DANDEMONIUM

“I’ve just googled her shoulder bag,” Nadia said, staring into her phone like it might confess something else.

“Two thousand,” Rocco guessed, sweeping in slow, lazy arcs across the shop’s parquet floor with a small wooden broom.

“Four thousand,” Nadia replied, glancing up, faintly startled. “And she doesn’t even take good care of it.”

“I mean, if I had that bag, I’d treasure it like a child.”

The large shoulder bag was always crammed with stuff. Today it held a carefully arranged pile of magazines from the shop, chosen by Rocco. She loved them, especially the bulky ones like System. Alongside her Leica camera, she despised taking pictures with her phone.

Marsha had shown them a picture once of her home, a palatial London townhouse, with stacks of magazines placed just so. As if they mattered.

Rocco let out a low whistle, dragging the broom into the corner. Outside, through the glass, Marsha sat among a melee of students and a pair of builders, slouched back in her chair, completely unbothered, dipping in and out of conversations.

“She’s just come back from the Seychelles,” Nadia said. “Marble hallways. Fine sandy beaches. And here she is… sat out on the street with that lot.”

“That one there is a model,” Nadia said, a touch of excitement in her voice.

“She doesn’t talk to him,” Rocco replied.

“I don’t get Marsha,” Nadia said, a crease forming between her brows.

“Me neither,” said Rocco. “She gets dropped off by a car and leaves in one. I don’t know why she’s not at The Connaught.”

“They don’t have magazines there. And our drinks are far superior in quality.”

“Why does she drink hot chocolate?” Rocco said. “Maybe she just likes it. My hot chocolate is, of course, amazing.”

“She confessed to me she’s bored,” Nadia said. “Not here.”
She glanced outside. “She described it as a generalised malaise.”

For the next thirty minutes, the shop filled up. The students came in and ordered more flat whites. People drifted in and bought magazines, most knowing what they wanted, some not.

A shiny black Mercedes-Benz appeared outside. A chauffeur stepped out. None of the customers noticed. Only Rocco and Nadia did.

Marsha stood slowly. She pulled her coat from the back of the chair and draped it over her arm. She picked up her Bottega bag as the driver hurried to open the door. She slipped elegantly into the back seat.

Then —

She paused.

“I didn’t pay,” she said, her mind somewhere else all of a sudden, stepping back out and into the shop.

Inside, her demeanor shifted. Relaxed gave way to something tighter, more awkward.

“Can I get my bill?”

“Sure,” Nadia said, reaching for the machine. “Don’t forget your stamp,” she added, tapping the loyalty card tin.

Marsha hesitated.

“Rocco… Nadia… I need to ask you something. I don’t want to burden you, but…”

She reached into her bag.

“I’ve made this. Sort of a publication. A tiny art book.”

She flushed, suddenly bright red.

“I haven’t had any help,” she added quickly, as if that explained something.

“I was wondering… would you stock it? Just a few copies.”

For a moment, the woman with the perfect life, the multi-millions, looked almost undone in front of them.

“I haven’t told anyone,” she said, almost quietly. “You see…”

Rocco opened the hardback book gently. Nadia came to his side, peering over as he flicked through the thick, matte pages, quiet images of city streets, her words sitting carefully between them.

“Of course we will,” he said. “This is great. You’ve obviously been working hard. It’s very professional.”

Marsha let out a small breath.

“I did it all alone,” she said quickly, as if it mattered more than anything else.

Outside, the chauffeur waited.

“Beautiful sandals,” Nadia murmured, watching as Marsha returned to the car, folding herself into the back seat with a small, precise movement.

The driver carefully guided her coat inside so it wouldn’t catch in the door.

The door closed softly. He moved quickly back to his side. Smoothly, they were gone.

No one paid her any attention. Not her, not her car. She wasn’t the only one with a driver. In fact, she was part of a quiet pecking order, whose car was best. Some customers were collected in Maybach, others in a Toyota Prius.

Nadia held the book.