-up lady, women whose job description seemed to include using as many of the products they were trying to sell as possible. Heavy lipstick, thick eyeliner, foundation, blusher, much of it apparently pasted on with tools more suited to a building site. Jazz actually found herself slightly perturbed by some of the women, their visages so solid that it seemed they would crack if they dropped their constant smiles. She imagined them knocking off after a day at work, grimacing and frowning in front of the mirror while their makeup mask fell off in chunks. Underneath, there would be the real person.

She caught sight of herself in another mirror and paused yet again. It would take her a long time to get used to the new look. While the stylist had been working, Jazz felt a thrilling sense of expectation, the past shouting at her to take control, the future offering that control to her. Her hair was several shades darker, six inches shorter, and cut in a trendy tousled look that she knew caught people's attention. She'd attracted more than one appreciative glance since leaving the salon. Inevitably, the lookers' eyes switched from her to Terence, their smiles replaced by distracted frowns.

Maybe she shocked them. She liked that.

"There's no way I'm going to sit here and let one of those monsters turn me into someone else," Jazz said. Terence stood beside her, the sleeve of his shirt just touching her shoulder, and he uttered a quiet laugh.

"I don't blame you," he said. "But you need a touch of something."

Jazz beamed up at him. "Meet me out front in ten min-utes." Terence raised an eyebrow and Jazz walked away, not looking back.

She felt more like herself than ever, yet her look had changed so much. Maybe it was freedom born of making a positive choice. As she weaved between the counters she thought of Harry, and the United Kingdom, and her smile slowly slipped.

"Can I help you with something, madam?" a made-up lady asked.

"No thanks," Jazz said. "Just browsing."

And she browsed. Moving from counter to counter, one display to the next, passing her hand across a hundred differ-ent shades of the same color, consulting charts and sniffing at testers, and a couple of minutes later she saw Terence pass by in a mirror, a knowing smile on his face as he headed for the front of the shop. I hope he thinks I'm making a run for it, Jazz thought, but at the same time she knew that was un-likely. He could see that he excited her.

Five minutes later she went into the ladies' restroom and spread her haul on the shelf above the sink.

Good stuff, most of it, but she'd never been keen on makeup. She chose lip gloss instead of lipstick and a touch of something around her eyes. When she reached for the blusher, she realized she did not need it; she was already flushed.

Smiling, she left the stolen makeup in the bathroom and went to meet Terence. Out on the sidewalk, he smiled ap-preciatively and offered quiet applause. They fell into step together quite naturally.

A black BMW drifted by as they turned the corner into Brompton Road.

Jazz turned away and looked into a shop window, brows-ing children's fashions at ridiculous prices.

She stared past her own reflection at that of the BMW, saw that the win-dows were down, and tried to make out who could be inside. They won't know me, she thought. Not now. Not like this. But there was little comfort in that thought, because if they saw her, they would know her. She hadn't changed that much.

Different clothes and a new haircut could not make her a new person, and if she caught their eye, they would see the fear and uncertainty that still rode her shoulders.

"What is it?" Terence asked.

Jazz shook her head. The BMW picked up speed and moved on, overtaking a cyclist who lifted a hand and shouted something unintelligible.

"Really, dear, I don't think we should settle down just yet."

Jazz turned away from the kids' clothes display and glanced after the BMW, then looked at Terence.

She tried to smile but it would not come.

"Oh," he said. He looked after the receding car as well, then nodded as another passed them by.

"Plenty of those here. Posh area. Some would say exclusive. Park your rust-ing Ford Sierra here and it's liable to be towed away."

Jazz nodded. "I'm okay." Just bloody terrified.

"Do you want to —"

"No, no. No more talk. You were taking me some-where?"

Terence smiled uncertainly, then held her hand and linked her arm through his once again. "Plenty of time," he said. "Secrets are good, but remember: a secret that hurts is best shared."

"Where'd you get that from, a fortune cookie?"

"Winnie the Pooh."

Jazz laughed out loud, a few faces turned their way, and she wondered how she could possibly feel so safe with just one man.

They walked along Brompton Road until Harrods stood before them, one of its main corner entrances marked by two men in top hats and tails welcoming customers in and bidding farewell when they left.

"I thought you'd been here already today," she said.

"Yesterday," Terence said. "I wanted to buy you some-thing, and it was a good opportunity to pinpoint a few of the more obvious dangers."

"Dangers?"

Terence leaned in close until their heads were almost touching. "There are cameras everywhere in there," he said quietly. The noise of the traffic would drown his voice from everyone but her. "Store guards walking the floors all day. Security contacts on every display case with coded entries for certain people holding certain keys. If something big is lifted, the whole place goes into lockdown. Lifts stop, elec-tronic doors close and lock, and every alarm is linked to the local police station."

"You are seriously telling me we're going to rob Harrods?" Jazz asked, and even saying the words sent a thrill down her spine.

Terence stood up straight again and laughed out loud. London passed them by and ignored them, because that's what London was, an impersonal place crammed with peo-ple. Millions of stories to be told, and every one private. "Not all of it," he said. "Just one small bit."

"I just want a carrier bag," Jazz said, smiling.

Terence held her hand, ready to cross the busy street. "Now listen," he said. And he told her what they were about to do.

****

Jazz knew that she was being tested. Terence had seen what she could do at Mort's house, but once could so easily be luck. Sure, she'd nicked her clothes this morning, lifted a few tubes of lipstick and eyeliner from Boots, but any street kid could do that. Practice made perfect. Some scores, though, could never be practiced. They would count on sleight of hand, confidence, calmness, and a total awareness of one's surroundings while never becoming the center of someone else's attention. Almost anyone could learn to be a good thief, but few were born with all the skills required to make it come naturally.

Yet she welcomed this test. Not only because it would be exciting but because it would be proving herself in Terence's eyes, and that was becoming more important to her than ever. She was a girl full of questions, and for a long time she had feared the answers. Now, when the questions were mul-tiplying more rapidly than ever, something in Terence made her less afraid.

She also believed he had answers. The weight of the blade in her shoulder bag, the apparatus he had mentioned but not explained, why something as important as this blade seemed to be was kept in Mort's house —here was a man with secrets. Jazz was sure that once he viewed her as more of an equal, he would take Pooh's advice and share them.

As they reached the pavement near the corner entrance, Terence slipped the bag from Jazz's shoulder. "Can't take this in there," he said.

She turned to him, ready to confront him over the bag. He could just take off with it, she thought.

I’ll bet he's faster than me, when he needs to be. And I'll bet he knows this area too, which alleys to slip into, which doors will be unlocked, which shops have a back entrance... She fisted her hands, not quite sure whether she was ready to fight, and felt her shoulders tighten with tension.

But Terence smiled casually at her and threw her a sur-reptitious wink. "They look more closely at people carrying bags," he said. He strode on toward the main entrance as if he did not have a care in the world.

If only she could feel like that. A world without cares. She had never known that, ever, and neither had her mother.

As she followed Terence, Jazz felt a sudden rush of emotion about her mother, stronger and more unexpected than any-thing she had felt for weeks. It struck her like a punch, clouding her eyes and building a rapid pressure behind her face. She never had a day without fear, she thought. Never got up in the morning and looked out the window, saw birds in the garden and clouds in the sky, thought about what a beautiful day it was. She always looked further. Past the birds and the garden, searching for people who wanted to do her harm.

Jazz knew that if she cried now, she would blow the whole day. She would fail the test, and Terence would likely never trust her again.

She never had her own life to lead. She always led mine for me, worried about me, building fears about me.

She watched his back, staring at a point between his shoulders and concentrating on the way his shirt moved as he walked. Damn him, not only was he smooth and intelli-gent, he was also fit. Damn him!

And I know what she was thinking... when they held her down, came at her with the knife...

She was thinking... about... me!

"Wait for me, for Christ's sake!" Jazz said, blowing her anger and venting the pressure behind her eyes. Terence looked back, hiding his surprise well. The doorman glanced at Jazz, a small smirk touching his face, and she rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Sorry, babe," Terence said, recovering sharply.

Jazz shook her head and blew air up at her new ragged fringe. "S'okay. Hot, that's all."

They reached the security point at the entrance and Terence strode straight to the desk. "Afternoon,"

he said. "I don't suppose I could leave this with you for safekeeping? I'm an antiques dealer and I've just bought this, but it's bulky and heavy."

"No problem, sir," the tall doorman said. He tore a ticket from a small book and handed it to Terence, tying its corresponding number around the bag's handles. "I'll just pop it in our bag room."

"Many thanks." Terence waited for Jazz this time, offer-ing her a smile, but she could also see the hint of something else behind his eyes. Anger? Maybe. She hoped so. She liked the idea that something she did would shake him up.

The doorman opened the door and they stepped in, Jazz giving him her most dazzling smile.

"What was that?" Terence asked quietly as they walked inside the great shop.

"Attracting attention to ourselves. We're good, honest people, leaving our bag at the entrance."

"Really?"

"Yep. Really. Oh, look at this!"

They walked the floors of Harrods, the cheerful couple, the wealthy shoppers. Jazz pointed out some suits and Terence looked, felt the fabric, and nodded appreciatively. They passed the waxwork of Mohamed Al Fayed and swapped a whispered comment, Terence smiling and Jazz giggling as they passed into the cosmetics sections. Jazz had had enough of cosmetics for one day but she browsed nonetheless, squirting a couple of testers onto her wrists and pressing them up to Terence's nose. He sniffed dutifully, screwed up his nose, and shook his head. The second time she touched his lips with her wrist, accidentally, she thought, but as she turned and walked into the cheese section of the store she wasn't so sure.

Terence seemed more at home here. The smells were tremendous, and Jazz followed him as he cruised back and forth along the counters. He asked for samples of several cheeses and offered her a bite, but they all smelled too strong for her taste. They moved through into the tea and coffee section, then the chocolate and cakes, and while Jazz perused the grand displays, Terence acquired small bags of produce.

He did not seem especially excited about any pur-chase, and Jazz wondered whether he shopped here regu-larly.

For her part, she did her best to hold back her sense of awe. She smiled as she contemplated the wondrous choco-lates and the mountainous cakes, never quite able to exude boredom but happy with a middle ground. She took a few chocolate samples when they were offered, nodding in sump-tuous appreciation. She checked out the prices on a couple of the cakes and tried not to let her shock show.

Terence stood beside her and put his arm gently around her, cupping her elbow in his hand. "Left here is the meat section," he said. "I want to pick something up for dinner. You like lamb?"

Jazz was amazed at his presumption. "Dinner?"

"Unless you were planning on going home this evening?"

She looked away, confused, silently cursing him for do-ing this to her here and now. Testing me, she thought. He knows I nearly blew it on the way in, so now he's trying to distract me. One wrong word or movement from me, and the whole nick is off. She knew that if that happened, the distance between them would expand rapidly, and by the time they left Harrods, Terence would likely take the blade from her —by force if necessary —and that would be the last she ever saw of him.