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Contents
CoverTitlePageDedication
JulyChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7
Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21
Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35
Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42
TwoMonthsLaterChapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46
AcknowledgementsAbouttheAuthorAlsobyPaulaDalyCopyright
TheMistakeIMade
PaulaDaly
ForGrace
July
1
BODIES WERE MY business.Living, not dead. And on asweltering afternoon in earlyJulythebodylyingfacedownin front of me was anordinary specimen. He wasmytwelfthpatientoftheday,
andmybackwasaching,mysunny disposition just aboutbeginningtofalter.‘Howisitfeeling?’ he asked as I sankmy thumbs into tough fasciarunningalongsidehisspine.‘Pretty good,’ I replied.
‘I’vegotridofthescartissuearoundL4 – the troublesomejoint. You should notice adifference as soon as youstandup.’He was a quarry worker.
Oftenmytoughestcustomers.
They spoke very little, so Ienjoyedthebriefrespitefromthe interaction that mostdemanded, but physically,quarryworkerswere hard onmyhands.Theyhaveadensebulk to their musculature, aresistance to the tissues,whichrequiresthefullweightof my upper body, directeddown through my overusedthumbs.My thumbs were my
instruments. Essential for
everyfacetofmywork.Theywere my diagnostic tools,used to detect and assess thenuances in tissue structure;mymeansofofferingrelieftoapersoninpain.I had contemplated having
them insured. Like BettyGrable’s legs. But I neverquitedidgetaroundtoit.‘When you’ve finished
with my back,’ he said, ‘ifyou’ve got time, would youmind having a quick look at
myshoulder?’He liftedhis head, smiling
regretfully, as though hereally did hate to be anuisance.‘Notatall,’Isaidbrightly,
maskingasigh.I used to be a self-
employed physiotherapist,and I did my utmost to takecare of the needs of everysingle patient. If I didn’t getresults,Ididn’tgetpaid.SoIworked hard to build up a
busypractice.That thing we strive for?
Thework–lifebalance?ForawhileIhadit.Notanymore.When therewasnomoney
left, I found myself here.Working fifty hours a weekforachainofclinics,coopedupinanairlesscubiclewithaproduction line of patients.The fruits of my labours gostraight into someone else’spocket.
I also found myself at themercy of a practice managernamedWayne.Waynemeantwell,buthis
desire to get the job donecorrectly sometimes madehim overbearing. And everysooftenhecouldalsobecomeflirtatious – though I shouldsay that it was never to thepoint of harassment.But youhad to be firm with him, orelse his behaviour wouldescalate and he would begin
suggesting dates. I think hewaspossiblyalittlelonely.With the quarry worker
now perched on the edge oftheplinth,Ikneltbehindhimand asked him to raise theaffected arm out to his side.When he reached ninetydegrees he sucked in hisbreath with the pain andjerked the shoulderinvoluntarily.‘Supraspinatus,’Itoldhim.‘Isthatbad?’
‘Canbetricky.Ican’ttreatit properly today, though,there’s not enough time. ButI’ll pop in an acupunctureneedle and see if I can giveyouatleastsomerelief.’I’d studied acupuncture as
a postgraduate course andwhile I twisted the needleback and forth, back andforth, I could hear Wayneoutside in the reception area,cajoling a patient, trying topersuade her to make an
appointment with one of theotherclinicians.‘I want Roz Toovey,’ she
wassayingtohim.‘Roz is fully booked until
the middle of next week.How about Gary Muir?’ hepressed. ‘Gary has oneavailable slot left today. Hecouldseeyouintenminutes.’Noanswer.‘Okay, what about
Magdalena?’ Waynesuggested.
Thiswas thegeneralorderof things. First, Wayne triedtopalmpeopleoffwithGary,who I was pretty sure didn’tknowhisarsefromhiselbow,and,asfarasIcouldtell,wasaccepted on to the degreecourse simply because therewasanationwideshortageofmale physiotherapists at thetime. Before his training,Gary had been a second-divisionfootballer.‘Magdalena?’ the woman
asked. ‘That the Germanwoman?’‘Austrian,’saidWayne.‘She hurt me last time. I
feltlikeI’dbeenhitbyabus.No,IwantRoz.’‘But,’ Wayne replied,
losingpatience, ‘as I alreadysaid,Rozisfullybooked.’I am Roz Toovey, by the
way.‘Can’t you just have a
word with her?’ she said.‘Tell her it’s SueMitchinson
and my back’s out again? Iusedtobeoneofherregulars.I’m sure she’d fit me in, ifshe knew it was me. And Iaminincrediblepain.Roz istheonlyonewhocan—’‘Hang on,’ Wayne said,
irritated,andIheardfootstepsheadingmyway.Three sharp raps on the
wood.‘Roz, there’s a Sue
Mitchinson here, wonderingifyoucanseeher.’
‘Excuse me a moment,’ Isaidtothepatient.Iopenedthedoorandstuck
myheadout.LookingpastWayne,Icast
myeyesdirectlyovertowardsSue, who upon seeing memarched across the receptionarea.Before Ihad thechance to
speak,shebegantopleadhercase.‘Roz,Iwouldn’taskifIwasn’tdesperate.YouknowIwouldn’t. If you could just
see me for five minutes, I’dbeeversograteful.’Not only was I the only
physiotherapist in SouthLakeland apparently capableof fixing Sue, the two of ushadahistory.Ihadahistorywithalotof
patients who frequented thispractice, in that they allfollowed me from my ownclinicwhenitfolded.Mostofthem had been intrinsic inbuilding up my clientele, so
therealitywas,Iowedthem.In the beginning, I placed
one small advertisement inthe local press, and thesecondIofferedpeoplerelieffromtheirsometimeschronicpain (something otherpractitioners in the areaweren’t always able to do),word spread. I became fullybooked within a month. Ofcourse, the trouble now wasthat those early patients, theoneswhohadbeensokindin
recommending me, suddenlycouldn’t get appointments.And so they would resort tothe You-know-I-wouldn’t-ask-unless-I-was-desperateplea.‘Sue,Ican’t,’Isaidfirmly.
‘I have to collect Georgefrom after-school club, andI’ve been late twice alreadythisweek.’Without pausing to think,
sheshotback,‘WhatifIwastoringmymotherandgether
topickupGeorge?’I didn’t know Sue’s
mother. Never met thewoman.NeitherhadGeorge.‘We’reover inHawkshead
now,’ I said, as tactfully as Icould. ‘So that’s not reallydoable.’Suescrewedupherfaceas
she tried frantically to comeupwitha solution thatmightwork, just as Wayne lookedon with the beginnings ofagitation. It could irk him
something terrible thatpatients insisted upon seeingme and wouldn’t be palmedoffwith the likes ofGary. ItmadeitimpossibleforWayneto balance the appointmentschedule.Andwhatweendedup with was me workingmyself into a stupor, whilstGary twiddled his thumbs inreception.Generally, Gary spent this
free time chatting toWayne,discussing the Premier
League and the merits ofPuma King football boots.Both of them saying‘absolutely’alot.‘How about you give me
fiveminutes?Fiveminutesorless,’ said Sue, in one last-ditchattempt.‘Okay, five minutes,’ I
said,beaten.‘Butyou’llhavetowait.Ihaveanotherpatientin straight after this one andI’mrunninglate.’Sue wasn’t listening. She
wasalreadyhurryingawaytotake her seat in the waitingarea before anyone had thechancetochangetheirminds.‘Did you call that
insurance guy?’ Wayneasked.‘What? No, sorry. Slipped
mymindagain.’Wayne sighed
dramatically, rolled his eyesand spoke in the way onewould when reprimanding asmall child. ‘Get it sorted,
Roz. Everyone else has hadtheir assessments.’ Helowered his voice. ‘Withoutthat assessment, you’re notfully protected. The clinic isnotfullyprotected,unless—’‘I’ll do it. Promise. As
soon as I’ve got a freeminute. Listen, Wayne,’ Isaid, stepping out of thetreatment room and closingthe door behind me so thepatient couldn’t hear what Iwas about to ask, ‘I don’t
supposethere’sanychanceofasmalladvanceonmywage,is there? It’s just things arereally tight right at theminute,andI’mnotsureIcanmakeittillnextFriday.’He tilted his head to one
side and looked at me withmildreproach.‘Itoldyouthisbefore, Roz,’ he said gently.‘The company cannot makeexceptions.Notevenforyou.Iwish therewas something Icould do but, honestly, my
handsaretied.’Andwiththathewalkedaway.As I finished off with the
quarry worker I could hearWayne informing Sue inreception,hisvoicenowloudand dictatorial, that shemustpay for the treatment sessionup front, and in full,regardlessoftheduration.He was in the habit of
doing this when he’d foundhimselfoverruledonamatterof limited importance, and
todaywasnodifferent.
When I started out on myown, years ago, I rememberbeing terribly worried aboutwhether I could make thebusiness work or not. At thetime, Ivoiced theseconcernsto one of my first patients,Keith Hollinghurst, and hehad this to say: ‘Those thathave to make it work, do.Thosethatdon’t,don’t.’To thisday,hehasalways
remained scornful of peoplewho play at running abusiness;notgraspingwhatitactually takes to turnaprofityearin,yearout.‘Nineoutoftencompaniesfail,’hewouldtell me. ‘Make sure yours istheonethatdoesn’t.’KeithHollinghurstwasold
school. He ran a scrap-metalfirm.Hewasneverwithoutawad of rolled-up twenties inhis pocket, and was notbackwardatcomingforward.
Keith continued on as mypatientand,whilehelayfacedown now, his hairy backpeppered with acupunctureneedles,Ilistenedtohimrantabout the generalincompetence of SouthLakelanddistrictcouncil,andas he relayed conversationshe’d had with variousjobsworths – who, naturally,he’d put in their rightfulplaces. I would chip in,oohingandahhing,askingthe
odd question to give theimpressionofbeingattentive.ThenIpulledtheneedlesoutofKeith’sskinandaskedhimto turn over, face up, so Icould manipulate his lowerback – by levering his legacross the front of his body.Heobliged,andas Iproppeda pillow beneath his head, Icaught sight of the large,dried urine stain on his Y-fronts.‘I’ve got a proposition for
you when you’ve done withmy back,’ he said, blinkingrapidly.‘I’m not watching you
masturbate,Keith.’He’d suggested this more
thanonce.Hekept silent as I levered
his leg over, asking him totakeabreathin,thenabreathout, as I pushed down hardand listened for the tell-taleclick.Patients think this is the
sound of an intervertebraldisc being pushed back intoplace. It’s not. It’s either thesound of two joint surfacesdistracting, coming apart –the gas coming out of itssolution to give rise to apopping noise – or, morecommonly, and in thisinstance, it’s the sound ofadhesions tearing around thejoint.But I go along with the
discideabecauseit’seasier.
Other things I go alongwith are 1. the fact thatanyone who has visited anosteopath will claim to haveoneleglongerthantheother,2. the irritating assumptionthat blind physiotherapistshavehealingpowersonaparwithJesusChristhimselfand3.thefalseclaimmadebyallmiddle-agedwomentohaveaveryhighpainthreshold.‘Look,’saidKeith,‘Iknow
you’re short of cash. I know
you’reonyourownwiththatkiddie. I’ll give you an extrasixtyquid inyourhand rightnow if you do it. You don’tevenhave tocomeanywherenearme.AndI’llbefast.’‘Absolutelynot.’‘Remember what I said to
you when you first startedout?’‘Remindme,’Isaid.‘That you have to go the
extra mile if you’re tosurvive.Theoneswhojustdo
thenecessary inbusiness fail… the ones who don’t givethe extra customersatisfaction—’‘My business has already
failed.It’stoolateforthat.’‘Yes,butifyou’regoingto
get back on your feet, Roz,you can’t just do the bareminimum. People expectmore,theyexpectmoretodaythan ever before. What withthe economy the way it is.Everyoneischasingthesame
money.Jobsaredisappearingand—’Ilookedathim.‘You’re not seriously
justifyingwhatyou’re askingme to do by debatingunemployment levels, areyou,Keith?’Shiftily, he looked
sideways,beforebitingdownonhislowerlip.‘Eighty quid,’ he said.
‘Eighty quid, cash. Rightnow.Youdon’tevenhaveto
pretendtolikewhatyousee.’‘Idon’tlikewhatIsee.’‘Ahundredquid.’‘No, Keith,’ I said firmly.
‘Nowgetyourtrouserson.’
2
AS THE FERRY groaned awayfrom the shore, I got out ofthecar.For tourists, it’s a given
they exit their vehicles themoment the ferry gates close– takingphotographsofeach
other smiling, the lake astheir backdrop, pointing tothe pretty mansions dottedalong the shoreline. But likemost locals I took thebeautyforgranted.Iforgottolookatthe slate-topped fells, theancient forests, theglisteningwater.The sheer majesty of the
place can become invisiblewhenyou’refacedwithdailyworries,dailyconcerns.The villages of Bowness
andHawksheadareseparatedby the largest natural lake inthe country: Windermere.The ferry crosses it at itsmidpoint, the lake’s widestpoint in fact, and there hasbeen a service here at itscurrentsiteformorethanfivehundred years. It’s a fifteen-mile trip to go around thelakeineitherdirection,andintheheavysummertrafficthatjourney can easily takemorethan an hour, so the ferry is
essential. Early craft wererowedover,thenlaterasteamboat ran. The current ferry,which carries eighteen carsand runs on cables, ispoweredbydiesel.OngooddaysIwouldfeel
so fortunate.Myheartwouldswell at the splendour of thecommute home toHawkshead,andIwouldfeelglad to be alive. Blessed tolive in one of the prettiestplaces on earth. The kind of
placepeopledreamofretiringtoafterworkinghardalltheirlives.Today,Iwaslate.The no excuses kind of
late.Tall tales of temporary
traffic lights, tractors withtrailers loading sheep, or flattyreswouldnotwash.Andnomatter how late I was, theferrycouldn’tgoanyfaster.Twoweeksago,mycarsat
alongside an ambulance
carrying a casualty, and theferrycouldn’tgoanyfasterinthatinstanceeither.Itwasanarrestingsight,theambulancestationary, its blue lights on,aswecrawledacrossthelake.The passengers were castingnervous glances at oneanother, wondering who wasinside, who it was thatrequired urgent medicalattention. We never did findout.Iwasn’tgoingtomakeitto
after-school club until wellpast thedeadlineandbythenGeorge would be anxious,probably a little tearful. Hewas nine, and thoughgenerallyatoughkidwhenheneededtobe,sincehisfatherandIsplit, thepastcoupleofyearshadbeenhardonhim.Icould see his easy-goingnature gradually seepingawayandbeingreplacedbyasort of moody apprehension,astatemoreakin to thatofa
displaced teenager.Moreandmore, he wore a guardedexpression, as though heneeded to be properlyprepared for the obstaclesthrown our way by theconstantstateoffluxinwhichwefoundourselves.I took out my mobile and
pressedredial.The sun was still high in
the sky and the heat beatdownhard.Thedieselfumesfromboth
theferryandthecoupleofcarenginesstillrunninggavetheair a heavy, polluted feel, acontamination that wasincongruous to the clean,clear lake water throughwhichwecut.Istoodagainsttherail,cradlingthephoneinmy hand as I listened, oncemore, to the recordedmessagefromtheafter-schoolclub.Then I dialled Dylis again
inanattempttolocatemyex-
husband. This time, shepickedup.‘Dylis?It’sRoz.’‘Who?’‘Roz,’Irepeated.‘Where’s
Winston?’‘Oh, I don’t know, dear,’
she said vaguely, as if she’djustwokenup.Shewasoftenlikethis,actingasifsheweremildly drugged, not quitewith it. ‘He’s at work, Ithink,’shesaid. ‘LetmefindapenandpaperandI’llwrite
the message down, becauseI’mterribleat—’‘Dylis,’ I interrupted,
‘Winston doesn’t have a job.He’soutofwork,remember?That’s why I don’t get anychild-support payments. Areyousaying thathe’sworkingatajobrightnow?’‘Oh–no,’ she stammered,
‘I’m not saying that. No,that’s not it. I’m not exactlysurewhereheis.Perhapshe’sout helping someone, you
know,forfree?’‘Forfree,’Imirroredflatly.
‘That sounds just likeWinston. Look, Dylis, if hegets back in the next fiveminutes, can you get him torun and pick up George forme?I’mlate.’‘But it’s not our turn to
havehim,’shesaid,confused,and I could hear her flickingthrough pages; must havebeenthepagesofherdiary.‘It’s not your weekend to
have him,’ I explained, ‘butI’m very late. And it wouldreallyhelpifyoucouldlocateWinstonand—’‘Ticket,Roz,’cameavoice
frombehind.With the phone lodged
against my ear, I turned,withdrawing a note frommywalletandhandingitover.‘Ineed a new book, Terry,’ Iwhispered to the agedattendant. ‘I used my lastticketthismorning.’
We made the exchange,Terry being a man of fewwords, and I went back toexplaining the situation toDylis.Shecouldn’tdrive,soIdidn’t suggest she shouldgetGeorge herself. She lived inOutgate, ahamlet amile andhalf or so from Hawkshead.ButWinstonToovey,myex,who was obviously doingworkcash-in-hand–hadbeensince Christmas, if mysuspicionswerecorrect–was
probably breezing aboutnearby, passing the time ofdaywithfolk,norealhurrytobeanywherewhatsoevernowthat he was living with hismother and had absolvedhimself nicely of all majorresponsibilities.Andsincehedidn’t always carry amobilephone, we couldn’t locatehim.IendedthecallwithDylis,
not for the first time filledwith the urge to slam my
phone against somethingsolid.Shegotmelikethat. Itwas like trying to getinformation out of a child.Often, she’d slip up, makesome comment aboutWinstonshewasn’tsupposedto–tome,inparticular–andwhen I pressed her about it,she’dgomuteandstareatherfeet.Pressed really hard, Dylis
would lift her head and lookat me, woefully, as though
she knew she was in deep,deeptrouble.Shewouldlookat me as if to say, Pleasedon’ttellWinston.I wanted to shake the
woman. I wanted to scream:How can you let your sonwalk out and leave me withthis mountain of debt? But Ididn’t, because I was awareon some deeper level thatDylis’s dreamy,scatterbrained manner wasthebestshecoulddo.
By the time I reached theschoolitwas6.28.Twenty-eightminuteslate.I pushed open the front
door and was greeted by asilent corridor, naked coathooks, the odd PE bagdangling.I took a breath and went
intotheclassroom.Theafter-school club used the Year 1classroomand,whilstwaitingas George gathered up hisbelongings, I liked to look
around at their first attemptsat writing, at portraits ofparents – which were oftensurprisingly true in theirlikeness, highlightingqualities perhaps parentswished they’d not (jug ears,shuffledteeth).NowGeorgewasseatedon
the floor, his legs stretchedout in front of him, his eyescastdownwardsasheplayedonaNintendoDS.Hedidn’traisehisheadwhenIentered,
eventhoughhewasawareofmypresence.Insteadhegaveonequickflickofhisheadtoshifthishairoutofhiseyes.Iona, the youngwoman in
command of after-schoolclub, glanced up from herdeskandofferedawansmile.Onetosuggestthatthisreallywasgoingtobethelasttime.ItwasFriday.Thesunwas
out. She was ready for abikini top, shorts, flip-flopsandacold,drippingbottleof
Peroniinthevillagesquare.‘So sorry,’ I said
emphatically. ‘I’m so, sosorry. George, quickly, getyourthings.’‘Roz?’saidIona.‘I know. This is
unacceptable. How muchextradoIoweyou?’‘Ten pounds,’ she said.
‘We’ve had to start chargingfive pounds for every extraquarterofanhour,orparentsdon’t seem to see the
urgency.’‘Here,’Isaid,pullingouta
note, ‘take twenty. I knowyoucan’tkeepon—’‘Roz,’ she said sadly, ‘it’s
not themoney. It’smy time.I’ve been here since seven-thirty this morning, and Ihave a life, you know?’ Ionadidn’t raise her voice as shespoke. She was tooprofessional to get angry infrontofGeorge.Itwasalmostworseinaway.Shespokeas
ifIwerelettingmyselfdown.Lettingmysondown.‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘It
won’t happen again, I assureyou.’‘We’re going to have to
call an end to thisarrangement.It’sjustnot—’‘Don’t,’ I said quickly.
‘Please don’t do that. I can’tmanagewithoutit.’‘It’s not that I don’t
understand,Roz,’shesaid. ‘Icanseethatyou’restruggling.
But you’re late practicallyevery day, and it’s not fair.It’snotfaironusandit’snotfair on…’ She didn’t finishhersentence,simplygesturedtowards George, who waspretendingnot to listenashecollected his lunchbox fromthe windowsill. Having runout of biscuits, I’d stuck apeach yoghurt in there thismorning and was nowregrettingit.Theschoolhadapolicy of sending the kids’
rubbish home with them soyou’dknowifthey’deatenallof their lunch. That emptyyoghurt pot would besupporting its ownecosystem.TurningbacktoIona,Isaw
she was waiting for me tospeak.‘Idon’tknowwhat todo,’
I said honestly, as I thoughtthrough the logistics of thefollowingweek.Ionadidn’tofferasolution.
Unsurprising,really,sinceherpatience had run out over amonth ago. I’d had secondchanceaftersecondchance.Icouldaskmysister.No.Todaywasherfortieth
birthday. We were attendingherpartythiseveningandshewas off to New York nextweek. My parents were toofar away and I’d made apromise to my sister that Iabsolutely would not put onthemagain.I’dletthemdown
in the past, and I couldn’tbear to ask for their help.Atleast not for a good whileanyway.Winston was unreliable.
HehadleftGeorgewaitingatthe school gates more thanonce when he’d becomefascinated by extremeweather and had gone offstormchasingatthecoast.Ionaclearedherthroat.She
was still waiting for me tospeak.
But then, oddly, as sheattempted to stand, shewinced.‘Areyouokay?’Iaskedas
I watched her adjust herweight,movingfromonefoottotheother.‘Not really, no,’ she
answered, and she sighed.Twice.‘Oh, okay,’ she said
eventually, her expressionbeaten, jaded. ‘Okay, Roz,one more chance.’ And
before I had time to expressmy gratitude, before I had achance to tell her I wouldabsolutely not let it happenagain, she reacheddownandliftedhertrouserleg.‘Idon’tsupposeyou’vegot
tenminutes tohavea lookatmyknee,haveyou?’
3
LOOKINGBACK, I can see howeverything was ultimatelybuilding towards this point,the point when life went offatacrazytangent,butIthinkitwasthenoteitselfthatwasthe trigger for the series of
eventsthatfollowed.
DON’TGOINSIDEISMELLGASLOVECELIA
Itwastapedtomyfrontdoorandhadbeenputtherebymyneighbour.Celiahad lived inthevillage for fiveyears andwas not a native; shewas infact a Scouser. But if youasked her where she hailedfrom, she’d say, ‘Southport,
Lancashire’, in her besttelephone voice. (Notice:Lancashire, not Merseyside.An important distinction,apparently.)WhenIfirstmovedintothe
cottagewehada fewrun-ins–Celia getting herself into astateoffractiousagitationifIleftthewheeliebinattheendof the garden path for morethan two days running, or ifmy living-room curtainsremained closed while I was
atworkor,heavenforbid,ifIleft my washing on the linewhen her book club was inattendance. Celia was aterrible snob. A working-classwomanwholikedtoletyou know that she was thaneveryone else. Itwas terriblyamusingand,unexpectedly, Ihadgrowntoloveherforit.We reached an agreement
early on whereby, because Ididn’t have time to give thecottage thekerbappealCelia
deemed necessary, andbecause she lived in mortalfear of falling propertyvalues,Celiahadakeytomyplace. Anything that wasgoing to fray her nerves, Itoldhertoaddressherself.Soher husbandwould bringmybin in the very second thewaste wagon left. I wouldarrivehometofindthefringeofgrassedgesneatlytrimmedin the front garden, or smallpinkstainsonthepathwhere
Celia had pouredweed killeron my dandelions. Lately, Icouldfeelheritchingtoaffixa hanging basket or two, tomatchherfour,butshehadn’tyetbroachedthesubject.I pulled the note from the
door. ‘Come on,’ I said toGeorge, ‘let’s go to Celia’s.’This was the last thing Ineeded, to be honest. Wewere supposed to be out thehouse again by 7.30 for mysister’s party.George needed
feeding and we both neededsmartening up. Glancing hisway, I noticed some hairmissing above his right ear.How I’d missed it earlier, Ihad no idea, because therewasquiteachunkgone.‘What’sgoingon there?’ I
said,gesturing.‘I’mnotsure.’‘George,’Isaid.‘Idon’tremember.’A quick word about fibs.
You’ve noticed, I’m certain,
the inability of little boys totell the truth. Don’t hold itagainst them.They’re simplyafraid of making us cross.‘George, I’m not angry withyou,Ijustwanttoknowwhyyou’vecutawaysuchalargepieceofyourhair.’‘IneededitforacreatureI
wasmaking,’hesaid.‘Seems reasonable,’ I
replied.We made our way down
the path, out the front gate
andalongtheshortstretchofroad to Celia’s. ‘I’m reallythirsty.Ineedadrink,Mum,’Georgesaid,andIsaid,‘Youand me both.’ The heat wasfierce: thick, heavy airtrapped in the basin formedby the surrounding fells. Ipulled my tunic away frommy midriff in a waftingmotion,alameattempttogetsome ventilation. Sweattrickled down my skin,makingmeitch.
Celia’s house was adetachedcottage.Ourswasasemi; the other side of myhousewas a holiday home. Ineversawtheowners.Insteadtherewasaparadeof similarkinds of people – folk whosmiledifthesunwasshining,were grim-faced anduncommunicative if it wasnot.Remember the village of
Greendale, from thechildren’s television
programme Postman Pat?Well, Greendale doesn’texist, but itwasmodelledonLongsleddale, a spot over ontheothersideofthelake,andit’s close enough to form afairly accurate picture ofHawkshead. Five hundredpeopleliveinthevillageand,aside from the holidaymakers, everyone really doesknow everyone. Set amongstfarmland (mostly used forgrazing sheep), the stone or
white-rendered cottages arebordered by dry-stone walls.Those of us in the villagecentre benefit from gas andmains drainage, those on theoutskirts heat their homeswith electricity, or morecommonly oil, and haveseptictanks.Everyonewithina mile of the village centrehasasmallnoticenexttotheloo, requesting guests not toflush anything other than thenecessaries, and the smallest
amount of toilet tissue. It’ssomething you’re used to ifyou’vegrownupwithit.Likesterilized milk and half-dayclosing.Celia must have been
loitering by her window,looking out for us, as thesecond we opened her gateshe was at the front door.‘Good Lord, George!’ shedeclared loudly. ‘What onearth have you done to yourhair?’ I suppose hewas kind
ofscalpedabovehisear.‘Helooks like that simple lad,Billy. You know, from OneFlew over the Cuckoo’sNest?’Shewasfrowning,herchin retracted. ‘Doesn’t he,Roz?’‘What does she mean,
Mum?’ George whispered,worried, as we approachedthehouse.‘Nothing. Just anold film.
Billywasthekickasshero,’Ilied.
‘You saw the note?’ Celiaasked, and I nodded. ‘Comein, come in,’ she said andushered us through. Georgeremoved his shoesautomatically without beinginstructedtodoso.‘Did you call Transco?’ I
asked her, and she didn’tanswer. Instead she becamemomentarilyflustered,tellingGeorgeto‘GothroughtothebackkitchenandfindDennis.He’sout theremessingabout
with his tomato plants. AndFoxy’sinthegarden,too.’FoxywasCelia’s old dog.
She was a spiteful, peevishlittle terrier who hated kidsbut for some reason allowedGeorge access to her bellywhen she was in the rightmood. She had recentlystarted to refuse to walk onthe lead. That is, unless, shewas heading back home. Sonow Celia and Dennis couldbe seen driving to the other
sideofthevillage,earlyeachmorning, whereupon Denniswould deposit Celia andFoxy, and they would walkback. Celia was delightedwith this ruse, proclaimingFoxytobe‘almostsprightly’,evenpullingonthelead.George traipsedoff to find
thedog,andCeliaswallowedhardbeforespeaking.‘Aproblem,’shebegan.‘Agasproblem,’Isaid.‘Afraidnot. Iput thatnote
there to stop you fromgoinginside. I didn’t want Georgetosee.’‘Toseewhat?’‘Prepareyourself,Roz, the
bailiffshavebeen.’‘Whatdidtheytake?’‘The lot. Well, all except
thebeds,becausetheybelongto your landlord, apparently,who has also been slitheringaround,leavinghisusualtrailof slime, asking if I’d seenyou. He left you a note
demanding payment, Ibelieve.’‘I’mlatewiththerent.’‘I did assume,’ she said.
‘Anyway, the three-piecesuitehasgone—’‘I was paying that off,’ I
interrupted.‘As well as the dining-
roomfurniture,thecooker—’‘Thecooker?’‘They said that was on
financeaswell.’I sank down heavily on to
Celia’s sofa. ‘It was.’ Isighed,rememberingnow.‘I think they would have
hadyourcarawayaswell, ifyou were home. Good job Isaw them,because theywereabout tobreak in through thefront door. They said you’dbe liable for the damage tothat, too.’ She paused. Thensaid, ‘Bastards!’emphatically, beforecontinuing. ‘So in the end Ilet them in with the key.
Sorry, Roz, but they had allthe right legal paperwork. IgotDennistotakealookatitbefore,andhesaidyoudidn’thavealegtostandon.’Dennis used to work in a
solicitor’s. Doing what, I’mnot entirely sure. Celia,naturally, liked to give theimpressionhewasasolicitor,but Ihadnoticed thatDennishad been quick to point outon more than one occasionthat he was not really
qualifiedtogiveadvice.Sittingwithmyheadinmy
hands,ItoldCeliathatitwasokaytousethekey.‘Youdidthe right thing,’ I said,becauseshewaswringingherhands and I could tell shewasn’t surehow Iwasgoingtoreact.‘I thought it best to stick
that note on the door, andthen you could prepareGeorge.Notniceforthechildto get home and have no
furniture.’‘Did they take his
PlayStation?’Celianodded.‘Bloody stupid thing to
have anyway,’ I said.‘Typical of his father. Wecan’taffordtoputfuel in thecarandhegoesandbuyshimthat. And of course Georgeloves him for it. Thinks I’mCruella when I can’t buygamesforthething.’‘That’s men for you. No
commonsense.’‘Christ, Celia,’ I said, the
full weight of what hadhappened now dawning onme.‘WhatthehellamIgoingtodo?’
I left George with Celia andwenttoinspectthehouse.Theplacehadbeengutted.
They’d taken stuff I didn’teven know I owned until itwas gone. Pictures I wasn’tparticularly fondof.Cookery
books I never had time toread but were part of myhistory, that time when Irevelled in domesticity for afew short, wonderful monthswhenGeorgewasborn.It was like going back to
the seventies when peopleowned nothing. When bareasphalt floors were the normand orange crates doubled asbedsidecabinets.There was even an ugly,
gaping gash in the fitted
kitchenwheretheovenoughttobe.That’swhenImadethedecision not to face theproblem tonight. Georgeneeded a quick bite to eatbefore we were to leave forPetra’s party. ‘Dress smart!Think cocktail dress!’ she’dinscribed on the invitationwithasilvermetallicgelpen.And so I headed back toCelia’s with a change ofclothes for us both, ready tocollect George, with a hasty
planforminginmymind:I would have one large
glass of cold, white TorresViñaSol in theKing’sArms(low ceilings, horse brasses,welcoming smell of beerhanging heavily in the air)whileGeorgeshovelleddownCumberland sausage andchips,andthenIwouldtacklethefurniturecrisis,explainingto George the reality of ournewsituation.Thenotefrommylandlord
wouldjusthavetowait.
4
GEORGE SAT IN the front seatof the Jeepwitha clip-on tieandaworriedexpression.‘WillIhavetogoandlive
withNannaDylis?’heasked,after I’d finished explainingwhat had happened to the
furniture and given him aquick lecture on that basicprinciple: don’t spend moremoneythanyouhave.‘No,’ I replied, hoping he
wouldn’t sense theuncertaintyinmyvoice.We were just about to
board the ferry to cross thelake to Petra’s house inWindermere, so Georgebecame silent. There’s atricky bit that must benegotiated,wheretherampof
the ferrymeets thedip in theshoreline. If you don’t drivecarefullyyou’reliabletotakeouttheundersideofyourcar.NotsuchaprobleminaJeep,but hell if you’re in a low-sittingsportscar.OnceI’dcuttheengineand
was neatly positioned I toldGeorge he could speak againifhewantedto.‘This is because of Dad,
isn’tit?’hesaid.‘Honestly?’Ireplied.‘Yes.
But there’s no point blaminghim, because it gets usnowhere. What we’re goingtodoisputitoutofourheadsuntil after Auntie Petra’sparty. Let’s enjoy ourselvestonight and worry about ittomorrow.We’vegotbedstosleep in, we’ve got runningwater, and we’ve got eachother.We’llbefine.’The truth was, though, we
weren’tfine.WhenWinston left Icould
nolongermakethemortgagepaymentsoneitherourhouseormybusinesspremises,andtheywere repossessedby thebank. Coupled with that,Winston had run up debts tothe tune of twelve thousandon a credit card that was inour joint names, and now Iwas barely covering theminimalmonthlypayments.Though I couldn’t blame
Winstontotally.Five years ago, life was
good. We were earningplenty,wespentfreely(moremoney thanwehad), andwethoughtitwouldcontinuelikethat for ever. But an eventwas tocauseachange inourcircumstances, andwe didn’tchange alongwith them.Notnearly fast enough anyhow.Winston’s building firm lostits major contract and hishourswerecut,alongwithhishourly rate. Ultimately, wefell apart.Winston left and I
foundmyselfwithoutahome,withoutabusiness,andwithasmallchildtosupport.I probably should have
declared bankruptcy at thatpoint, but a combination ofpride and a fear of beingrefused credit in the futurepreventedme fromdoing so.Iborrowedsomemoneyfrommysisterforadeposit,rentedahouse,purchasedafewbitsand pieces on finance tofurnish the place, and now,
thanks to Winston and theexorbitantmonthlyinterestonthe credit card, I carried adebt of close to eighteenthousandpounds.After rent, the cost of my
car, food,householdbills theferry, after-school club, andthe loan repayments, mywage from the clinic left mewith around fifty pounds amonth to spare – if thingsdidn’t go wrong. And thingsalwayswentwrong.
I glanced at George tocheck if he was okay withwhatI’djusttoldhim,andheseemed tobe.Hisexpressionbecame wistful, as if he’dalready moved on to otherthings.Kids.Soresilient.‘Foxybitme,’hesaidafter
aminuteortwo.‘Again?’ I asked, and he
nodded.‘Didithurt?’‘No.’‘Showme,’Isaid.He held out his hand and
therewasa small, raisednubof flesh on his knuckle, butnobreaktotheskin.‘Shedidn’tmean todo it,’
hesaid.‘Sometimesshecan’thelp it. I don’t think sherealized it was me. Is sheblind?Celiasayssheis.’‘Getting that way,’ I
replied. ‘Although Dennisreckons she can see nextdoor’scatwellenough.’We had a dog. Once. A
three-year-old shaggy lurcher
which George named Cesarafter his hero, the ‘DogWhisperer’, Cesar Millan.GeorgeaskedforadogeveryChristmas and birthday fromthe time hewas able to talk.When he was six, Winstonand I finally acquiesced, andthere never was a happierchildthanGeorgeToovey.Two years later and after
Winston moved out, the doghadtoleave,too.Wetriedtomake it work. But finding a
rentalpropertywhichalloweddogs,andthehoursIspentatmyjobmadeituntenable.I’dliketosayGeorgeboughtthelie all parents tell their kidswhen they’ve taken their pettotheshelter–theonewherethedoggoestoliveonafarmsomewhere, running free, allhappily ever after – butGeorgeinsistedonmycallingtheRescueMeanimalsheltertocheckCesarwasokayandwas told by a kind woman
that he’d been adopted by alittleboyaroundhisownagewho was enjoying his newcompanionimmensely.George still wasn’t over it
and was counting down theweeks until we could movefromourcurrentaddress intoa more permanentaccommodation, whereanimals were allowed. I toldhimthiswouldn’tbeanytimesoon, but he remainedundeterred, keeping his dog-
ownershipskillsuptodatebycontinuing to watch CesarMillan whenever he stayedover at Winston’s mother’shouse. She was fortunateenoughtohaveSkyTV.I smiled at George and
reached across, tousling hishair above his bald patch. ‘Iloveyou,youknow,’Isaidtohim.‘Love you more,’ he said
back.We drove with the
windows down because theACwasoutofgas.Alongtheroadside there were moundsof cut grass and theirdesiccatedhayscentfilledtheair. Couples walked arm inarm, making their way intoBowness for the evening.George rested his elbow outthewindow,ashe’dobservedadultmendo.Butnothavingsufficient length in his arms,he was forced to leanawkwardlyagainstthedoor.
My hair whipped aroundmy face, strands sticking tomy lipstick, some gettingcaught in the tiny hingemechanismofmysunglasses.WhenwearrivedatPetra’s
Icheckedmyfaceintherear-view mirror and quicklyapplied some lipstick andmascara. I’m not great withmake-up. I mention this notas one of those statementsyou hear from irritatingwomen – you know, when
you’re supposed to feel crapbecauseyou trowel it on andthey’re already naturallybeautifulwithoutit.No,Ifeelkind of silly wearing it, andonly do so when forced. Onoccasionssuchasthis.At my sister’s house I
stood on the front step,rearranged my hair, adjustedthe straps of my halternecksummer dress and whisperedtoGeorgenot tomention thesituation at home. When he
raised his eyebrowsquestioningly, I toldhim thiswasPetra’snightandIdidn’twant her to worry about us.Whichwasmostlytrue.Vince, my brother-in-law,
swungthedooropenwithhisusualgusto, tookone lookatmypaintedface,andgrinned,saying, ‘What’ve you comeas?’‘Nottonight,Vince,’Isaid,
pushingpasthim.‘I’mnotinthemood.’
‘Hey, Georgie boy!’ hesaid,slappingGeorge’sraisedhand. ‘How are you, myfriend?’‘Very well, thank you …
under the circumstances,’repliedGeorgea little stiffly,andVinceshotmealook.‘Arewevery late?’ I said,
avoiding.‘No more than usual,’
Vince shrugged beforeturning his attention back toGeorge. ‘C’mon, kiddo,’ he
said, ‘let’s get you armedwith sugar and a ton of Enumbers, ready to face theteam of petites dragonettesupstairs.’Vincewasmoreathomein
the companyof kids.After acouple of beers you wouldfind him wearing mascara(appliedbadly),andwithoneof Petra’s underskirts on hishead (long, princess hair),after he’d been attacked byhis daughter and her bossy
littlefriends.Hewasgoodwiththegirls,
but it was commonknowledge thatVince craveda son. Petra had managed toquashthat ideabysellingthenotion that her death was anabsolute certainty if shebecame pregnant again. Thiswas on account of the highblood pressure andgestational diabetes she hadsufferedwhencarryingClara.So Vince had to make do
withGeorge.Notideal,sinceGeorge had no interest infootball, rugby and motorracing.But theyhad recentlyfound some common groundwhenplayingpoker.And theoccasionalgameofcrib.In the kitchen Vince
poured me a glass ofchampagne with somethingbright and syrupy-sweetfloating on the top. ‘Can’t Ijust have it on its own?’ Iasked him, frowning at the
glass.‘Notanoption.’My sister went through
thesephases.Adding stuff tomake things more excitingand ruining them in theprocesswasone.With his head cocked to
onesideandaquicksidewaysglance, Vince said, ‘Nadinehad these at her fiftieth,’mimickinghiswife,‘andtheywentdownverywellwiththecrowd.’
‘Oh, well, if Nadine hadthem,’ I replied, playingalong.Nadine and her husband,
Scott, were Petra’s currentfixation. Petra was prone totheseobsessions–asIsaid,atthe moment it was Nadineand Scott Elias, but it couldjustaseasilyhavebeenslow-cooked shin of beef orNational Trust lighthouseproperties.The women had become
friends whilst watching themenplaycharitycricket, andat the moment Petra wouldslip Nadine’s name intoalmost every sentence,thoughnotinaboastfulway;I think it was involuntary.Much like when you’re inthose early, exquisite stagesof a relationship, and yourlover’s name trips from yourtongue so readily that youcouldn’t stop it even if youtried.
Vince took a can of Fantafrom the drinks fridge,pressing it into George’shand, saying, ‘Good luck upthere,myfriend,’andGeorgescooted off upstairs, but notbefore telling Vince that allourfurniturehaddisappeared.‘What?’ said Vince,
turning tome,while I glaredhardatGeorge’sback.But IwavedawayVince’s
concern, telling him itwas atemporary blip, before
stridingoutintothegarden.I had Petra’s present
(sparkly, hooped earrings) inone hand, a bottle ofchampagne in the other, andannounced my presence byasking loudly, ‘Where’s thebirthdaygirl?’withalotmorejubilancethanIhadcausefor.
There is always acompromise tobemadewithproperty on this side of thelake. Planning restrictions in
theNationalParkdictate thatpeople are stuck with thehouses they’ve got – unlessyou’ve got a spare threemillion to buy the 1950sbungalow on the lakeshore,and then you can bulldoze itand pop yourMcMansion inits place. The rest of thecommunity buys what theycanafford,andthenmakedoUsually, forfeiting internalspace, and as often as not, adecentgarden.
No one has a regular-shaped lawn in Windermereand Bowness – either theterrain is toosteepor it’scutoffatananglebyabrookor,commonly – and this wasbefore the planningdepartment becameunwaveringly strict –residents built second homeson their plots to generatesomeextracash.The consequence of this
was that Petra and Vince
were the only people I knewto have a lovely, enclosed,rectangularpieceof turfwithgreat views of the LangdalePikes. These pretty westernfells – like the Rockies’SawtoothRange inminiature–arepinkwhenreflectingtheearly-morning sun andbecome bathed in a gloriousorange light as the sun setsbehind them. Which meantgatherings at Petra andVince’s often had a kind of
bank-holidayfeel.Therewerepicnicbenches,
wicker sofas, meticulouslytended flower beds, andthough Vince tended to belaid-back about most thingsin life, his lawn was grade-one bowling-green turf,which he tended tocontinuously. He would snipaway at stray edges withkitchenscissors,asonemightdo with award-winningtopiary.
I made my way from thepatio over to Petra,whowasservingmyparentswiththeirusual – non-alcoholic lagerfor my dad, cranberry juicefor my mum (cystitissufferer). After I’d greetedeveryone and apologized formy tardiness, my dadinformed me that he andMum would not be stayinglong, followed by, ‘Youknowus,wedon’t like tobeout late.What with the long
drivewehavetodonow,andall,’ and I said, ‘No, no, ofcourse,’ both of us droppingour heads to avoid eyecontact.They had begun to look
frail of late. Their naturalvigour was starting to wane.My mother, particularly,moved carefully now, asthoughrecoveringfromabadfall,anditoccurredtomethatperhaps she had in factsustainedone,andhadkeptit
toherself.I told them I’d round
George up in amoment, thathe’d been eager to getupstairs to his cousin, whichwas not exactly true. Thereason I didn’t send Georgestraight out to see hisgrandparents was because Iwas frightened he’d blab tothem about the missingfurniture. And they worriedaboutmy financesenoughasitwas.
‘Roz! Roz, come and chatto Scott and Nadine,’ Petrasaid now, draggingme awayby the elbow. ‘I’m dying foryoutomeetthem.They’resolovely. I can’t believe theycame. And wait till I showyou what Scott brought. Seethat wine over there?’ Shemotioned to the benches onthepatio,whichweredressedwith white table-cloths. ‘Hebroughtthreecases!’‘It’s good wine?’ I asked,
not really knowing what tosay.‘What?’ she said,
frowning. ‘Of course it’sgood wine. Scott doesn’tdrinkcrap.Hehasaguywhopicksoutthebestforhimanddelivers. Anyway, don’tmention it, or he gets a bituncomfortable. He’s veryhumbleabouthiswealth.’‘Iwasn’tgoingto.’‘Scott, Nadine,’ said Petra
asweapproached,‘thisismy
sister,RozToovey.She’sthephysiotherapist I was tellingyou about. Roz is super-talented. She can fix anyone.Even people who have beeninpainforyears.’Icoughedandstuckoutmy
hand. ‘I fear Petra might beoverselling me. Pleased tomeet you, Nadine. Whatprettyhairyouhave.’‘She travels toManchester
for highlights, don’t you,Nadine?’ cut in Petra as
Nadinerose,takingmyhand,tellingme how glad shewasfinallytomeetme.Shekissedmeonbothcheeks,andtherewas that awkward momentwhereoneperson(thatwouldbe me) pulls away after asingle kiss, not expecting thesecond.It’ssuchaneasywayto wrong-foot a Northerner.‘We’ve heard somuch aboutyou,’ she said, smilinggenuinely.‘Likewise,’ I replied, and
thenwhispered in her ear, ‘Ithink Petra’s a little bit inlovewithyou,actually.’Nadine was gracious
enough to take thecomplimentwithasmallraiseof her eyebrows, then sheushered me towards herhusband.‘Scott Elias,’ he said and,
again, two kisses. He wasaround six foot, stood verysure of himself and couldhavebeenalittle imposingif
it weren’t for the way hesmiled.Hedid it inaway toindicateitwasarealpleasuretomeetme,asthoughhewasgenuinelyinterestedinwhatIhadtosay.‘Perhaps you could take a
look at my elbow when youhave a moment?’ he began,andNadinegavehima swiftnudge.‘He’s joking,’ she said
flatly.‘Aren’tyou,darling?’‘Yes. Absolutely,’ he
replied, ducking as thoughexpectingaswipeathishead,courtesy of Nadine.‘Wouldn’t dream of askingsomething so inappropriateonafirstmeeting.’Butpeopledo.Forsomereasontheydon’t
equate my job as having theusual boundaries. I didn’tknowhowScotthadmadehismoney, or exactly what lineof business he was in, butlet’s say for argument’s sake
hewasa landscapegardener.Asking me to take a quicklookathiselbowwasakintomeaskinghimtopopovertomy house and dig over therough patch of land to therear of the property. Orasking a chef if he wouldn’tmind rustling up a fewcanapés because wewere allfeelingpeckish.Anyway, I didn’t hold it
against him as, likemost, hesaid itwithout thinking.And
people ask about theirailments because it’s aconversation starter and theycan’tthinkofanythingelsetosay.Likethrowingapunchata
black belt in Karate, andsaying,‘AndwhatwouldyoudoifIdidthis?’We talked pleasantries for
awhile– thegloriousstretchof weather we wereexperiencing–and,likemanypeople I talked to, Scottwas
enjoying it all the morebecause the south of thecountry had rain. I askedNadine about her children,and proudly she said heryoungestwasinToulouseforthesummer,beforestartingatWarwick in September, andtheireldestwasattheLondonFilm School. At this shepulled a face to indicate shewasn’tsurewhatwouldcomeof that. Scott and she notbeingartisticpeople, thishad
comequiteoutoftheblue.Well, this is unexpected, I
thought.Theywerenice.I’d anticipated feeling
fairly contemptuous towardsthem after the incessantcommentaryfromPetraabouthow Scott Elias does this,NadineElias does that. Scotthasadriverwhoispartofthefamily, Nadine likes freshflowers in every room, everysingle day, the florist brings
them specially, blah, blah,blah.But they seemed normal.
Quitedowntoearth,infact.Of course, Nadine was
more polished than youraveragewoman. Every smalldetailwasrefined,elevatedtomaketheabsolutemostofherfeatures.Thinkofanordinarysong after Giorgio Moroderhas pimped it up, and you’llgetthegeneralidea.She,likeScott,wasinherearlyfifties.
Shewasaneat, trimwoman,fine boned, with delicatewrists and ankles. She wasdressedinwhite,wide-leggedtrouserswith a scoop-neckedtop and wore a simplediamond on a chain at herthroat.‘Are you on your own?’
Nadine asked, casting hereyesaroundasshelookedfora suitable match with whomshecouldplaceme.‘Yes,’Ireplied.
ForatimeIusedtofillthevoid following this enquirywith explanations, with self-deprecating remarks aboutmysinglestatus,allthewhilebeingratherjollysoasnottomake the other person feelbadinanyway.NowIcouldn’tbearsed.‘No man in your life?’
askedScott.Before Ihad thechance to
reply Petra butted in. ‘WhatRoz needs,’ she said, ‘is a
good, steady guy. You don’thappen to have any nicesinglefriends,doyou,Scott?’Scott made a show of
thinking through hisacquaintances, frowning asthoughweighingupeachonecarefully. Then he lookeddirectly at me, holding mygaze for a few seconds toolong, making sure I noticed.Making sure, in that waysomemen do, that you havebeensetfirmlyintheirsights.
‘I don’t, I’m afraid,’ he said.‘They’realltaken.’‘Often the way,’ I said
quickly, embarrassed.‘Anyway,thanksforthat,butas Petra knows, good andwell,I’moffmenforthetimebeing.’‘They’re not all like
Winston,’ said Petra, a littlesharply. ‘They’re not allgoingtodowhathedid.’I gave Petra a look as
though to say,Not now, and
replied, ‘Yes,well, I’d rathernottakethechance,’brushingit offwith a laugh and a rollofmyeyes.Though our words were
innocuous enough, I wouldsay itwas evident byPetra’stonethattherewassomethingelse at play here, and the airbecame charged by ourexchange.Sensing this, Scott jumped
to his feet. ‘Let me get youanother drink, Roz,’ he said.
‘Here,sityourself—’‘Thank you, but no. I’ve
had my quota. I’ve got todrivehome,unfortunately.’‘That’s a real shame,’ he
saidand,again,thelook.At this Petra exhaled
noisily. ‘Oh, for goodness’sakes, Roz, get yourselfanotherdrink.You’restayinghere.’‘No,I—’But Scott was off. And
within seconds he returned
with what must have beenhalfapintofredwine.I rolled it around the
enormous glass a couple oftimes,transfixedastheliquidclungtothesides, leavinganoilyamberhue.I didn’t ask what type it
was. I didn’t want toembarrass myself. Instead, Ithrew it back, told Scott itwas absolutely exceptionalandwentofftogetanother.
Two hours later, and I waspretty sozzled. Petra wasbeing loud and funny andenjoyable to watch. Hertongue became loose andgossipy when she’d had adrink and she was switchingbetweenanecdotesfromwork– she was a schoolreceptionist – and fallingback into default mode,where she informed thelistenerofthepickleinwhichI’dfoundmyself:
‘And then Roz wakes up,and he’s gone! Cleared offback to his mother’s afterrunninguphugedebts inhername.Andnowshecan’tgetapennyoutofhim.Andshe’sinahugefinancialmess.Isn’tthatright,Roz?’‘That’s about the size of
it,’Isaidsleepily.Vincewas lighting thegas
heater.Therewere justa fewofusleftoutsidenowandthenight was still warm, though
chillyontheskinifyouwerewithoutacardigan.ThebacksofmyupperarmsweregoosepimpledandScotthandedmehis sweater, asking if Ineededit,butItoldhimIwasokay, that I’d nip inside andgetacoupleof fleece throwsfromthesofasowecouldallkeepwarm.‘Does thisbotheryou?’he
whispered, leaning in close,gesturing to Petra, who wasnow in the full throes of
explaining to Nadine howmen get around the ChildSupport Agency. Nadine’sbrow was knitted in concernasPetratoldherofnumerousfathers from school who’dfled and were out of work,meaning their wives andfamiliesreceivedprettymuchzilch in the way of supportpayments.‘Not really,’ I told Scott.
‘It’s hardly a secret. I justdon’tthinkeveryonewantsto
hear about it on a night out.That’s why I try to shut herup. A losing battle, as youcansee.’Again, he held my gaze,
and I felt something shiftinside.Ilookedaway.Alarmbellswentoffinmy
head. Married men were offlimits, simple as that. I rose,asking if anyone wantednibbles,asIwasgoinginside.I told Petra I’d check on the
kidswhileIwasatit,butshewas in the zone, lecturingpoor Nadine on how thesystem was skewed againstwomen, because, ‘You can’tup and leave your own kidslike men, can you? Yourbiologywon’tletyou.’I went upstairs, paid a
quick visit to the loo andlistened outside Clara’sbedroomforamoment.Vincehad put the kids to bedearlier, telling ghost stories
(his speciality) about theGrey Lady and the HeadlessHorseman, old favourites heprobablyfrightenedlittlegirlswith back when he was achildhimself.I pushed the door open a
fraction. The kids were stillup – Clara, George and thetwolittlegirlsfromnextdoorwhose names escaped me.Onewasadozy-lookingchildwithapermanentlywetlowerlip who hung on Clara’s
everyword.Theyweresittingin a circle, beneath a cottonsheet,withatorch.I pushed open the door
fully. ‘Time to get to sleep,kids,’ I said softly, and therewas the silent movement oflittlebodiesfrombeneaththesheet as they climbed insidetheirbeds.‘Goodnight,’Iwhispered.I headed downstairs,
grabbed the throws andwentoutsidewithafamilypackof
salt-and-vinegar Chipsticks,taking my place by the gasheater. Petrawas laughing atsomething, trying to stand,butshecouldn’tgetoutofherchair, so she sank downagain,beaten.‘You okay there, Roz?’
Scottasked.‘Long day,’ I replied,
tryingtomakemyeyesmatchmy smile. I’d been thinkingabout the bailiffs and myemptyhouse.
Petra was now rantingabout Winston’s cheating,asking the small crowd whyanyone would want to cheaton someone as lovely as hersister.She tipped her glass my
way, in case anyone hadforgotten who I was, and Ifoundmyself saying,withoutreally thinking, ‘Do youknow, apersononce toldmethey wished Winston hadvisited a prostitute instead of
havingaffairs?’Someonecoughed.‘What?’saidPetra.‘Aprostitute,’Irepeated.‘I
supposeitwouldhavebeenahell of lot less hassle in thelongrun,’Iaddedabsently.There was a stunned
silence. Everyone turned tomeandstared.Petra put her drink down.
‘JesusChrist,Roz,’shesaid.I glanced around, and I
could see by the look of
confusion and awkwardnessoneachfacethatthiswasnota commonly held belief. Thewomenseemedaffronted,andthemendidn’tknowwheretolook.‘It does go on,’ I said,
trying to justifywhat I’d justsaid.At this Nadine leaned
forward in her seat. Herexpressionchanged tooneofgenuine inquiry, as thoughshe was open-minded and
wanted toknowmore. ‘Whatmakes you say that?’ shesaid,blinkingalittle.‘Doyouknow people who frequentthem?’‘Crikey, no,’ I said. ‘Of
coursenot. It’s just that afterWinston’s affairs were madepublic, one poor guy –Gileswashisname–whosefamilyhad brokenup on account ofWinstoncarryingonwithhiswife,saidtome,“Wouldn’tithave just been easier if
Winston had used aprofessional?”’Petrabegantopanic.What
was I doing talking like thisinfrontofherniceguests?‘And, in that moment, I
couldsortofseehispoint,’ Isaid. ‘If Winston had takenhimself off, instead ofsleepingwithhalfthewomenaround here – women whowere married, women whohad families – then therewouldn’t be all those broken
homesasaresult.’Petra gasped. ‘I can’t
believeyou’reseriously—’‘Oh,Petra,’Isaid,sighing.
‘I’mnotbeingserious.’‘Yousoundveryserious.’‘I’m not. But, honestly,
you don’t know what it wasliketohavethosepoorbereftmen glaring at you like it’syour fault. Like, if I’d keptbetter tabs on Winston, thenhewouldn’thavejumpedintobed with their wives. I’m
only saying that if Winstonhad filled up whatever needhe feltneeded fillingwithoutwrecking everyone’s lives intheprocess,I’dprobablyhavemorerespectforhim.’‘Good God,’ said Petra
standing up. ‘Why did heneed to do it at all, Roz? Ican’tbelieveyou’rejustifyingit.’‘I’mnotjustifyingit.’‘Don’t look at me,’ Vince
cutin.Hewasholdinguphis
palmsininnocence.‘Igetallthe excitement I need righthere.’Petra was dismayed. She
raised her hands above herheadas though towardoff ablow.She looked from me to
Scott,toNadine,toVince.Ihadruinedtheevening.Ihadruinedeverything.Hereyesprickedwithtears
before she rose and hurryiedoffinsidethehouse.
5
CLOTHINGCOVERSAmultitudeofsins.You’ve probably already
figured out that real peopledon’t resemble theairbrushed, Photoshoppedimagesyousee in themedia.
IreadasmashingquotefromCindy Crawford recentlywho, upon being asked howshe felt about those images,replied, ‘Iwish I looked likeCindyCrawford.’God love her for that.
Becauseyouwouldn’tbelievethe amount of people (menincluded) who apologize forthestateoftheirbodieswhenremovingtheirclothes.Consider the following a
public-serviceannouncement.
Ihavetreatedagrandtotalof two skinny women in mytwenty years of practicewhohave naturally big boobs. Ihave treated (at the lastreckoning, anyway) zeropatients over forty-five yearsof age who don’t sagsomewhere. Even thedesperately thin ones. Youget them to turn over andtheir skin falls away fromtheir bodies in the mostremarkableway.
Beautifully curved ladiesare criss-crossed withCaesarean scars, withstriations of stretch marks,with indentations as if theywere still wearing anunderwiredbra.Bodybuildingmen have purple, keloid-scarred,acnedbacksandgiveoff apeculiar smell fromsteroid use. Elderly, wiry,super-fit fell runners oftenhave bulging varicose veinslike small bunches of grapes
ontheircalvesandhaveflapsof surplus skin around theirupperarmsandribcages.Voluptuous young women
can be covered in black hairall the way from their naveltotheirknees,courtesyofthecruel polycystic-ovarysyndrome.There are botched tattoos,
missingtoes,missingslabsofmuscle,missingbreasts.Thisisthehumanbody.Itdoesnotlooklikeitdoes
in the movies. But thatdoesn’t make it any lesswondrous, any less perfectlysuited to doing everythingyou ask of it. Given thechance, the body will fixitself. Given rest and someTLC,itwillrecover,generatenew tissues, even new nervepathways. It is constantlyaiming to return to a state ofbalance, a state ofequilibrium. And if it can’t?That’swhereIcomein.
Physiotherapy is thetreatmentofthebodythroughphysicalmeans.Ifthebodyisoutofbalance,Ilaymyhandson it to initiate the healingprocess. No drugs. I shouldpoint out, however, that thisis not an exact science – noarea of medicine is. You tryonething,anditeitherworksoritdoesn’t.There was a sign hung in
mytreatment roomthat read:‘I AM NOT JESUS.’ Though
sometimes I wonderedexactlywhathishit ratewas.Imean,didhecureeveryonehe came into contact with? Isuspectednot. I suspectedhecouldn’t have done much tohelp my next patient of theday – one of my failures. Icouldn’t improve hersymptoms,whateverItried.During the first
consultation Rosemary Johnsgreetedmewiththenewsthatshe had been to every single
therapist in the area and noonecouldgether right.Nowthis sort of opening wouldusuallyleadoneoftwoways.Either I examined thepatientandbecamequitegiddyuponspottingtheveiledsymptomIknewtheotherclinicianshadmissed, or my heart sankbecause the patient was oneof those people who justdidn’twanttogetbetter.With Rosemary it was the
latter.
(Off topic, but patientssuch as this just won’t dieeither.When Iworked in theNHSI’dreadtheinitialsCTDin the margin of a patient’snotes with a queasy kind ofdread – Circling the Drain.Theycouldbe inhospital foryears.)Anyway,mystateofmind
was notwhat you’d call freeandeasywhenIcalledoutforRosemary Johns on Mondaymorning. The weekend had
beenhellish.Petrawasbarelyspeaking to me after I hadhumiliated her beyondforgiveness on Friday night,she was so distressed aboutthe impression I’d made onScott and Nadine.Unbeknownst to her,however, Vince had droppedby my house on Saturday,slipping me a fifty anddepositingtwooldarmchairs,a nest of tables and a cookerwith a decade’s worth of
greaseonit.His friend had pulled the
unwanted furniture out of ahouse clearance over nearRydal Water, and Vincerightly thought I couldmakeuse of it until I got back onmy feet. I spent most ofSunday applying for anotherbatch of credit cards, hopingtheover inflatedearnings I’dclaimedtobringinwouldnotbecheckedouttoocloselysothat I could replace some of
the furniture the bailiffs hadremoved. I’d have to wait aweek to find out if I’d beenapproved.Sothismorningitwashard
to hide my surprise and, Isuppose, my relief, whenRosemary Johns’s mournfulface did not appear at mytreatment-room door, butrather,ScottElias.‘Ihopeyoudon’tmind,’he
said. ‘I called for anappointment earlier and they
told me they had thiscancellation. Were youhopingforabreak?’‘A break?’ I said,
momentarily confused. ‘Oh,no, I don’t really get breaks.Wayne fills the cancellationswithpatientsfromthewaitinglist. I’m surprised to see youhere, though.Youmust havejumpedthequeue.’Scott went sheepish. ‘I
might have offered a littlesweetener.’
I smiled. ‘I won’t ask.Anyway, come on in. WhatcanIdoforyou?’‘Myelbow?Remember?’Inodded.‘Haveaseat,and
I’ll get your details down.ThenI’lltakealook.’I busiedmyself ashe took
out his phone and car keysandplacedthemonthedesk.I didn’t comment on theFerrari fob, but Imust admititdidstirmyinterest.Here’s something worth
knowing about rich people,though, should you feelinclinedtohangaroundthem:Theydon’tgiveyouanyof
theirmoney.Theypaynomoreforyour
services than any otherpunter, and the likelihood ofthemleavingyouanythingintheir will is next to zero. Igave up thinking they wereanything other than anotherpatientyearsago,because,asa rule, they were generally
more hassle to treat. Theyexpected their wealth toguaranteetheywouldbeseenfast but lost no sleep overmissing appointments oncetheywerebackonthemend.I jotteddownScottElias’s
details, his past medicalhistory, the particulars of hisinjury, and asked him abouthis job – he owned a largeelectronics manufacturingfirmnearPreston.ThenItoldhim to remove his shirt and
asked him exactly where thepainwas.‘Does this hurt?’ I said,
knowing fullwell it did, as Icouldfeelsomethickeningonthepointofattachmentoftheextensor tendon. I asked justtobreakthesilence.‘Yes,’hereplied,‘howdid
youknowwheretopress?’‘Sixthsense.’‘Do you think you can do
anythingforit?’‘It’s easy to treat,’ I said
casually. ‘Shouldn’t takelong.’‘Whatwillyoudo?’‘I’ll use a complicated
medical procedure,’ I began,and he raised his eyebrowsexpectantly.‘First,Ishallrubit like this. And then likethat.’‘That’sit?’‘That’sit.’‘Okay,’ he said, but he
didn’tseemconvinced.I spent the next few
minutes breaking down thescar tissue that had formedaround the tendon. As far astreatments go, this was apretty mindless task,requiring negligible amountsof concentration. Over theyearsmythumbshadbecomeattuned to the slightestchanges, moving intuitivelyfrom healthy areas todamaged tissue without anyrealconsciousthoughtonmypart.
‘Itoldyourreceptionistwecould go for a drive in theFerrari if he slotted me intoday,’Scottadmitted.‘Wayne?’ I said, amused.
‘Don’tcallhimareceptionist.Hewon’tthankyouforit.Onsecond thoughts,’ I said,feeling mischievous, ‘makesure you call him exactlythat.’‘Youdon’tlikehim?’‘I like him well enough,
but let’s just say he could
makemylifea littleeasier ifhewantedto.’Scott nodded. ‘That stings
quitealot,’hesaid,gesturingtowards his elbow, and Ieasedoffthepressurethroughmyrightthumb.‘Wayne’s really into cars,’
Isaid,‘soyoutwoshouldhititoff.’‘You’renot?’‘No.’ I laughed. ‘As faras
I’mconcerned,they’reallthesame from the inside.
Looking out through thewindscreenyousee the sameas every other driver. Evenwhenacarisbad,it’sgood.Itstill gets you to where youwanttogo.’ScottEliassmiledmildlyat
myassessment.Ofcourse,nothingofwhat
I told him was actually true.I’d love a flash car. Whowouldn’t?ButIwasn’taboutto start gushing over hiswheels. I did have some
dignity.There was a lull in the
conversationandIcouldhearthe faint sound of KenBruce’s Pop Master driftingthough from the radio in thewaitingarea.To be frank, Scott was in
fairly good shape for fifty-four.He obviously took careof himself, did someresistance training, as he stillhadabulktohismusculature,more typical of a guy in his
thirties. His frame –and Irefrain from using the term‘physicality’ here, as it iscurrently so overused, andI’m not even sure it’s aproper word – his frameevoked vigour. Sure, he hadslight inelasticity of the skinandtheforwardprotrusionoftheabdomenthatcomesfrombeing fifty-four. But youwouldlooktwiceifyouwere,say, poolside, pretending toreadapaperback,andhewas
towalkpast.‘I’llputsomestrappingon
this,’ I said, retrieving thefive-inch Fixomull from theshelves. ‘It shouldn’t botheryou. You can get it wet, butdab it dry afterwards. It’sbreathable, so it shouldn’taffecttheskin.’AsIlaidthetapeacrosshis
elbow, I sensed Scottsurveyingme closely. It wasquite unnerving, as usuallypatientswere so interested in
what I was doing (everyonelovesabandage,afterall)thatIwasn’tusedtoit.‘There’s something about
you,’hemurmuredsoftly.Ididn’tlookup.‘You’reveryattractive,’he
said.‘You’re a married man,
Scott.’‘I’m not coming on to
you.’‘Oh,well,thatisarelief.’‘Okay,maybe Iam,abit,’
he said. ‘But not in the wayyouthink.’‘There is more than one
way?’Isaid,andImadeoneloud, final snip with thescissors.‘What is it about you?’ he
askedplayfully.I rolled my eyes and
packedawaythetape.‘Moveyourarmaroundandseeif itfeels okay. Check thebandage isn’t nipping yourskinatall.’
‘Itfeelsfine.’‘Putyourshirtonthen.’Hedidn’tmove.‘Since Friday night,’ he
said,‘eversinceI—’Iheldupmypalm.‘Please
don’t.’‘Hearmeout.’‘No, Scott. This is my
place of work. I have otherpeople to see and,while youseem like a perfectly nicebloke, please don’tcompromise my position
here. It makes thingsincredibly awkward whenmenstartto—’‘You get this a lot?’ he
asked,andsuddenlyashadowfell across his face. I couldseeinstantlyhewasputout.‘Ithappens,’Isaidquietly.Truthbetold,itdidhappen
quite regularly. And notbecause I’m some sort ofgoddess. Far from it. I havethesturdyphysiqueofa ladygolfer, straight dark hair and
an unremarkable face. But itdidhappen.Castyourmindbacktothat
period when every singlewoman had a girl-crush onSarah Jessica Parker. Herstyle, her generalflamboyance, bewitchedwomentheworldover.Atthetime, though, men appearedthoroughlyperplexedby this.They would scratch theirchins, frowning, as if to say,D’you know what? I just
can’tseeitmyself.Well, I have something
akintothat.Iamnotgood-looking.My
body is neither madly sexy,norneatlypackaged,butmendo seem drawn to me, forreasons I can’t fathom.Perhaps it’s because I don’tcare any more. Perhaps,because of Winston, and allthat happened, I exude anattitudeofnotcaringandmenare intrigued by that. Who
knows?‘Your shirt, Scott,’ I
repeated. ‘I have anotherpatientwaiting.’He slipped off the bed.
Pushed an arm through asleeve and began clenchinghis fist repeatedly. ‘Theelbow feels really good,’ hesaid. ‘Remarkable, really,afterjustonesession.’I wiggled my fingers and
said, ‘Magic,’ my tonedeadpan.
He offered a rueful smile.‘I’m sorry,’ he said, holdingmy gaze. ‘I didn’t mean tomake you uncomfortable. Itwas silly of me, and Iapologize.’‘It’sforgotten,’Isaid.I made a few short
treatment notes: crossfrictions, strapping applied,advised him to use an icepack and rest his elbow, andwhile Scott was tidyinghimself up I straightenedmy
desk. I returned the tape andscissors, moved the stoolagainst the wall so I didn’ttrip over it. Then I got onwith laying new couch rollalongthebedbeforedraggingoutmyhairband,rearrangingmy hair into another fastponytail and fixing a smileupon my face, signalling itwastimeforScotttoleave.‘That husband of yours
must have been a fool,’ hesaid as I moved towards the
door.‘That’sonewayofputting
it.’And then he reached out
andtouchedmyhand.Hedid this in amanner to
suggestIshouldbestill foramoment. That he hadsomething important hewantedtosay.Mypulsequickened.‘Haveadrinkwithme,’he
said.‘Justonedrink.’
6
SHALL SPARE YOU the finerdetails of the demise of mymarriage. There’s nothingextraordinary about whatoccurred – just the usualdisintegration of arelationship that comesabout
withbrokenpromises,brokenhearts,brokencrockery.Safe to say, we were not
one of those ex-couples whohadaverygoodco-parentingrelationship. We did not dojoint Christmases or havecivilized get-togethers withouroldfriends.No, we did our break up
t’Northernway.Lots of old-fashioned
screamingateachotherinthestreet,plentyofbackstabbing
and irrationality. Once, wecame across each other on adrunkennightout,andendeduphavingsexinthetoilets.Itwasn’tpretty.Butthenagain,whenisitever?Ibelongedtothebrigadeof
womenwho referred to theirex as ‘that wanker’. Andeveryone knew who I wastalkingabout.We split up twoyears ago
and we were still marriedbecausewecouldn’taffordto
getdivorced.Winstonwassofecklessthattryingtogethimto sign anything – actually,scratchthat;tryingtogethimto do anything – requiredsuch a surge ofinsurmountableenergyonmypartthatI’dgivenuptrying.And yes, of course Petra
was right when she said Ishould have severed all tieswith the man. Got my nameoffeverythingassociatedwithhim, because I would never
get credit, never get on withmy life, while I had himhanging on from a distance,screwing things up.ButwiththehoursIwasworking,andjust with keeping my headabovewater,well, I couldn’tseemtomakeithappen.‘Do the thing you least
want to do first, Roz,’ Petrahad instructed on numerousoccasions. ‘You’ll be farmoreproductivewhenyou’venot got dread hanging over
youallday.’I imagined what would
happen if I told Petra aboutScott’sinvitation.Goodgrief!Herheadwouldtoppleoff.Petrathoughteveryonehad
the same moral compass asher. She was genuinelyastonished when peopleturnedoutnottobewhatshethought. She took it as apersonalinsult.I had refused Scott, of
course.
‘Idon’tdatemarriedmen,’Itoldhim.‘I’mnotaskingforadate,’
he said, ‘just a drink. Surelythere’s no law against that?Wecouldmeetasfriends.’‘Sorry,Scott,butno.’‘CanIaskyouaquestion?’
Hewassmilingnow.‘Goahead.’‘IfIwasn’tmarried,would
youagreetoit?’‘Butyouaremarried.’‘SayIwasn’t.’
‘Butyouare,Scott.’Heleft,amused.Asthough
mystubbornnesswasactuallyquitecharming.Iwonderedifhe made a habit of it,wondered if he was a serialadulterer and enjoyed theconquest. And I probablywould have remainedwondering about him for thedurationofthemorningifthecall about George hadn’tcomein.I was onmy third sciatica
sufferer of the day when Iheard the phone ring atreception. I tried not to bedistracted as this patient wasinabadwayandneededmyfullattention.True sciatica is rare. It
occurs when the soft innerjellyoftheintervertebraldiscis squeezed out through acrack in thedisc’shardoutercoating. This jelly comes torest on the sciatic nerve,sending crippling pain and
often paralysis down the legof the patient.Once the jellyisout, there’snogoingback.It’s like trying to gettoothpaste back into a tube.Surgery is the only cure. So,ifyoufindyourselfbeingtoldby a clinician that he’sputting your discs back intoplace, you can be safe in theknowledgethathe’sanidiot.But, as I said, true sciatica
is rare.Much more commonis for thepatient tostrain the
fascia surrounding the lowervertebrae. I had a neat trickwhereby I got the patient tobendover in frontofmeandthen proceeded to administera hard fingertip massage.Often, within a few minutesthe patient was able to bendfully without me needing tomanipulate the joints, whichcouldbepainful.Iwasmidway through this
procedure when Waynerapped loudly on the door,
informing me there was atelephonecallthatIneededtotake immediately. ‘I’ll havetocallback,’Ishouted,astheold braless hippy before mehad flinched in response toWayne’s interruption andnow her muscles were inspasm. She was stuck inforward flexion and couldn’tmove.‘It’s George’s teacher,’
Wayne replied between histeeth.
Therewas noway I couldleave the patient as shewas:wrinkledbreastshanginglow,like snooker balls in socks,stuck somewhere between aforty-andfifty-degreebend–the most precarious ofpositions. So I toldWayne Iwould return the call withintwominutes.I spent the next ninety
seconds with my thoughtscolliding,my brainRolodex-ing through the possible
injuries George could havesustained to warrant such acall. And being unsuccessfulin alleviating the musclespasminmypatient’sback,Igaveuptemporarily,adjustedthe treatment plinth to itslowest setting – aroundtwelveinchesfromthefloor–andsupportedheraround thewaist as she crawledpiteously on to the plinth,collapsing into the foetalposition, saying, ‘Go on, go
on.Findoutaboutyourson.’Ithankedheranddartedto
the shelves, grabbing a largetowelandlayingitoverhertopreserve her modesty (notthatshecared).ThenIdashedthrough to reception, whereWayne was wearing anexpression that I wassupposed to translate as ‘Nopersonalcallsinworkhours.’The call connected and I
said, ‘Hello?’ as Waynepretended to busy himself,
tearing open a new box oftissues, then dabbing dry hisupperlip.‘Mrs Toovey, it’s Hilary
Slater.’Hilary Slater was the
headmistress. ‘Everythingokay?’Iasked.‘Yesandno,tobehonest,’
and she sighed out heavily.‘There’san issue…an issuewithGeorge.’‘Isheill?’Around six months ago I
began receiving phone callsfrom school on a fairlyregular basis to say thatGeorge was unwell andneeded to be collected. Hehad a range of symptoms:sickness, headaches,dizziness, the occasionallimp. As you would expect,the school treated thesesymptomsseriously.AsdidI,initially.GettingovertoHawkshead
mid-afternoon,takingGeorge
home or else bringing himback to theclinic,didnotgodownwellwitheitherWayneor myself by the third time.Particularlybecauseoneverysingleoneof theseoccasionsthere was absolutely nothingwrong with him. Withintwenty minutes of leavingschool his pallor hadvanished and he would bechatting away happily. Ispoke to George’s teacher.Explained that, for whatever
reason,I thoughtGeorgewastrying it on, and I would trytoget to thebottomof it butplease could they makedoubly sure in the futurebefore assuming he wasunwell.AweeklaterIgotthesame
phone call, only this timeGeorge had been witnessedvomiting so I could hardlyargue.Off I traipsed, leavinga patient with fybromyalgiamid-session in the less-than-
capablehandsofGary.Gary,whose entire treatmentrepertoire consisted ofultrasound followed bywhatever new electricaltherapytherepswerepushingdown our throats and endingwithanicechataboutcorrectposture.Sodallusebasically,ifyouwereinconstantpain.George was fine, needless
tosay.Hiswitnessturnedouttobeoneofhisbuddies,whoI’m sure under interrogation
would have cracked,switching his story to one ofobserving strings of salivarather than vomit. AndGeorge had once againearned himself an afternoonaway from Spanish. Or theWar of the Roses. I forgetwhichwashis least favouriteatthetime.‘George is not ill, Mrs
Toovey,’HilarySlatersaid.‘He’s not? Oh, that’s a
relief,’ I replied, laughing
nervously.Silence.‘Would it be possible for
you to pop in around three-thirty for a meeting?’ sheasked in a way that wasn’treallyaquestion.I hesitated. ‘George is in
after-school club today. I’mafraidIworkuntilfive.Whatisthisaboutexactly?’Wayne was openly staring
atmeatthispointandItriedtostepawayfromthedeskto
prevent him from hearing.The phone cord, however,was too short and so Iremainedwithinearshot.‘I’d rather speak to you in
person,’shesaidcarefully.‘Iunderstandthat,but…’I
paused. How to word thiswithout sounding rude anddismissive? Not possible. ‘Idon’t want to reschedulepatients, Mrs Slater, unlessabsolutelynecessary.’Wayne was making big
swipinggestures.Tellherno,hemouthed.NoWay.‘I wouldn’t ask you to
come in unless it wasabsolutely necessary.’ ‘Thenperhapsyoucouldstayalittlelate?’ I suggested hopefully.‘We could do themeeting atsay, five o’clock. I’m sure Icould get away from hereslightlyearlyif—’She cut me off. ‘Not
possible. Mrs Toovey.Georgehasbeenstealing.’
‘He’sbeenwhat?’‘Stealing.’‘Stealing?’Irepeatedback,
blindsided, and Waynestopped what he was doingand stared at me, allinterested.‘That’sright,’shesaid.‘I…I…assumeyouhave
proof?’ I stammered. ‘Iassume you wouldn’t bethrowing these allegationsaround unless you wereabsolutely sure, because if
youwereto—’‘There is no doubt, Mrs
Toovey.’‘Shit,’ I whispered, and
thenquicklyapologized.‘Okay,’ I told her. ‘Okay,
I’llbeatthemeeting.’
Unless you plan meetings tocoincide with the ferrycrossing times it’softenhardto arrive at appointmentsbang on time. Unusually forme, in this instance, I was
early. I stayed in the caroutside school, electing toavoidtheothermothers,sinceGeorge would not bedeparting alongwith the restofthechildren.Infact,hehadnot been allowed to rejoinany of the afternoon lessonswith his classmates and hadbeenworkingwithateachingassistant on his own in theschool’sITlab.I fiddled with the radio,
trying to get a decent
reception.Dependingonyourposition, Hawkshead couldreceive sketchy transmissionsignals. Lightning, however,had no such trouble gettingthrough and surgesuppressors were essential ifyou wanted to protect yourelectrical items. I’d lost afreezer and two mobilephonessincemovinghere.Eventually, I gave up and
chose to sit in silence. Iobserved the women in the
playgroundingroupsofthreeor four, making lightconversation, the gist ofwhichwaslikelytobe:No,Iam undoubtedly the worstmother in theschoolbecause…Noneof itsaidinearnest,ofcourse.Noneofittruthful.The men were spared thislitany of self-deprecatingnonsense; they were allowedto stand alone, unspeaking,radiating ambivalence. Yougo in acting like that as a
woman,andit’snoted.When the playground had
cleared I made my wayinside. I had decided not todefendGeorge.Iwouldlistento what Hilary Slater had tosay. Tell her I would dealwith it accordingly. Dowhatever was necessary tostop him doing it, and asquicklyaspossible.But when the secretary
showed me into the headteacher’s office and I saw
George sitting on a too-tallchair, his thin legs dangling,his head downcast, I wasovercome.I rushed towards him.
‘George,’ I said, squattingbeside his chair, ‘are you allright?’Henoddedwithoutlooking
up.Seconds later we were
joined by Hilary Slater,George’s class teacher andthe Year Six teacher, who
wore a sickly, cloying scentwhich filled the room,makingmequeasy.‘Mrs Toovey,’ began the
head, ‘thanks for taking thetroubletocomein.’‘It’snotrouble,’Ireplied.‘Perhaps you’d like to sit
there?’ She motioned to anempty chair about two feetaway from George. I lookedat him before straighteningup; tried to get him to meetmy eye, but he wouldn’t. I
evenwentsofarastolifthischin with my finger, but hepulled against me, keepinghisheadlow.I sat, glanced at the three
women in front of me, eachwearing a sympatheticexpressionmeant to inferWedonotjudgehere.‘So,’ began the head, ‘I’m
sureMrTooveybrought youup to speedwith last week’sproblem and, really, whatwe’d like to do now is get
your thoughts and come upwithasuitableplanofactionfor George. A plan that wecanallworktowardsthatwill—’Icutheroff.‘Hangon,’ I said. ‘You’ve
spoken with Winston aboutthis?’Hilary Slater frowned.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Youhaven’t?’‘This is the first I’ve
heard.’
‘Oh,’ she blustered,uneasily. ‘Oh, that is …unfortunate. I just assumedthatsince…’Herwordsdiedoff and she looked to theotherteachersforinspiration.George’s class teacher
clearedher throat.Shewas akind, pleasant woman in herearly fifties who was veryapproachablebutwhohadtheannoying habit of pretendingnot to recognize you if youshould come across her
outsideschool.‘Wedidtrytocontact Mr Toovey today tobepartofthismeetingbutwewere informed by the manwho answered the call thatMr Toovey was out of thecountryonbusiness.’I cast a glance at George,
who raised his head beforequicklyloweringitagain.Hiskneeswere grass stained andthelaceinhislefttrainerhadrejiggeditselfsothatoneendwas too long, and the other
tooshorttotie.‘That’s regrettable,’ I said,
all of us knowing it wasWinston himself who hadtaken that call. ‘But you sayyou’ve spoken to himalready?’‘Yes,’ said Hilary Slater.
‘Twice. The first timewouldhave been last Friday, andthenagainonTuesdayofthisweekwhenMrTooveycameto collect George fromschool. Things had been
disappearing for some time—’‘What kind of things?’ I
asked.‘Stationery supplies and
whatnot … nothing of anyrealvalue,butthatisn’treallythepoint.Stealingisstealing,MrsToovey.’‘And you told Winston
aboutthis?’‘Yes,’ and she paused,
bitingdownonherlipbeforecontinuing. ‘Mr Toovey
didn’t seem to take it veryseriously. He appeared tothinkthatthiswasnormalforlittle boys. In fact, he jokedthathismotherhadtosewuphis pockets when he wasGeorge’sage.Iapologizethatyou weren’t informed, but Iassumed that Mr Tooveywould relay our conversationtoyou.’I looked at George.
‘Honey,’ I said gently, ‘youshould have told me about
this.’‘I’m afraid we can’t get
George to talk about it,’HilarySlater said. ‘Hewon’tadmit to hiswrongdoing andwe can’t seem to find areason why he’s doing it.And, other than this, as youknow, he performs verywellinschool.Anditgoeswithoutsaying that he is well liked.He is a kind and popularmemberoftheschool.’‘George?’ I prompted, but
hesimplyshrugged.Turningmy attention back
to the head, I said, ‘So,stationerysupplies.Isthatit?’‘I’mafraidnot.Thereason
wewereabletoascertainthatGeorge was the thief wasbecausehewas trying to sellthese supplies to someof theotherchildren.’‘Oh,’Isaid.‘One of the Year Two
children was found with astapleguninhisbackpack.’
Iwinced.‘And sadly, today,’ she
continued, ‘we foundGeorgeinthestaffroomduringlessontime going through thehandbags. He had fortypounds in his pocket, andwe’re almost certain it’s notthefirsttimehe’sdoneit.’I moved from my chair.
‘Christ, George,’ I said,crouching beside him, ‘whatonearthwereyouthinking?’Hestartedtocry.
‘Mrs Toovey, we knowthings have been a littleunsettledathomeforGeorgeforawhilenow.Perhapsyoucould have a chat and see ifthere is anything worryinghim,’saidHilarySlater.‘Are you going to punish
him?’Iasked.She shook her head. ‘We
feel that is not the rightwaytotacklethis.Obviously,ifithappensagain,thenwewouldbe forced to take action. But
we’re confident George nowunderstands the seriousnessof this and I’m sure there’llbe no more incidents. Willthere,George?’He lifted his tear-stained
face.‘No,’hewhispered.Moments later, when we
were sitting in the corridor, Isaid, ‘Look at me, George.Whatisgoingon?’‘Nothing.’‘George,’Irepeated.Hewipedhiseyes.‘Idon’t
know.’‘Ofcourseyouknow.Why
didyoutakethemoney?’Andhestartedtosob.Big,
wracking sobs, shudderingthroughhissmallframe.‘Because you haven’t got
anymoney,’hewept.‘I’vegotsomemoney.I’ve
gotenoughmoney,’Isaid.Hetookabreath.‘And I wanted to buy
Cesar,’ he said. ‘I wanted tobuyourdogback.’
7
IT WAS THE day after Scott’sfirstappointment.Andhewasback for another. I hadn’tasked how he persuadedWayne to reassign my thirdpatient of the day, because Iwasfastbecomingawarethat
Scott did not operate withinthe usual parameters. Mymood was low after themeetingatschoolandthefullweight of what my financialsituationwasdoingtoGeorgewas uponme. I didn’t reallyfeel like engaging in anotherdance with words, but Scottwas insistent that I wouldwant to hear what he had tosay so, after the treatmentsession, I allowed him thecourtesy.
‘Iknowyou’reinfinancialtrouble,’ Scott began when Itold him to go on. Yes, Iwould hear him out, becausewhen you’re eighteenthousandpounds indebt,andyour son is stealing fromschool – because evenGeorgehadrealizedhowbadthingshadgot–you’remorewilling to listen to businesspropositions(eventhoughI’dhadmyfairshareofpyramidsellersovertheyears.patients
who tried togetme involvedin selling everything fromalgae food supplements towaterpurifiers).‘What I’m about to say
mightshock,’Scottsaid.‘I used to work in the
NHS,’ I said. ‘I don’t shockthateasily.’‘I’dliketopaytospendthe
nightwithyou,’hesaid.Iblinked.ThenIlaughed.‘I thought you had
somethingserioustodiscuss,’
Isaid.‘IsthistodowiththatthingIsaidaboutprostitutionon Friday? I didn’t reallymeanit.I’dhadalottodrinkanditwasjustanobservation—’‘I’mtotallyserious.’‘No you’re not,’ I replied,
but I could see by hisexpressionthathewas.‘Shit,’Iwhispered.I’d been asked some
strange thingsover theyears.Only last week one of my
regulars – a diabetic drinkerwith gout in both feet –inquired if perineal massagecould help him maintain anerection.TowhichIrepliedIcouldn’t say for sure that itwouldn’t, but I didn’t knowof a person who providedsuch a service locally,stopping theexchangebeforeit had a chance to go anyfurther.‘Look,’ Scott said, ‘this
wouldbenefitbothofus.You
refused my offer of a drink—’‘Becauseyou’remarried.’‘AndIwouldliketospend
some time with you – yourhumour, your candour, thenatural way you have aboutyou makes me want to …well,let’ssayit’srefreshing.’Hepaused,waiting formy
reaction.‘And,’ he went on, ‘as I
said earlier, I gather fromwhat Petra said at the party
thatyoucould reallydowiththe money. Though,obviously, Roz,’ he said, histone suddenly turning moreserious, ‘I am puttingmyselfon the linehere.So ifyou’rereally not interested, I’dratheryoujustsaidsostraightaway.Idon’twanttotakethechance of this conversationbecoming commonknowledge.’‘Iwon’tsayanythingabout
it,’ I said quietly, and he
nodded.I said this not because I
had any intention of goingalong with his outrageoussuggestionbutbecauseofhiswife, Nadine. Fromexperience,Icansaythat thegrief which settles aroundyour heart after you’ve beencheated on never reallyleaves. Certainly, with time,theraw,raggededgesbecomesmoothed, but it alwaysremains,andIhopedtospare
Nadinethat.‘Will you think about it?’
Scottasked.‘No need. The answer is
no.’‘But you haven’t even
asked how much I waspreparedtopay.’‘I don’t need to ask. I’m
notforsale,Scott.’‘Everyone’sforsale.’‘Now you really are
sounding like a dickhead,’ Isaid.
He smiled in spite ofhimselfand liftedbothhandsin a gesture to indicate heknewwhenhewasbeaten.I probably should have
been angrier than I actuallywas. Imean,payingme?Forsex?Jesus.Then I caught myself,
because wasn’t this exactlythe kind of thing I hadsuggestedonFridaynight?Petra’s appalled face
flashedintomymind.
‘Ifyouchangeyourmind,’he said, ‘the offer stillstands.’‘Iwon’t.’
The morning passed byquicklyinahazeofsweatingbodies, endless talk of theheat wave. Lots of Well, ifthis is global warming, I’mall for it type ofconversations.By lunchtime I’d all but
putScott’sproposalfrommy
mind. But I was left with arather odd sensation– as if Iwere slightly soiled and inneedofashower.I headed to the staff
bathroom, where I filled thebasin with cold water,removed my tunic and gavemy upper body a goodsoaping. I was reluctant todry off with the hand towel,as it was also used by bothWayne and Gary used, but Idecided the chances of them
washing their hands aftertaking a leak were prettyslim,soIwentahead.I smartened up my hair,
securing it with some oldKirbygripsthatwerelyingatthe bottom of my handbag.Stuck to the lining was aHall’scherrySootherthathadmanagedtounwrapitself.I examined my reflection
and wondered if I hadencouraged what hadoccurredearlier.Granted,my
candidnessonFridayeveninghad perhaps encouragedScott’s behaviour somewhat,but I couldn’t rememberactually suggesting that Ishould become a prostitute.Mygeneral ideawas that forsome men there is clearly aneed – always was, alwayswillbe–so itmightbea lotless fuss if they simplysatisfied this need, withoutthe call for affairs, and thesubsequent break-up of
marriagesandfamilies.I could now see that what
seemed a relativelystraightforward, sensible ideatomecouldbeperceivedverydifferently. Petra hadresponded like she’d had aslaptotheface.Herhusband,Vince, as though it were awhistle he simply could nothear.AndScott–well,Scotthad taken the idea and runwithittoawholeotherlevel.Orperhapsnot.
Perhaps Scott had been onthe lookout for a while anddecided I seemed reasonablygame,sowhatdidhehavetolose?The more I thought about
it, the more I realized I hadno idea what went throughotherpeople’sheads.I left the bathroom,
planningtograbacoffee–tohead off the afternoon slump– and to eat a banana in thesunshine. There was a
wooden bench outside thefront entrance to the clinic,which I avoided. This wasbecause old people tended toarrive stupendously early forappointments andwould takerefuge on this bench. Beforeyou knew it you’d findyourself ensconced in thekindofsmalltalkyou’dbeenhavingallmorning:Theheat,immigration, the frivolousspending habits of thedaughter-in-law, the
overcooked pork at thewedding reception theyattended the previousweekend.So I grabbedmy rucksack
with the idea of headingaround the back of the clinictoeat lunchaloneonadustystep,verymuchoutofsight.Wayne,however,hadother
plans.‘A quick word, Roz,’ he
saidasIpassedreception.Hedid not lift his head. He had
hiseyesfixedonthemonitorinfrontofhim.‘Iwasjustgoingto—’‘Won’ttakeaminute,’and
hemetmyeyes,givingmeasympathetickindofsmile.‘There’s an issue with the
takings,’hebegan.Wayne Geddes was a
colourlessman.His skin, hishair, his eyelashes and evenhis gums were a peculiarshade of nothing. He waswhat I would describe as
instantlyforgettable.Apart from, that is, his
propensitytosweat.If you’ve ever left a lump
ofParmesancheeseoutofthefridgeforatimeyou’llnoticea series of fatty dropletsdevelop along the rind. ThatisWayne’sforehead.Doesn’tmatter what the weather’sdoing. You had to feel sorryfortheguy.‘Anissue?’Isaid.He frowned at the
computer screen as thoughtrying to make sense ofsomething.Thenhelookedatme. ‘The takings don’talways match theappointment schedule,’ hesaid. ‘There are a fewinconsistencies.’‘And what has that got to
dowithme?’Hehesitated.‘Spititout,Wayne.’Iglancedtowardstheopen
door.We have so few sunny
days throughout the year thepull was irresistible. I stoodregarding Wayne, twitchinglikeagreyhoundinthetraps,primedandreadyforrelease.‘Nothing you want to tell
me?’heaskedcarefully.‘No.’‘You’re quite sure?
Because I could help you,Roz. You only need toconfide in me and I promiseI’llhelpyou.’I held his gaze intently. ‘I
really don’t know whatyou’re talking about. Now, Ineedto—’‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’
Andheregardedmesadly,asthough I was letting himdown. ‘There is somethingelse.You’ll have to cut yourlunch break short today,’Wayne said. ‘I’ve bookedHenryPeachey tocome inat1p.m.’‘Who?’Iasked.‘The insurance agent? The
one you were supposed tocall,anddidn’t?’Oh.Thatguy.‘Icouldn’tletitrunonany
longer, Roz,’ he said. ‘Youneed this assessment. We’renotfullyinsuredwithoutit.’‘So you keep saying. But
did you have to organize itfor today?’ I asked, glancingatmywatch. That only gavemefifteenminutes.‘Henry only works
TuesdaysandWednesdays.’
‘That’sniceforhim.’Wayne sighed heavily.
‘Justdoit,okay?Helpmetohelp you. Besides, it won’ttakethatlong.’
8
‘IF I COULD begin by takingyour date of birth,’ theinsuranceagentsaid.‘Twenty-fifth of
December,Nineteenseventy-one.’He raised his head.
‘ChristmasDay.’Inodded.Now people would
generally say one of twothings:‘Doyouget twicethepresents?’or‘I’vealwaysfeltsorry for those whosebirthdayfallsonthatday.’He actually said neither.
‘I’m not really a bigChristmas person,’ he said,andsmiled.His smile was warm and
sexyat thesame time.And I
was completely thrown offcentre.We were in the
nutritionist’s room. Therewasn’t enough work for afull-time nutritionist at theclinic, so Helen Miller splithertimebetweenfourorfiveother set-ups around theNorth-west. This meant thatherdeskwas always clearofthe general detritus whichaccumulated onmine, as shemoved her files and whatnot
aroundwithher.Ihadclosedthe blinds as the heat wasfiercenowonthewest-facingwindows, the sun havingarced its way overhead, andthefanwasonfullblast.My cheeks were hot and
red.HenryPeacheyworeapolo
shirt that was faded aroundthe collar, along with olive-coloured canvas trousers thatwould be classed as jeans incertain establishments,
therefore denying entry. Icouldsmellhisaftershave.‘Fullname?’heasked.‘Rosalind Veronica
Toovey.’Hetypedfast.Hisfacewas
relaxed, he was totally atease, and I watched himunashamedly. The only menwe ever got at the clinic(other than patients) weremedical reps, and they werelike androids. They wouldmoveamongstus, trickingus
with their good skin, erectpostures, spotless shirts andtheirkeen, interestedeyes.Inthe firstmoments ofmeetingthem, you would rarely feelmore engaged,more attuned,to another person. And then,suddenly, and withoutwarning, their façade wouldfall.The rep would reach into
hisbriefcase, the spellwouldbe broken and you wouldrealize:Ah,asalesman.
Thesharpbanterofearliercannot be continued as he isonlyable to sustain it forhisopening pitch. At this pointyou might find yourselfthrowinginajoketoeasethediscomfort.Butyouwouldbemetwithadead,vacantstare.A stare that said: Does notcompute.Henry Peachey was not
like that at all.Andwhen helookedupandsaid,‘Placeofbirth?’ his eyes locked on
mine. Itwasas ifhe’daskedmetoundress.I was not imagining it,
there was an immediatemutual attraction, and Istammered out, ‘Kendal.’Following it with ‘How is ityou don’t like Christmas?Areyouanti-religion?’‘I’mnot againstChristmas
as such,’ he replied, as hetyped. ‘It’s more that weseemtohavereachedapointin society whereby we have
to spend inordinate amountsofmoneyjusttoshowthatweloveeachother.Isupposeit’smore that I don’t like beingtold what to do by theadvertising industry.’ Helookedup.‘Qualifications?’‘Youwantallofthem?’‘Themostrecentisfine.’‘ABScinPhysiotherapy.I
startedanMScbut,youknowhowit is, lifegotintheway.Are you anti-birthdays thenaswell?’
There was mischief in hiseyes, and he paused beforespeaking. I had to lookawayto catch my breath. ‘I got amessage from Apple lastweek,’ he said, ‘saying Ishould treat my dad to aniPad for Father’s Day. ThesentimentbeingthatifIreallyloved him, etc., etc., that Iwouldforkoutforone.Threehundred pounds on Father’sDay?Crazy.Doyousmoke?’I hesitated. Then said,
‘No,’firmly.‘Never?’‘Okay, sometimes when
I’m drunk,’ I admittedashamedly. ‘If I get a bitboredIdogooffinsearchofasmoke.Notoften,though.’‘Thatcounts.’‘Really?’Henoddedgrimly. ‘We’ve
had a couple of cases thisyear…thefamiliesofpeoplewho’vebeen incaraccidentshave not been eligible for a
payoutupontheirdeaths.Thepolicy holders claimed to benon-smokers, but becausethere was evidence ofnicotineinthehairsamples–well,’hesaid,andshrugged.‘That’sabitharsh.’‘Theworldwelivein,I’m
afraid. Occasional smoker,’hemurmured,ashetyped.‘Whatisthisforexactly?’I
asked. Wayne had told me,butIhadn’tlistenedproperly.Practice managers were
always trying to get us to doirrelevant stuff; MagdalenatheAustrianphysioclaimeditwas simply to justify theirexistence. If I did half thethingsWayne asked ofme, Iwouldseefourlesspatientsaday.‘It’s to bring the public-
liability insurance paymentsdown.’‘Butwe’reallinsuredupto
a hundred million with theCharteredSociety.’
‘That’s your individualinsurance,’ he explained.‘Thecompany thatowns thischain is also accountable ifthere’s an accident with apatient. By doing these extrain-depth assessments of theirstaff, they are able to reducetheir contributions. It’s a bitlike doing an advancedmotoring course – you’reconsidered a safer driver oncompletion, so your carinsuranceisreduced.’
Inodded.‘I forgot to ask, are you
married,MissToovey?’‘Separated,’Iansweredtoo
quickly.‘Andit’sRoz.’Hehadsuchbeautifulskin.
And a mouth so soft thatwhen I gazed at it I got asurge of longing all the waydowntomy—‘Okay,Roz,’ he said, ‘any
operations, medicalprocedures?’‘I had a car crash four
years ago and suffered apneumothorax.’‘Pneumo—?’‘Apologies, I thought you
were medical. A collapsedlung,’Isaid.‘Ibrokemyarm,too, but I don’t think that’srelevant.’‘Any operations, any
surgeries performed outsidetheUK?’heasked.Ipaused.He raised his head and
lookedatmewithconcern.
When I didn’t continue hewinced a little before saying,‘I’m sorry about this, but Ineed you to be fullytransparent here. It’simportant.’I exhaled. I didn’t want
him to know. Up until thispointI’dbeenunderakindoflovely,hazy,dream-likespellwhere the real world waslocked firmly behind theclinicdoor.Now itwasas if that spell
wasbroken.‘I lost a baby whilst on
holiday in Gran Canaria,’ Isaid.‘Iwastwenty-sixweekspregnant–quitefaralong.’Hetiltedhisheadandgave
asadsmile.‘Sosorrytohearthat,’hesaidsoftly.‘Itjustwasn’tmeanttobe,’
Ireplied.What Ididn’t saywas that
thiswas thebeginningof theend forme andWinston.Hehad been screwing around. I
was unaware of this at thatpoint,but Iknewweweren’twhatweoncewere.Ifailedtoseewhatwasrightinfrontofmy eyes and, somewhatdelusionally, thought a newbaby would bring us closertogetheragain.Silly, really, but in my
defence I’m sure I was notthe first woman to think aman would change his waysoncehehadanewbabyinhisarms. Ifwomenwere to stop
kidding themselves with thatparticular fantasy, I reckonthehumanracewoulddieoutprettyquickly.Sadly for us, I started
spotting blood when Iboarded the plane atManchester, and by the timewearrivedinGranCanariaitwas clear something waswrong. We went straight tothehospital,whereuponIwashooked up to a saline drip,examined briefly and told I
would be scanned first thingin the morning. They toldWinstonhecoulddonothingand,sinceIwouldbesharinga roomwith anotherwoman,hewasnotwelcometostay.At around ten that night
therewasachangeofplan.Agruff obstetrician performedthe scan, notifyingme in herlimited English, ‘There isnothing.’When I asked what she
meant exactly, she said, ‘No
morebaby,’and theassistingnurse informed me that Iwouldbeinducedatseveninthemorning,andwouldneedto go through normal labour.Iwouldhavenothingtoshowat the end of it. Halfconsumed with grief, halfterrified, I begged for aCaesarean.ButIwasdenied.Ichangedafterthat.Ithink
I just gave up trying. I hadneitherthegritnortheenergyanddeterminationrequiredto
run our lives effectively and,ultimately, everything beganto unravel. Winston sleptaround more. I didn’t attendto our financial problems.Andwelostitall.‘I’ll need to take some
blood from you,’ HenryPeachey said now,apologetically.‘Abloodtest?Why?’‘Anything surgical
performed outside the UKcarries an increased AIDS
risk.DidyouhaveaD&C?’Ishookmyhead.‘Labour.’‘That’s still classed as
surgical, I’m afraid. The testis a thumb pinprick. I’ll justneed enough for …’ Hisvoice trailed off as herummaged around in hisbriefcase, looking for, ittranspired, two polytheneenvelopes, each containing asmallplasticvial.‘Herewego,’hesaid.He set about cleaning my
thumbwithanalcoholwipe.Iwas conscious of the drop inmood and Henry’s carefulway with me. The earlierplayfulness between us wasgone.‘Gives you quite a
privileged insight into otherpeople’s lives, an assessmentsuchasthis,’Icommentedashepuncturedmyskin.He squeezed my thumb
andpositionedthevial.‘As does your job,’ he
replied, screwing on the cap.‘Youmustseeallsorts.’Hewasn’twrong.Icarried
more secrets from the folkaround here than I cared toremember. It’s an oddarrangement, the relationshipbetweenpatientandtherapist.Not really replicatedanywhereelse.Iusedtothinkit was the vulnerableconditionof thepatient– thefactthattheywereinpain,ina state of undress – which
caused them, perhaps from anervous response, to divulge.But I’ve since changed mymind. I don’t think mypatients ever really feelvulnerable.Iworkhardtoputthem at ease, to presentmyself as an affable, capablepersonwhocanbe trusted togetonwiththematterinhandwith the minimum of fuss.So, no, it wasn’t that. It wasthe closed door. Thesoundproof room. Something
about knowing you wouldn’tbeoverheard,abouttalkingtoa person who is bound bypatient confidentiality,liberates people to unburdenthemselvesinawaytheycando in no other area of theirlife. Except, perhaps, with apriest. But who confides inclergyanymore?When Henry Peachey was
finished he passedme awadofcottonwoolandtoldmetoput pressure on the puncture
hole.Hewasveryefficient.‘Doyoucoverthewholeof
the north of England?’ Iasked,making small talk. ‘Isthat why you’re onlyavailable around here onTuesdaysandWednesdays?’‘No. Ionlywork twodays
aweek.’I must have gaped at him
thenbecausehe said, ‘Is thatodd?’I raised my eyebrows.
‘Lucky, more like. How on
earthdoyoumanagethat?Doyou have a trust fund orsomething?’He laughed, the light
returningtohiseyes.‘No.’‘So how is that even
possible?’‘Itjustrequiresalittleself-
control, and I suppose thedeterminationnot tobuy intothe common belief that hardworkisagoodthinginitself.That we should all beworking our arses off just so
wecanspendmoremoneyoncrapwedon’tneed.’‘Ah,’ I said, smirking,
‘you’reoneofthosepeople.’He stopped and regarded
mequizzically. ‘Oneofwhatpeople?’‘You know – basket
weavers, self-sufficiency. Doyou have spider plantsgrowing out of old workbootsonyourdoorstep?’‘No.’Helaughed.‘Iusedtogooutwithaguy
like that. He spent so muchtime building wind turbinesfrom bits of recycled tat,tryingtoliveofftheland,thathedidn’thaveapennytohisname.Itwouldhavebeenfarquicker and a lot less workjust togoout andget a part-timejob.’He looked at me. Arched
an eyebrow.Waited for it todawn.‘Whichisexactlywhatyou
havedone,’ I conceded. ‘Oh,
okay,goodforyou.Thoseofus with responsibilities havetoearnaproperliving.’‘Nice rant,’ he said,
passingmeaplaster.‘Thanks.’Amomentpassed.‘Did you go on to have
children…Imean,afterwhathappened to you abroad?’ heaskedgently.‘Ialreadyhadonechild.A
son. But therewere nomorebecause we couldn’t afford
it.’Andwhenhefrowned,asthough questioning mystatement, I added, ‘Wedidn’t have travel insurance.My ex said he’d arranged itforthetrip,buthehadn’t.Wehad to pay for my stay inhospitalbycreditcard,whichI’m still paying off, alongwith a lot of other stuff.Anyway,’ I said, morebrightly, trying tochange thetone again, ‘in just a fewshort minutes you know
everything there is to knowaboutme.’Heheldmygaze,andthere
it was again. The jolt ofmutualattraction.‘Not everything, I hope,’
Henrysaid.
9
THAT EVENING GEORGE and Ipicnickedinthebackgarden.I grabbed a few bits andpiecesfromthevillage:apotof reduced-priced hummus,some locally producedpastrami (with a same-day
expiration date), a cucumberandabaguettethatwasdownto ten pence because it hadtaken a bit of a bashing intransit.From the outside looking
in, you might think thingswereprettymuchperfect.Theheat of the day was on thewane. George was happy,pushing slices of pepperedbeef into his mouth, hisschool polo shirt coveredwith a combination of grass
stains, spots of pollen and aformlessyellowmarkaroundthe collar that I would laterrealizewassuncream.I could hear Celia and
Dennis over the fencepottering around in theirgarden, Dennis softlywhistling the theme to TheWaltons, Celia keeping up alow-level steady chatter,punctuating it occasionallywith ‘Dennis, start listeningtomenow,’whensheneeded
toimpartsomethingcrucial.Theholidaycottageon the
other side was home for theweek to a quiet, bookish,newly wedded couple fromBillericay. They were thetype of people who woreperpetual looks of apologysimplyforbeingthere,which,I have to say, made a nicechange from the boisterous,unrestrained groups of late.Last week, I had politelyaskedagentlemaninaLeeds
United shirt if he wouldn’tmind repositioning thebarbecue a little further fromthe house so that thecrosswind didn’t carry thethick smoke right across ourpatio, andhe’d respondedbycallingmeafuckinglesbian.I watched George chew,
the straw-coloured lightbouncing off his hair, themissing patch above his earless apparent now. I reallyshould neaten that up, I
thought, though I knew Iwouldn’t. Petra said Iwas inthe habit of holding on toGeorge’s babyish traits,which I thought of asendearing rather thanbabyish.SheoftenchidedmeifIfailedtocorrectGeorge’sspeech,butIlikeditwhenhesaid ‘brang’ instead of‘brought’, when he told mehe’d ‘writted’ me a letter,whenheconfusedhisPsandBs, asking me to pass the
PBA glue. These things, Iknew,would be gone all toosoon,andIwasinnohurrytoseethebackofthem.I pulled a daisy from the
grassandpassedittoGeorge.Herolledhiseyes.Toogirly.‘Whatdidyoudoatschool
today?’‘Science,’hesaid.‘Did you do an
experiment?’‘We put white blocks into
different bottles to see what
wouldhappen.’‘Differentbottlesofwhat?’He shrugged. ‘Milk and
Cokeandstuff.’I remembered this
experiment. It was used todemonstrate the rates ofdecayonteeth,theideabeingkids would make wisechoices when deciding whatto drink. The thrust of itappeared to be lost onGeorge.George finished chewing.
Hesaid,‘FinnGibson-Morrissayswewouldberich,too,ifwe had a restaurant, like hisparents.’‘Didhe?’Irepliedflatly.‘He gets tons and tons of
stuff,Mum.Hisparentshave,like,somuchmoneythatthey—’‘His parents don’t own
theirownhome.Theyrent.’He frowned. ‘Don’t we
rent?’‘Yes, but we’re not going
aroundmakinglittlekidsfeelshitty because they don’thavemuchmoney.’I’d heard a lot about Finn
Gibson-Morris.NotjustfromGeorge but from his littlebuddiesatschool.Thislineofconversation cropped upevery week or so and,usually, Ihad thegoodgracetoholdmytongue.Nottoday.‘You finished?’ I asked
George, motioning to hisplate,andhenodded.‘Goand
fetchyourselfanapplethen.’I watched him go, his
skinny, tanned legs, hyper-extended at the back of theknee. He’d inherited hishypermobility fromWinston.He could pull his thumb allthe way back so that ittouched his forearm – likeWinston.I’veneverknownamanso
agile, so flexible, asWinstonToovey.Itwasthereasonwemet. His left patella would
frequently end up around theoutside of his leg, and Iwould stabilize it so as toallow him to walk again. Imanaged two treatmentsessions before I acquiescedand agreed to a date,disregarding the CharteredSociety’s directive advisingagainst physio/patientrelationships.Turnedouttheywereright
about that, but not for thereasonstheylisted.
I watched George emergefromthebackdoor,bitehardintotheappleandwince.Oneof his milk teeth wasstubbornlyhangingontillthedeath and he would forgetabout it until it pained him.‘Youokay?’Icalledout,andhe took the fruit from hismouth, adjusted the toothwith his finger, pushing itbackintothegum.‘Yep,’ he said, as his
attention was caught by a
bold lamb that had strayedfrom the flock, closing in onthe stone wall that borderedthe back of the garden.Something about the wayGeorge gazed at it – kind ofsadandreflective–madethebreath catch in my throat.Perhaps he knew that thelambwouldsoonberemoved,ready for slaughter, onaccount of being born thewronggender.Georgemadeaflicking action, as if shaking
the thought from his head,andaskedifhecouldgonextdoortoseeFoxy.‘Don’t get under Celia’s
feet,’Iwarned.Whenhe’dgone therewas
aknockat thefrontdoorandthe postman stood there,holding out a letter. ‘SpecialDelivery,” he said, “I need asignature.’I took the letter, thanked
him, andwent inside. Sittingon thebackstep, Iopened it,
knowingwhatitwas.An eviction notice. I had
twoweeks.Iwas threemonths behind
on the rent and I hadabsolutely no way of payingit.In theend,all ithad taken
was one unexpected bill andmy weekly budget had beenblown. My car had neededtwo new tyres and a timingbelt. The cost was close toeight hundred pounds. My
dadhadbeennaggingmefornear to a year to change thetiming belt, saying it waslong overdue, that if I didn’thave it done it would breakandthecarwouldbewreckedintheprocess.Eventually,I’dgone through with it,knowingIdidn’thaveenoughto pay the rent but, withoutthe car, I couldn’t get towork. Couple that with thewinter heating bill that I’dbeendelayedinpaying,andI
wasinaspiralofdebt.And now I was in real
trouble.Andnot the paltry kind of
financial trouble that can bepassed off with more creditcards, letters of regret andapology, with promises ofminimalmonthlypayments.I was about to lose the
house.I was about to lose
everything.
10
‘CANWETALK?’‘I hoped you’d call,’ he
said.‘Ihoped…’ThenScottElias paused, giving a smallexhalationthatsoundedtomeverymuchlikerelief.‘Ireallydidn’t expect to hear from
yousosoon,’hesaid.‘Listen,’ I began. ‘I’d
rather not do this over thephonebut, just soyouknow,my circumstances havechanged. I would like toreconsider your offer, if it’sstillavailable.’‘Okay,’ he said slowly.
‘Perhaps we should meet. Imean, to discuss it further. Iexpect there are some thingsyou’dliketoclarify.’I tried to keep my tone
businesslike as I issued theinstructions I’d decided uponearlier, but there was anunmistakable tremor in myvoice. ‘I’ve got a forty-five-minute lunch break,’ I said.‘Come to the clinic. It’ll besafer thanmeeting out in theopen. We won’t arousesuspicion ifweactas thoughI’veslottedyouinasanextrapatient.’‘Thatmakessense.’‘We’ll be able to talk
undisturbed.’‘What time should I be
there?’‘One-fifteen,’ I said. ‘Try
nottobelate.’‘I’mneverlate.’WhenIcutthecallIplaced
the phone down on the deskwithatremblinghand.ThenIwaited a moment beforecalling in the next patient toobservemyself in this act oftreachery.Iroseandfacedthemirror. I had the hardened,
pinched look of a womanwho, at first, you wouldpresume to be vexed but, oncloser inspection, wouldrealizewasterrified.Throughout the night I’d
wrestled with the idea ofScott’sproposal.WouldI?Wouldn’tI?CouldI?HowcouldI?I came to no clear
conclusions.WhenIletmythoughtsrun
free, it seemed almost easy.
Sleep with a man and mymonetary problems could besolved.I kept trying to convince
myself I’d had to do worsethings – my physiotherapytraining,forone.Assisting stroke victims to
the bathroom, some of themover six feet tall, heavy andwith one side paralysed so itcould feel like you weretrying to lift a cadaver,required more in the way of
acting, more joviality in theface of dismayed horror thanwould a night spent withScottElias.WhenI thoughtabout it in
those terms, Ihadnodoubt Icoulddoit.My doubts came when I
thought about the risksinvolved: the risk of beingfound out; the risk ofdestroyingNadine–hiswife,my sister’s friend. Not tomention the fact that I had
madeapromisetomyselfthatI would never, ever go nearanother woman’s husband.Not after the devastationwreakedbyWinston.WhenIthought about all that, I wasabsolutelycertain Icouldnotdoit.Butnowthecallwasmade.And the remainder of the
morning was spent onautopilot. If youaskedme torecall one conversation, onepatient’s viewpoint on the
news of the day, I wouldn’tbe able to. I avoidedWayne.At one point he knocked onmy door when I was inbetweenpatients,bringingmea coffee. He placed the cuponmydeskandaskedifIwasokay. Asked if there wasanythinghecoulddotohelp,as I seemed unsettled aboutsomething this morning andhewasalwaysthereforme.Iknewthat,right?Itwassweetof him, but I told him I was
fine, told him I appreciatedhisconcern.WhetherIdupedhimornot,Icouldn’tsay,buthe left without speaking,except to informme thatmynext patient had nippedoutside tomake a phone callto his daughter’s school,shouldIbewonderingwherehewas.By the time the clock
edged close to one-fifteen Iwas soaked with sweat andprobablynot in thebest state
to receive the man who wason his way over to discusshaving sex with me formoney.He knocked on the door
firmly,avoidingthereceptionarea, and said, ‘Thanks forfitting me in at the lastminute’asIopenedthedoor.I didn’t reply. I should
have, if only for Wayne’sbenefit,butmythroatwassoparched the most I could dowas nod and swallow,
ushering him inwith awaveofthehand.As he got himself seated I
seemed to find my resolveand gathered myself. ‘Howare you?’ I asked him. ‘Areyouwell?’He lifted his elbow a few
inches, bending andstraightening his armrepeatedly. ‘It’s so muchbetter,’ he said. ‘You reallydoworkmiracles.’Ibrushed it off. ‘It’snot a
difficultthingtotreat.I’mnotso successful with frozenshouldersandgout; theytakea lot longer. It just dependson the problem, really,because if you’ve gotsomeonewhois—’Istopped.‘I’mbabbling,’Isaid.‘You’re nervous,’ he
replied. ‘So am I. Doesn’treallymatterifwebabbleforabit,doesit?’‘Isupposenot.’
‘Frozen shoulders … youweresaying?’I shook my head. ‘It’s
irrelevant.’Consciousofhowmuch timewe had available,and indeed, what we had tocover, I started again. ‘Let’sstick with what you camehere to talk about, becauseI’mnotcertainofanyof thisyet. I’ve not decided that Idefinitelywant togo throughwith it. It’s just that I findmyself in a bit of a mess
financially, and so—’ Ilooked up. Scott waswatching me intently, butwithanopenface,nohintofjudgement.‘Actually, it’smore than a
bit of a mess,’ I admitted,droppingmygaze.‘I’mbeingevicted from my home.That’s why I’m doing this,that’swhyIagreedtomeet.’‘You don’t have to
explain,’hesaid.‘IthinkIneedtoexplain.I
don’twantyoutothink—’‘I don’t think anything. I
knowwhoyouare.Ilikewhoyou are. And I approachedyou, remember. I’m notconcerned with what youthink of my motivation, andyou shouldn’t be concernedwith what I think of yours.Thisisabusinesstransaction,that’sall.’‘A business transaction,’ I
repeated.‘That’s how you should
thinkofit.’Iraisedmyeyebrows.‘It might make it easier if
you think of it in thoseterms,’hesaidgently.‘Okay, but what is your
motivation for doing this …with me?’ I asked. ‘Becauseit isn’t exactly what you’dclass as an ordinary businessproposition.’‘I like you and I want to
help. If you do decide youwant to pursue this further,
thenperhapswe’ll talkaboutthat,butatanother time.Justas I’m not asking you toaccount for your reasons, Iwouldaskthatyouextendmethesamecourtesy.’I nodded. ‘Seems
reasonable.’‘Perhaps, rather than the
whys,we should think aboutdiscussing how you want togoaboutthis.Andthereisofcourse the matter of yourfee.’
I gave a nervous laugh.‘Myfee,’Iechoedback.Naturally, I’d thought
about this, thought about itover and over, totting upnumbers in my head,apportioning out money tomy landlord, the credit cardcompany, the council taxarrears.Butnow,sayingitoutloud,seemedalmostcomical,andallatoncecrassandugly,to the extent that I began tolosemynerve.
‘What would you expectmetodo?’Iaskedquietly.‘Nothing weird, if that’s
what’sworryingyou.’I let go of the air held
insidemylungs.‘That’sarelief.’He spread his hands wide
in agesture that indicatedhecame in peace, he meant noharm. ‘It’s simple,’ he said,‘there is nothingweird aboutme.AllIwantisanightwithyou.’
‘Thewholenight?’‘Wouldthatbeaproblem?’‘Er,no,’Istammered.‘No,
I don’t think so. Obviously,there’s George to consider…’‘Would there be a way to
arrange some cover, a sitterperhaps?’‘Ithinkso.’He nodded before moving
on. ‘The other thing tomentionatthisstageisthatofcourse this arrangement
would require completediscretion,’ and he paused.Withhis eyes fixedonmine,gaugingmyreaction,hesaid,‘I have as much to lose asyou, Roz, probably more, infact. It’s absolutelyimperative that this remainsbetweenus.Onlyus.’Affronted,Ireplied,‘Well,
Icertainlywasn’tplanningontellinganyone.’Hesmiled.‘Sorry,’hesaid,
‘sorry. I assumed it went
without saying but, I don’tknow, I suppose I had to besure.Apologies.’‘What exactly would you
want me to do?’ I askedagain, my tone firmer thistime.Moresureofmyself.When I decided on this
meeting earlier, this was theone thing I had to beinflexible on, or else Icouldn’t go through with it.Any red flags at this stageand I would back out. I
couldn’tchanceit.Iexpectedacertainamountofkinkiness,otherwise why not just sleepwithyourwife?ButIneededto know the boundaries, theclear boundaries, beforeentering into this businesstransaction–as Scott referredtoit.‘Expect?’hesaid.‘Nothing
that you’re not comfortablewith. I’m not expecting youturn into something you’renot, that’s not what this is
about.’I raised my eyebrows and
waitedforhimtogoon.‘I certainly don’t expect
you to be some sort ofdominatrix,’ he said, shakinghishead. ‘I don’t knowwhatit is that blokes go in fornowadays,what fetishes theyhave. Whatever it is, that’snot me. In straightforwardterms, I would like a nightwith an attractive woman. Awomanwho could be herself
and hopefully feel relaxed inmy company. I really hopethatwomancanbeyou,Roz.’Hehesitated.‘I find you wildly
attractive,’hesaidsoftly,‘thecurve of your body, the wayyoulaughwithoutpretence.Ithink about you when Ishouldn’t. I think aboutwhatitwouldbeliketobenexttoyou.’Then he seemed to gather
himself.
‘And so if you do decideyes,’hesaid,onceagainmoreformal, ‘then I don’t see anyreason why this can’t work.We’re both sensible adults,afterall.’‘Just to be clear, though,
Scott, this does involve sex,doesn’tit?’He smiled at my candour.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, RozToovey, this is very muchaboutsex.’‘Right,’Isaid.
‘And with regards to yourfee … I thought fourthousand pounds would be areasonable amount. For thenight.’‘Right,’Isaidagain.Thenhestood.‘Okay,’ he said, and held
out his hand, giving mine afirm shake, ‘if that’s all inaccordance with what youhad inmind,might I suggestadate?’Inodded.
‘This is probably a littlesoon, but I was thinking, ifit’s possible, then tomorroweveningwouldworkforme,Idon’tknowif—’I liftedmypalm to silence
him.I said, ‘I’ll seewhat I can
do.’
11
‘JESUSCHRIST,WINSTON,whendo I ever ask you foranything?’We were in my ex-
husband’s mother’s kitchen.It was around 6 p.m. andWinstonhadacanofWD40
inhishandandwasshakingitback and forth, back andforth,beforeapplyingittothechainofhisBMX,whichwasupturnedontopofthekitchentable.‘I never ask you, and the
one time, the one bloodytime,’Isaid.‘What’s so important that
you need to stay away allnight?’‘DoIquizyouonwhatyou
do?’
He shrugged. ‘I’d tell youif you did. What about yoursister,can’tshedoit?’‘She’s in New York with
Vince.’Winston cast me a
sideways glance. I probablydon’t need to mention thatWinston and Petra neverreally saw eye to eye – andthis was way beforeWinston’s eye wandered offto look at lots of otherwomen.
‘What’s she doing there?’hesaid.‘She’sforty.’‘And?’I sighed out heavily. ‘It’s
what people do, Winston.What normal people do tocelebratethebigmilestones.’‘Oh,’ he said, and nodded
thoughtfully, as thoughlearning this fact for the firsttime.Winston didn’t really get
celebrations. Formy thirtieth
birthday, he took me on anight out in Kendal.When Isay‘nightout’, Imeanapubcrawl – Winston never sawthe attraction in spending aday’s wage on a restaurantmeal, not when it could bebetter spent on beer. Atclosing time we stumbledtowards the taxi rank and,finding around thirty peopleinthequeue,Winstonkeptonwalking until he got to akebabhouse.
He dialled the phonenumber displayed andrequested two large doners(extra chilli, no onion) forhome delivery. When theclapped-out van pulled up inthe frontof the shopminuteslater,Winstongrabbedmebythehandandpulledmeacrossthe street, slipping thedelivery guy a fiver. Ridinghome amongst pizza boxesand an odd assortment ofgardening equipment (the
driver’s day job, it wouldappear), I fell in love withWinstonToovey.Petra said Winston was a
child trapped inside a man’sbody. She said he had noconcept of the adult worldandwhatitmeanttoputotherpeople’s needs before hisown.Which I couldn’t reallyargue with, given the statehe’dleftusin.ButWinston’sbig problem – his realproblem, in my mind – was
that he had no understandingof delayed gratification.When Winston wantedsomething,hewentandgotit.Even if he was broke hewouldalwaysfindaway.TheBMXthatwasinfront
of me was a new toy.Winstonwasforty-threeyearsold, living with his mother,no job to speakof, andwhatwashedoing?RidingBMXs.Winston thoughtPetrawas
amartyr.Hesaidshelikedto
make life hard for herself,andthereforeeveryoneelseinthe process. He glanced myway. ‘New York, then,’ hesaid.‘Yes.’‘ThoughtPetrawouldhave
preferred two weeks allinclusiveonacrucifix.’Iignoredhim.‘Is Vince all right?’ he
asked.Inodded.‘I’ve not seen him around
inawhile.’‘Vince is fine,Winston,’ I
replied.‘Poorsod,’hesaid.This was how Winston
referred to Petra’s husband:‘Vince, the Poor Sod’. Likehe had some grave illness orhad suffered a terribletragedy.WhenWinstonandIwereacoupleIwouldhavetoexplain to people, if Vince,the Poor Sod, cropped up inconversation, that Vince was
actually in good health, hadnothing wrong with him, infact, other than being thelong-suffering husband ofPetra.‘Winston,’ I said to him
now, sharply, ‘will you lookafteryoursonornot?’‘Iam lookingaftermyson
thiscomingweekend.Asperour arrangement. Buttomorrownight I haveplans.I might come home, I mightnot.Idon’tknowyet.’
‘Who are you seeing?Someteenager?’Heputthecandown.‘Who
areyouseeing,Roz?’‘No one. I’m not seeing
anyone. You know I’m not.ButifIweretoseesomeone,don’t thinkyoucouldgoand—’‘Roz,’ he said, smiling,
‘chill. You can see who youlike as far as I’m concerned.In fact, it’d do you good togetarelease.Itmightgetyou
offmybackforabit.’‘Pissoff,Winston.’He laughed and began
spinning the pedals of thebikebackwards, leaningintocheck the chain was runningsmoothly.‘Iloveitwhenyoutalk sexy, Roz. Swear at meagain,itremindsmeofwhenwe used to have great sexafter a big row. Do youremember that timewhenwewere at Aira Force, thewaterfall…’
Hiswordstrailedoffashisexpressionturnedwistful.‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I
said, grabbing my bag andshouting forGeorge to comethrough from where he waswatching television in thefrontroom.‘Roz, Roz,’ Winston said,
reachingout,puttinghishandon my shoulder. ‘I’m justpullingyourleg.‘’CourseI’lldo it. Justwanted to seeyousweatabit.’
I slapped his hand awayand looked at him. ‘You’resuch a bloody childsometimes.’‘Don’tbemad.’‘You make me mad.
Christ,’ I whispered, andclosedmyeyes.Turning away from him, I
placed both hands on thekitchen work surface andtook a steadying breath. Infront ofme therewas a neatrow of vegetables.One large
onion, two carrots, a stick ofceleryandsix largescrubbedpotatoes. Thursdays, Ithought, picturing Winston’smother,Dylis, inherwipableapron and Scholl sandals.Thursdays meant shepherd’spie,regardlessoftheweather,and Dylis had arranged heringredients ready to cook forthe following day. This wasthesimplicityofDylis’slife.Iturnedaround.‘I’munder
a lot of pressure at the
moment,’ I told Winstonfinally.‘You put yourself under a
lot of pressure. Anyway,’ hesaid, just asGeorge came in,‘are you going to tell mewhereyou’regoingornot?’I began busying myself,
rummaging about inmybag,pretending to locate my carkeys.‘LikeIsaid,it’saworkthing.’I raised my head and
Winston was regarding me
sceptically.‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘A
workthing.’Hetookapoundcoinfrom
thepocketofhisjeans,beforepassingitovertoGeorge.‘Be a good lad for your
mum,’hetoldhim.
A word of caution: Shouldyou ever find yourself in thesame position as me, do notread up on the subject ofescortsandescortagenciesin
preparation.Youwillpanic.Granted, Belle de Jour’s
The IntimateAdventuresofaLondon Call Girl wasprobablynotthebestplacetostart,butitwastheonlybookstocked by W. H. Smith inWindermere that was evenvaguely connected with thesubject.Ihadreadonlyasfaras chapter three beforerealizing what was ‘normal’forme certainly didn’t apply
to large chunks of thepopulation. I closed thebookfeeling pretty grubby, glad Ididn’t get a copy from thelibrary, hoping that whenScott Elias said he wanted‘nothing weird’ he actuallymeant it, and then I tried togetsomesleep.When I woke, it was with
thedeepestsenseofdread.Dread that I had to go
throughwith this thing that Idesperately did not want to
do.Petra got migraines when
shefoundherselfnotlookingforward to something. Notthat dread had ever beenopenly acknowledged as thecause. She took a cocktail ofmedicationtopreventattacks,which,accordingtoher,cameabout from changes inatmospheric pressure,hormone fluctuations and,occasionally, preservatives inpork products. Invariably,
though, they tended tocoincide with trips to seeVince’smotherathernursinghome in Wigan and schoolgovernors’ meetings, where,assecretary,shewasrequiredtotakedowntheminutes,andthose things had a habit ofrunningonandon.Isatupandswungmylegs
out the bed. A layer of dusthad collected along theskirtingboard.Hanging down from
beneath the radiator therewere three cobwebbedclumps. The house badlyneededattention.From the open window I
heard a door close and, amoment later, the softwhineof Celia’s gate, followed byan engine turning over.Foxy’smorningwalk.Like a lot of older folk,
Dennis liked to reverse hiscaroutreadyforitsouting,ahalf-hour or so before they
actually planned to leave.Asthoughthecaritselfneededasmall preparatory run beforebeingfullyreadytobedrivenanyrealdistance.Igotupandwalked to the
window. Watched asDennis’s Rover crept awayquietly and disappeared outof sight. Such a gentle soul,Dennis. In contrast to Celia,who,whenI’dgonearoundtocollect George the previouseveningwasblowinghardon
a refereeing whistle straightintohermobilephone.I’dnoticedthewhistleona
ribbon around her neck andassumed itwas for retrievingFoxy if she strayed too far.Forgetting, of course, thatFoxy was reluctant to walk,never mind stray. When I’dshotCeliaaquestioning lookshe informed me it was herwayofdealingwithnuisancetelesalescallers.‘Isn’t thata littlebrutal?’I
asked. ‘I mean, they’rewearingheadsets,Celia.’‘Not at all. They are so
insistent … not to mentionrude. It’s no less than theydeserve,’ she said. Then shewent on to tell me howGeorge had been walkingFoxy and how Foxypositively pranced along forhim. Hardly pulling on theleadatall,shesaid.I walked away from the
window and stood at the
mirror.Thewrong side of forty. I
liftedmyrighthandandgaveaslowwave,watchingastheflesh of the tricep swungmethodically, as thoughunattached. This was a newdevelopment, the firstdeterioration I’d noticed asmy body marched towardsmiddleage.Iwasstillstrong.Ihadgoodupperbodyshapeand a lean, hardmusculaturethat came from the job, and
yet…And I’d started smiling at
dogs recently. Which wasdefinitely a sign of gettingolder.We had arranged to meet
north of Lancaster at acountry inn not far from themotorway exit. It was anhour’s journey from home,which I agreed with ScottElias was ample, and itserved the expensive gastro-pub-type fare at silly enough
prices toputoff themajorityof people we might bumpinto. Itwas thekindofplacethat seemedpurpose-built forclandestinecouples;itoffereda refined, elegantenvironment, with well-trained staff avoiding theusual interrogation a touristwould need to feel properlywelcomed: Where have youtravelled from? Have youstayed with us before? WastheM6trulyawfultoday?
The difficulty came inknowing what to wear. Iexpected Scottwantedme todresslikeawoman.Butwhatdid one wear for dinner at acountry inn, midweek, inruralLancashire?Tricky.This wasn’t a date. And I
foundmyselfwiththeuneasysensation of wanting toappearpresentableforthejobwhich Iwasemployed todo,whilst at the same time
feeling hugely self-consciousat the prospect of lookingsexy for a man who, undernormal circumstances, Iwouldn’tsleepwith.Iopenedmywardrobeand
waitedforinspiration.Onthefarrightwasafloaty,chiffondress from Coast covered intea roses that I wore for aweddinglastyear.Too weddingy. And
perhapsatadvirginal.Next to it was my
Christmas-party staple: awraparound black dress thatwascuttoolowinthefront.Iwouldpullituphighearlyinthe evening, pull it lowernearer to midnight –depending on how much I’dhad to drink and who wasaround.Then there were three
identicaldresses,Petra’scast-offs and what I woulddescribe as conservative.With the right underwear,
though, they could be madeto look a little sexy. Petraboughtthesedresseslastyearand she’d since lost weight,claimingtheynowburiedher,andIwasmorethanhappytogive them a home,unoffended by her comment,because Never look a gifthorse,andsoon.I decided on the vivid
green version and slipped iton quickly to check therewere no loose threads, no
ugly creases across thetummyor stains I’d failed tonotice when I’d last taken itoff. I wouldn’t have a greatdeal of time after work toprepare and so wanted tohave this side of things wellorganizedaheadofschedule.Itlookedgood.Attractive,notslutty,andI
could easily pass for acompany CEO, the type ofwomanwho refused to dresslikeamanjustbecauseofher
position.Satisfiedwith thechoice, I
went to get George hisWeetabix and sort out hispackedlunch.Weweredownto the dregs again: slightlystalebreadandanunbrandedcream cheese that had theadvantage of staying freefrom mould for around amonth. I cut thecrustsoff toperk up the sandwich andexaminedabananawhich,ifIwere a different kind of
woman, with a different oflife, would declare was fitonly to make banana breadwith. I tossed the lot into aBargain Booze plastic bag,along with George’s waterbottle, which was beginningto smell of damp dishclotharoundtherim.Poorkid.Tyingitup,Ifoundmyself
murmuringthatthiswouldallchange soon. This time nextweek, after my landlord was
paid, there would be enoughmoney in my account toafford a Tesco’s homedelivery, and George couldhavesushiforhis lunchifhesowished.Thistimenextweekthings
would be ticking over againand my evening with Scottwould be on its way tobecomingamemory.
12
‘GOOD EVENING,’ I said. ‘I’mheretomeetaresident,ScottElias. Could you tell me ifhe’scheckedinyet?’I hadn’t spotted Scott’s
Ferrari in the car park, soexpectedhewasrunninglate.
‘Mr Elias is waiting foryouin thebararea.I’llshowyou through.Wouldyou liketo leave your overnight baghere,and I’ll arrange tohaveittakentoyourroom?’‘Thankyou,yes,’Ireplied.I followed the young man
into a pleasant, spacioushallway, dotted with antiqueoccasional tables and freshlyupholstered French diningchairs,beforehestoppedandgestured towards a doorway
ontheright.He smiled. ‘Just through
here,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourevening.’The furniture was cleverly
arranged to give rise to anumber of distinct spaces toaffordprivacy.Therewerenolarge sofas. Instead, highlypolished maple coffee tableswere encircled by armchairsof differing designs, allcarefully chosen to blendwiththemutedsageandivory
decor.As I entered the room
further, I became aware ofScottrisefromhisseatatthefar end and smilemyway. Ipassedacoupleintheirearlysixties who were reading –she a copy of DavidHockney’s A Bigger Pictureand he a biography of thejockey A. P. McCoy. Sheglanced up as I came theirway and then immediatelydown towards my shoes, I
assumed to see what I’dpaired with the green dress.Judgingbyhersmallsmileofsatisfaction, it appeared thattheblackpatentwereentirelythewrongchoice.‘Roz,’ said Scott, taking
my hands and kissingme onboth cheeks, ‘so good to seeyou.’He smelled lemon fresh
and had taken a little sunsince I’d seenhimyesterday.It suited him: he looked
younger,healthy.There was an open
briefcase on the coffee tableand two stacks of papers totheside.‘Nice ruse,’ I said quietly,
nodding to the briefcase.Scott had skilfully arrangedthings to give the impressionofabusinessmeeting.‘You look stunning,’ he
said ‘What can I get you todrink?’‘Oh – anything –
anything,’ I stammered. ‘I’llhaveanythingwet.’‘I’m drinking red. But if
you’d prefer some fizz, orhowaboutacocktail?’‘Red’sgreat.’‘It’s really good to see
you,’ he said again, holdingmy gaze for a moment toolongbeforegesturingtowardsthebartender.We settled into our seats.
Nervous, I crossed my legsoneway, and then the other.
Not in a Sharon Stone way,since I was wearingunderwear. Underwear thathad a habit of misbehaving,forcing me to wriggle in thechair.‘I didn’t see your car,’ I
said.‘No, I’m inmy other.’He
dropped his voice. ‘TheFerrari’s not great when mysciatica flares up, to behonest.’I tried to smile. ‘That’s
why the football players allswitchedtoRangeRovers.’‘Because of sciatica?’ he
said, surprised. ‘They’re tooyoung,surely?’‘If you drive with your
knees higher than your hips,it irritates the nerve root,sending the hamstringmuscles into spasm. Whichmeans they’remore liable totear when suddenlystretched.’‘Ah,’ he said as my glass
arrived. ‘Anyway, you don’twant to talk shop, I’m sure.Howwasyourday?’‘Hot.Tedious.Yours?’‘The same.’ He poured,
passed me the glass andraised his own. ‘To you,’ hesaid,andwaitedasIliftedtheglasstomylips.We were presented with
the menus and guidedthrough the chef’srecommendations of the dayby the maître d’, an affable
chap who made animpression on account of hisimmense bulk. It occurred tomeasheandScottwentontotalk of vintages and regions,the terroir of some obscurevalley in the LanguedocregionofFrance,thatitwasaposition usually held by averythinperson.I declined the option of a
starter and went for JohnDorywithclamsforthemaincourse. Under normal
circumstances, I wouldchoose something slowcooked and indulgent –roastedporkbellywithaportwinejus–somethingIwouldnever cook for myself athome. But this was work.AndIwasnervous.And,asImentioned earlier, Scott wasin good shape. The nightcould turn athletic on asixpence,andIwouldbesuretoregretaheavystomach.This was what was going
throughmy headwhen Scottleaned in and whispered,‘You’refrowning.Relax.’‘I’ve never done this
before.’‘It doesn’t mean we can’t
enjoy the evening. I askedyouhere because Iwant youto have a good time, I don’twantyoutobeonedge.’Idroppedmyhead.‘Do you regret coming?’
heasked.AndIhesitated.
Reaching out, he touchedtheskinofmythroatwithhismiddle finger. His mannerwaslazy,asthoughhe’ddonethis action a thousand timesbefore, and I found myselfcasting around the room,furtively, as though he’dperformed something terriblyillicit. ‘I don’t regret it for asecond,’hesaid,andthenourtablewasready.
Though the British
countryside was enjoyinganother hot summer evening,the light inside the diningroom was subdued and dim.Dark,heavycurtainslinedthewindows and the walls werecovered in a chocolate,hessian-type of wallpaper,which gave the room anelegant,sultryfeel.For no reason other than I
was programmed to do so(every twenty minutes), mythoughts turned to George.
Instinctively, I opened myhandbag to check for the redwarningflashofmymobile.‘All okay?’ Scott asked as
wewereseated,andInodded.‘Nodisasterstoreport.’I went to speak again and
thought better of it, closingmymouth.‘You were going to say
something?’hesaid.‘It’snotimportant.’‘Youweregoingtotellme
aboutyourson.’
Itwastrue.Iwas.‘Go ahead, please,’ he
urged.SoIrambledonforawhile
about nothing in particular,all the while Scott regardingmewithakeen interest,as ifwhat I had to say was bothenlightening and humorous,neither of which wasaccurate. I’d been aroundenough people to know thatdivorced parents of an onlychild can talk about the kid
until hell freezes over ifallowedto.Parentsofthreeorfour children barely mentionthem. I made a concertedeffort not to bore peopleabout George and haddecided before the start ofthis evening that the wholepointofitwastoletScotttalkabout himself. He wasn’tpayingtohearaboutme.Except now it seemed as
thoughhewas.Hepouredmorewineand,
whenI’dgottotheendofmyanecdote, I leaned forward,restedmy chin on top ofmyhands.‘Tellmewhywe’rehere,’I
saidbluntly.He laughed, replyingwith,
‘I thought I’d made thatclear.’Ishookmyhead.‘Iwantto
know why. Why me? Whylikethis?’Andheshrugged.‘Scott,’ I said in a forced
whisper, ‘there are plenty ofoptionsavailableforamaninyour position. I mean, ifwe’regoing toget realaboutit, I’m quite sure there arewomen–plentyofwomen–you come across in youreveryday life, whowould bewilling to become yourmistressforfree.’‘For free?’ he answered,
his tone cynical. Meaningnothingwasforfree,asfarashewasconcerned.
‘Okay,maybenotforfree,’I said. ‘Butyougetmydrift.You could throw in the oddmini break, and a nicenecklace now and again, andyou would get what youneededoutofit.’I raised my glass to my
lips, studying his face. Hisexpression was neutral, buttherewasaplayfulquality inhis eyes and Iwas unable toholdhisgaze.Itwasthefirsttime Iwouldsense that there
was more to Scott, moregoing on beneath the surfacethanhewasreadytoreveal.‘Mistresses don’t quite
workoutlikethat,’hesaid.‘No?’‘They want more. They
always want the wholepackage. Sure, they start offsaying what it is that youwanttohear.Theydon’twanta relationship, casual meet-upssuit themfine,andsoonand so forth. But these
womenwantromancing,theywant two or three dinnersbefore they’ll even entertaintheideaof…’Hepaused.Tiltedhishead
toonesidetoletmeworkouttherestformyself.‘I can see that could take
sometime,’Isaid.He leaned in. ‘Basically, it
becomes hard work. Andonce the initial sex is out ofthe way, they want more.They’renothappywithbeing
on the sidelines, even thoughtheyprotest it’snot like that.They sulk because theywanttotakeNadine’splace.AndIcanunderstandit,Ireallycan.But I just don’t need theearache,frankly.’‘Well,whataboutthemore
straightforward approach?’ Isuggested.‘Youmeananescort?’‘Yes. Why go to all this
trouble, all this expense,’ Isaid, making a sweeping
motionwithmy hand, ‘for anormal person like me?Christ, I’m no expert in thisstuff, Scott. I might not beable togiveyouwhatyou’reexpecting.’A smile played across his
lips as he weighed hisresponse.Theroomwasnowfilling with diners, couplespausing as they entered theroom directly from thegarden,theireyesadjustingtothe reduced light. Men in
pressed short-sleeved shirts,theirforeheadsshinyfromthesun,waited for their partnersbefore proceeding. Thewomen tottered in onplatform heels, carryingchampagneflutes,eachwitharosy blush developing at thetopoftheircleavage.Scott placed both palms
flatonthetableclothoneithersideofthecutlery,andtappedhisfingerstwice.Unusually, he seemed
reluctant to talk. After aminute, he said ‘I haveexplored the other optionsavailable in the past andwithout going into too muchdetail, I can tell you theywerenotforme.Eachhasitsowndrawbacks.’‘What about Nadine?’ I
askedsoftly.‘Whatabouther?’‘Doyoustillloveher?’His eyes widened. ‘Of
course,’hesaid. ‘Ofcourse I
loveher.’‘But …?’ And then a
thought occurred. ‘Scott,’ Isaid quickly, panicked, ‘shedoesn’tknowaboutthis,doesshe?’He shook his head in
bafflement, as if to say,WhywouldIasksuchthing?‘Nadine doesn’t know,’ he
said. ‘Nadine will neverknow.Thisisnotsomegame,Roz.’‘Thenwhatisit?’
He reached for his wineand downed the remainderfrom his glass. ‘Okay,’ hesaid, ‘I’ll do my best toexplain. I loveNadine. Iwillalways love her. We have agoodlifetogether.It’sjust—’‘She doesn’t understand
you?’‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not
that.’‘She doesn’t enjoy the
physical side of therelationshipanymore?’
He gave an awkwardlaugh.‘Notsomuch,no.Butthat’snotiteither.’I sat back in my chair.
‘Oh,’Isaidquietly.The food arrived and the
waiter made a big show oflisting all the ingredients ineach dish. I felt impatient,wanting to interrupt him andsay,‘Yes,Irememberwhat Iordered, thank you.’ Hewasdoing that thing they do onMasterchef, trying to make
the food sound moreupmarket, saying he wasserving me a fillet of JohnDoryonapotatorosti,withaartichokeandclam…Aartichoke.When did people lose the
abilitytospeak?IrolledmyeyesatScottas
the waiter rattled off his listof ingredients, and Scottsmiled. With the moodlightened, I said, ‘You don’tneed to explain further. I
didn’tmeantopry.IsupposeIjustneededclarification.’‘ThatI’mnotalunatic?’I nodded. ‘I think I
assumed that the men whopay for thiskindof thingarelooking for a differentexperience. Something theycannotgetfromtheirwives.’‘Youmean paying entitles
themtodowhatevertheyliketoawoman?’‘Yes.’‘I’m not looking to
dominateordemean,’hesaid.‘Nadine and I have lost ourconnection,that’sall.Westillhaveasexlife,butthere’snointimacy, no real feelingthere. And I miss it. Just asit’s necessary for some mentoseeanescortasameansofrelease,ameansofgettingridof theirstress,formeit’s theopposite.Ineedphysicalloveto function and, for a varietyof reasons, I cannot get itfromNadineanylonger.’
‘But why me? Why allnight?’‘Youmeanasopposedtoa
professional?’‘Yes.’‘Simple. You’re exactly
whatI thinkawomanshouldbe. You’re sexy withouttrying, you exude a kind ofwarmth that’s missing frommost women. And withregards to a professional, Idon’t want to be whereanothermanhasbeen.’
Icoughed,inhalingasmallamount of wine. ‘I’m novirgin,Scott.’‘No,’ he said, smiling,
‘you’renot.But Idon’twanttobewhere anothermanhasbeenjusthoursbeforehand.Itfeels unclean. It really is aconveyor belt. That’s not forme. And I don’t mean tosound boastful when I saythis, but I’ve reached a stageinmy lifewhen I can affordtodoitmyway.Icanafford
to have the experience as Iwant it.Real intimacywitharealwoman.’Thefullweightofhisgaze
upon me, he leaned back inhis chair. ‘In short,’ he said,‘I can afford to have you,Roz.’
13
THERE ISAmemory I haveofwatching the film IndecentProposal.Agaggleofuswhowere home from universityfor the spring bank holidaywent to the Royalty CinemainBowness.It’soneof those
quaint old cinemas that arebecoming obsolete. Back in1993 it had just a singlescreenandthegirlwhoissuedtheticketsalsoshowedyoutoyour seat, as well asappearing with a tray of icecreams (hung by a straparound her neck) as the filmwasabouttostart.Shewouldstand at the front, self-consciously waiting forpeople to approach, valiantlyignoring the sweet wrappers
aimedatherfromthebalconyabove.Indecent Proposal was the
one film that we came outreally talking about. As agroup, we were split rightdown the middle on thewould you?/wouldn’t you?issue.Wouldyouspendonenight
with Robert Redford inexchange for a milliondollars?Those of us who were
naiveandhighlyprincipledatthat age exited saying,‘Definitelynot.Youcan’tbuylove.’ (But then we allquickly agreed that DemiMoore’s black strappy dresswas amazing. To die for, infact. And who knew whatyou’d do if someonepresented you with such anitem? Sure, Robert Redfordwas getting on in years bythen, but that dress was sonice.
How uncomplicated ourliveswere.Sillygirls,eachofus certain we were going tosettheworldonfireandthat,if we didn’t manage that forsomereason,therewasstillachance a good-looking guywould come to our rescue,becausethat’swhathappenedinthemovies.Before leaving for my
assignation with Scott, I’dstood in my underwear,examining my reflection,
wondering if it was reallypossible for aman to pay tohave sex with a normalwoman like me. I had bigdoubts. Physically, I was nohorrorbag but I was a longway from the images on thefrontofthelads’mags,alongway from the quintessentialmale fantasy. Now, though,fromwhatScotthadjustsaid,and the fervour with whichhis small speech wasdelivered, it appeared that I
was wrong. Scott was morethan willing to pay for anormal woman like me.Normal was exactly what hecravedandcouldn’tfind.ButcouldIactuallydoit?Could I lie next to aman,
let him inside me? Formoney?I thought about the past
coupleofyearssinceWinstonand I had parted. There hadbeendrunkensex, sexwithacoupleofsadfellowswhomI
went to bed with because Ifelt sorry for them. There’dbeen that sex with WinstonthatIpretendeddidn’thappenbutWinstonlikedtobringupevery time I asked him formoney.Andthere’dbeensexwithaguyIdidn’treallylike,but itdidmyegosomegoodon account of him beingyounger and attractive andthe school football coach.Every woman over thirtywould flick her hair
excessively in his presence.All this to say that I hadenjoyed sex with each ofthesemen, despite none of itbeing perfect, or hearts andflowers, so yes, I thought, Icouldgothroughwithit.ExceptnowIwasnervous.Facing Scott Elias, I
realized that this wasn’tdrunken, no-strings sex. Thiswas an intelligent, articulateman who expected anexperience.Aswepushedour
chairs away from the table,and he tookmy arm, gently,guiding me away from theother diners, I just hoped tohell I could give it to him.Because the spark ofattraction I would normallyfeelbeforegoing tobedwitha man had just diminished.Sure, I was flattered by hiswords, because, whowouldn’tbe?Itwasnicetobetalkedaboutinthatway.AndI have to admit when I first
met Scott there was a realmagnetism between us. Butthe way he was so sure ofhimself just now, thewayheassumed that money couldbuy whatever he liked,whatever he wanted, had theeffect on me of making himsomewhat undesirable. He’dcrossed a line few peoplewould ever think of crossingandhisremarksaboutbuyingmehadleftasourtasteinmymouth.
Even though he was justbeing honest. Even though Iwashere for thatveryreason–tobebought.So I hoped I could go
throughwithwhat I’d signedup for. Because in less thantwoweeksIwouldbeevictedifIdidn’tdosomething.And,up to now, praying for amiracle hadn’t helped at all,so theway I saw it, thiswastheonlychanceIhad.‘Would you like another
drinkatthebar?’Scottasked,and though I didn’t, Iaccepted, deciding thatanother drinkwould take theedge off my nerves and alsodelaythingsalittle.Iorderedaginandtonic.Ididhavetogotoworkthefollowingday,after all, and I was alwaysbetter in the morning after alongdrinkratherthanwine.Itwasonlyaswewerewellintoa conversation about Scott’selectronics business and how
he was forever faced withlosingclericalstaffforweeksat a time due to repetitivestrain injury and other suchwork-related illnesses that Inoticed I was beginning todrift a little, not reallyconcentrating on his words.So I excused myself andheadedtotheLadiestosplashalittlewateronmyface.Passingthecloakroom,my
attention was caught by aman sitting at the small
second bar just a shortdistance from the receptionarea.It was the insurance agent
who’d taken blood fromme.He wore a white shirt, a tiewasloosenedathisthroatandhe’d rolled up his sleeves onaccount of the heat. He satsideon,alongsideaheavy-setmanwhosebulkappearedtoomuch for the stool and theywere both drinking pints ofbitter.
Myheartstuttered.On realizingwhohewas I
musthaveblanchedwhite,orelse my expression froze,because he smiled at mebefore tilting the rim of hisglass my way. It was analmost imperceptible gesture– his companion didn’t turnaround to look–and thenhecontinued talking happily,taking a handful ofwhateversnackhadbeenplacedonthebar.
My pulse thumped in mythroat as I hurried to theLadies. I hadn’t expected tobump into anyone I knew,least of all him, and theriskinessofwhatIwasdoingsuddenlyhithome.When I returned, Scott
asked, ‘Are you okay?You’vegonealittlepale.’‘What?Oh,no, I’m fine. I
wasthinkingIcouldprobablydowith fresheningupa littlebefore…What Imean is,’ I
stammered, because hadn’t Ijustdoneexactlythat?‘WhatImeanis,Ididn’tgetchanceto unpack my things onarriving.’‘No problem,’ he said,
realizing it was probablynervesmakingme so jumpy,‘I’m happy to remain downhere. Whatever you need tofeelcomfortable.’Hereachedoutandstroked
his thumb along the back ofmyhand.
I stared at it, fixated. Theurge to check over myshoulder was overwhelming,butIkeptmyeyesdowncast.‘Roz?’ Scott asked.
‘You’re sure you’re okay?Yourhandisshaking.’‘Is it?’ I pulled it away. I
smiledatScottandstarted tostand. ‘Give me fifteenminutes?’Walking towards the
staircase,Istolealookacrossto the second bar. The
insurance agentwas standingnow,readytoleave,laughingas his drinking partner madebig expansive gestures withhis hands, as though wavingin aircraft. I got theimpression it was forcedlaughter.Perhapshe,likeme,washereonbusiness.Heglancedoverand,when
he saw I was watching, hewinked.Embarrassed, I hurried
away.
Cardsonthetable:ThenightwasnotwhatIexpected.Moneychangeseverything,
thatmuchIknowforsure.Ifyou were to speak to arandom selection of mypatients they would reportthat Roz Tooveyphysiotherapist was kind,attentive, a remarkably goodlistener,non-judgementalandalways happy to listen ifsomeoneneededagoodmoanortogiveoutadviceifasked.
Ofcourse, Iwasn’talwaysthosethings.Iwasbeingpaidto be those things. Thinkabout it, when was the lasttime you said exactly whatyou were thinking to yourboss? Or to anyone at work,forthatmatter?When you’re self-
employed, the customers areyourbosses.Ifyoudon’tgivethem what they want, youdon’tgetpaid.Simpleasthat.And even though I was no
longer self-employed, I wasvery much aware that if Ididn’t perform well as aclinician, if I didn’t give thepatients exactly what theyexpected, I would bereplaced. And so I gave mybestphysicalself:performingback-breaking lifting andmanoeuvring, bending overfor extended periods, mythumbs losing their feelingfromtheunremittingpressureput through them. I gavemy
bestempatheticself:listeningtopatients’worries,concernsabout their lives, theirchildren’s lives, their moneyworries, their health issues. Igave my best educationalself: repeating facts abouthealing, posture, about thelinks with stress andmyofascialpain,factsthatI’dbeen reciting all day, everyday, year in year out. And Igave my best in merrimentand entertainment, acting as
though the patients were thefunniest, wittiest, mostenjoyablepeopleintheworldtospendtimewith.Ilistened,smiling accordingly, as oldmen recited tedious jokes, asold women discussed howfunnyAlanCarrwas.At theendofeachdayIwouldhaveso little left for George – solittleleftforme,infact–thatthe most I could do was sitmuteandexpressionless,untilitwastimetogotobed.
As I prepared myself, andthe room, for the knock onthe door, I believe I lost thefeelingofshameaboutwhatIwas going to do. I had beenscared up until that point,scared of being found out,scared of being judged bysocietyatlarge.Whatkindofwomen sells her body formoney?When I realized thatI’d been selling myself forclose to twenty years, albeitin a way that was deemed
acceptable but, to be honest,was ultimately just asdamaging and, perhaps onsome level, even more souldestroying, I became filledwith the kind of strength I’dnotfeltinthelongesttime.There is a moment just
beforeawomangivesbirth,amoment when terror turns tomight, a kind of take no shitattitude, when she realizes itis up to her to take controland get this baby out safely.
If she doesn’t do it, no onewill.It was this feeling, this
strength of purpose, thiscapacitytoprevail, thatfilledmeinthosemomentsaloneinthe hotel room. No one wasgoingtocomeandrescuemefromthefinancialsituationinwhichIfoundmyself.Ieitherlay down and surrendered,concededdefeat,orIfoundawaytokeepgoing.So Iwasno longer scared.
I was defiant. If Scott Eliaswanted a warm, attentivewoman to satisfy his sexualneeds, then here she was.Righthere.The suite had a New
England theme going on:white furniture, pale duck-egg fabrics, pictures ofNantucket lighthouses, ableachedwoodenfloorwithalarge, downywhite rug at itscentre. The bed was a fourposter,whichI’dbeenkindof
dreading. Images of me,tethered and spread-eagled, asock stuffed in my mouth,had plagued my dreams thenight before. But I got thefeeling Scott had chosen thissuite on account of itssimplicity, its non-boudoirfeel.Asthoughhewasaboveallthatsex-inducingclaptrap.I adjusted the slatted
woodenblindstoallowjustasmall amount of twilight andunpacked my overnight bag.
Inthebathroom,Isteppedoutofmydressandarrangedmycosmetics, taking a momentto swipe a dampened cotton-wool ball beneathmy lashes.I performed a perfunctorytoilet before applying a freshcoat of lipstick and gloss.Finally, I arranged my hairinto a loose chignon whichcould be easily unclippedshouldthatberequired.I stepped back into my
dress and checked my
appearancefromallangles.Ihadtoyedwiththeideaof
a negligee. But thenanswering the door in heels,fullmake-up and a babydoll,seemed bordering on sleazy.Rightly or wrongly, I’ddecided that Scott was thetype of man who enjoyedundressing a woman, orenjoyedwatchingtheritualofherundressingand,besides,anegligeewasnotsomethingIwasinpossessionof.
I pulled back thebedclothes and switched ononeof thebedsidelampsandthenanotheroverby theTV.ThenIcuttheharshoverheadlight before surveying theroom.Almostready.In the drinks cabinet,
which housed the fridge,there was a selection ofminiatures. I took two singlemalt whiskeys and pouredthemintotumblers.Aknockatthedoor.
Itookonefinallookinthemirror. My generalappearanceIwashappywith,butIhadthehardened,steelyexpression of an Olympicsprinterbeforearace.Oneseton unnerving his opponentsbeforegettingintheblocks.I took a deep breath and
shookoutmyarms,rolledmyshoulders to loosen thetension.Ready.I opened the door and
regarded Scott. ‘The room’sgreat,’Isaid.‘Gladyoulikeit.’Imovedasidetoallowhim
past.One thing Iwill say about
Scott, his confidence wasmagnetic.Herehewas,doingsomethingconsideredjustnotcricket in polite society, andtherewasnohintofapology.No dip in his posture oruncertainty in his eyes. Heheld himself with utter
assurance. Itwas hard not tobeaffectedbyit.Iwonderedinthatmoment
ifwomenwere programmed,inanevolutionaryway,tobeturned on by such self-beliefas a means of self-preservation.Breedwithsuchamanandhewillprotectyouto the death. Or maybe thatwas nonsense and it wassimply down to money.Womenwereturnedonatthesight of money because it
meant security, and perhapsthe only reason Scott Eliaswassoconfidentwasbecausehehadplentyofit.Scottsatdownatthetable.
‘What are we drinking?’ hesaid.‘Singlemalt.’With the glass in hand, he
examined me slowly, frommyheadtomytoes,andthenupagain,withasteadyairofappreciation. The way onemightdowhenlookingovera
classic E type, or well-proportioned, prize-winninglivestock. In a matter ofsecondshe’dbecomeserious.‘Ilikeyourhairlikethat,’hesaid.Instinctively, I lifted my
hand to my face, neverentirely comfortable with acompliment.Imovedtowardshimsowe
were almost touching. Istayed standing, and the airbetweenScott’sthighandthe
bare skin of my leg becamecharged.InthatspaceIcouldfeel the rapid exchange ofheat.‘So how does this go?’ I
whispered.‘You give yourself in
whatever way you feel you…’ He paused. And then,‘I’msimplyhereto—’But he broke off again. I
sensed he wanted to saymore,wanted to revealmoreof himself, but for some
reason wouldn’t, or elsecouldn’t.Hebegantracinghisfingers up the outside of mythigh. I watched him admirethe curve of my hips.Watched him carefully as heexhaled, his fingers nowresting beneath the cheek ofmyrear.I took the drink from him
andplaceditonthetable.Leaning over, I put both
hands on the back of hischair, and with my face
inches from his, murmured,‘It’s your party, Scott. Tellmewhatitisthatyouwant.’He pressed his mouth
against mine and I wassurprisedby thesmall,headythrillthatcameoverme.The kiss. Sweeter than
anticipated.I pulled back and looked
intohiseyes.‘Take off your dress,’ he
said.
14
I SAT ON the bench waiting,arranging crisps inside asandwich.Petra had returned home
fromNewYork the previousevening and she seemed tohave forgotten about the
humiliationofherbirthdayasshewasstraightonthephonetellingmewe absolutely hadto have lunch, because shewas bursting to tell me allabout the trip. She thenproceededtotellmeallaboutthe trip, but I was lookingforward to seeing hernonetheless. I tended tomissher when she was away.Sometimes to the extent ofexperiencing a real visceralache, a kind of homesick
feeling, which perplexed mebecause, when she wasaround,shedrovemecrazy.Families. I’m not sure we
ever fullymake sense of ourconnections.The bench was one of the
fewscatteredalongCockshotPoint, an area of lakeshoreownedby theNationalTrust.There’s a wide shingle path,free from cars,which at firstwinds its way through apretty wooded area, before
openinguptogiveexpansiveviews both up and down thelake.It’s popular with tourists
andlocalsalike,dogwalkers,andyoungmumswithprams.Iwouldoftenheaddownhereif Ineeded toclearmyhead.There’s something aboutgazingatthewater,itlappinggently at the shore, whichwoulduncluttermy thoughts.Enable me to see a waythrough whatever problem
wasplaguingme.I’d suggested to Petra we
should meet here because itwasn’t far from the clinic, orher school, and Bownessitself would be teemingwithtouristsonadayliketoday.Four swans landed on the
water in succession and adelightedteeninawheelchairclappedhishands togetheratthe spectacle, just as I sawPetraapproach.Emerging from the trees,
shelookedcity-chicinapink,fitted dress and matchingpumps.Shecarriedwithheranew handbag and woreoversized sunglasses, and Iwondered what the denimskirtsandcheeseclothsmocksat schoolmust havemade ofher appearance that morninginthestaffroom.Petragaveasmall, excitedwave to signalshe’d spottedme and headedmy way. Her pace was fastbutherstridelengthrestricted
onaccountoftheclose-fittingdress,which allwent to givetheimpressionofawomanonamission,awomanwhowasonherwaytogiveapersonapieceofhermind.Perhapsshewas, I thought
idly, as she left the path,cutting an angle across thegrass. Perhaps, in betweenspeaking with me thismorning and this moment,shehadcometodiscoverjustwhat I’d been doing with
ScottEliasinacountryhotel.Today was Thursday. I wasscheduled tomeetScottoncemore at a different venue onFriday and, apart from thegeneralfeelingofanxietythatcomes with conductingoneself as a secret prostitute,unlike before, this time Iwasn’ttotallydreadingit.Here’s what I learned
about Scott Elias the nightbefore last: His pleasurewasderived directly from the
pleasure he gave to thewomanhewaswith.I’d say he wasn’t unusual
in this respect.Mostmen I’dknown were not selfish inbed.Scratchthat,noneof themen I’d known were selfishin bed. They wanted theirwomantocome.Theywantedto be the one to make theirwomancome.Theyneededtofeel her muscles contractinghard around them to reachorgasmthemselves.
Scott was no different.Except that I’d mistakenlyassumed that, since he waspaying for it, my enjoymentwouldn’tbepartofthedeal.I was wrong. Scott was
tender, lustful,givingand,asI lay there at three in themorning, when we finallydecided to call it a night, Iwas thinking,Did that reallyjust happen? It was not themostmind-blowingsexofmylife, but I’ll say this, it
certainlywasn’ttheworstsexI’deverhad.Theelectrifyingjoyoftruedesirewasabsent,but I was more than a littleinto it. And compared withsome of the shoddyexperiences I’d had in thepast, therewas theadditionalturn-on to be had just fromthe sheer decadence of thewholething.I made up my mind there
and then that ifScottwantedtorepeattheevening,Iwould
doit.Four thousand pounds for
onenight?Ididn’thave the luxuryof
refusing.In a fewweeks I could be
backonmyfeet. I couldpayoff my landlord, clear thecredit-card balance andreimburse people I neverthought I’d be able to paybackinthislifetime.It would be a chance to
start over. To finally put the
mistakes of my past behindme.Ihadtodoitagain.‘Crisp sandwiches?’ said
Petra disdainfully after we’dembraced,tuttingandshakingher head as she dusted downthe bench before sitting nexttome.‘Doyouwantabite?’‘Goonthen,’shesaid,and
openedhermouthwide.Stillchewing, sheheldupher leftindex finger. ‘Does that lookswollentoyou?’
‘Maybe.’‘What do you think I’ve
done?’‘Noidea.’She rolled her eyes. ‘Roz,
at least pretend to be a littleinterested. I know you haveto deal with this all day, butI’m worried. Could it bearthritis?’‘You’ve probably strained
itpickingupasuitcase.’‘So you don’t think I
shouldgoforbloodtests?’
‘No.’‘Butwhatifitisarthritis?’‘It won’t be. But if it’ll
make you feel better, go forthe tests. I wouldn’t bother,though. If it still hurts in aweek,’ I said wearily, ‘I’lllookatit.’Pacified, Petra let her full
weightfallagainst thebench,tilting her face towards thesun,beforeexhalinglongandhard. ‘God, I feel like I’vebeen cooped up for ever in
that office. It’s so nice to beout.’‘You’ve only been back a
day.’‘Yes, but you want to see
all the crap they’ve left forme. They do nothing whenI’m not there.Honestly, theyjust throw everything on tomydeskwithnothoughtastohowI’mgoingtogetthroughit.’Petra worked three
mornings and one full day a
weekas the school secretary.The size of the place didn’twarrant a full-time position.To listen to her, you’d beunder the impression that theplacewouldfalldownaroundthemwithouthertheretorunitproperly.‘DidClarahaveanicetime
withLiz?’Iasked.LizwasVince’ssister.She
was single, again.Relationship afterrelationship seemed to fizzle
out, leaving the poorwomanwounded and bewildered,with no clear idea what shewasdoingwrong.Keeping her face angled
towardsthesun,Petrashiftedin her seat. ‘Iwanted to talkto you about that,’ she said,her words taking on a sharptone.‘ClarasaysthatLizhasbeenbullyingher.’‘Bullying?’‘Well, perhaps bullying’s
too strong a word,’ she
conceded, ‘but she has beenpicking on her. How do youthink I should broach thesubjectwithLiz?’‘Perhaps Clara’s
exaggerating?’ I suggested,thinking of Vince’s gentlesister,whodotedonhernieceand who I’d never oncewitnessed being unkind toanyone.Calledtomindalsowasthe
broodingnatureofClara,whoprotestedifshefeltoutshined
or excluded, even in aminorway. Petra would feel herdaughter’s hurt, oftenlaunching a direct attack ontheperpetratorasaresult.This mindset made Petra
unwaveringly fair whendealing with groups ofchildren. Which I admired –everyone was included,everyone invited. But if herownchildwasshunned?Woebetide. She’d be out gunningforwhoeverwasresponsible.
‘I’m sure you’d havesomething to say if Georgewasbeingbullied,’Petrasaid.‘You know Iwould.But I
thinkyoushouldcheckagainwith Clara first before yourisk offending Liz. She’s asweet woman, Petra, I can’timagine she would evendreamof—’‘Okay,okay, let’sdrop it,’
shesaidabruptly,whenitwasclear I wasn’t going to givehertheoutragedresponseshe
washopingfor.Oh dear. Liz was in for a
roasting.‘Sowhathaveyoubeenup
tosinceI’vebeenaway?’sheasked,nowbrightly.‘Notalot.’‘Seenanyone?’‘Not really. Work and
morework.’She turned to face me,
lifting her sunglasses andgiving a small, sympatheticsmile. ‘Vince let it slip that
money was tight again,’ shesaidcarefully.‘Money’salwaystight.’‘Howbadisitthistime?’‘I’llmanage.’Silence.‘It’sjust—’Petrasaid,and
stopped. She blinked hard acoupleoftimesandIthoughtfor a moment she wouldn’tactuallygowhereIknewshewasgoingwiththis.Ultimately,shewasunable
to restrain what she had to
say. ‘It’s just that I reallydon’t want a repeat of lasttime,Roz.’‘Don’tworry,itwon’tbe.’‘That’s the thing,’ she
replied.‘Iamworried.’‘Youneedn’tbe.’‘You’vesaidthatbefore.’‘Leaveit,Petra.’Shedroppedherglasses to
coverher eyes and fell silentas we watched a youngbeardedguythrowsticksintothe lake for his retriever. He
wore an olive-green T-shirt,which hung loose around hislanky frame, and a pair ofmatching olive trousers. Theuniformofatreesurgeon.Atone point the dripping doghurtled out of the waterstraight towards a pug beingled along thepath a few feetin frontofus.Petra flinched,grippingtheseatofthebenchwith both hands. One fastshake from the retriever andwe’dbesoaked.
‘Soyou’venotaskedthemthen?’ Petra said, her wordscasual, said in a way thatbelied just howmuchweighttheycarried.‘No.’Icouldfeelthestaticinthe
air.A quick sideways glancetowards Petra revealed shewasrigidwithtension,anditwas clear what this meetingwasreallyabout.‘Because I’d rather you
askedme for money than it
cometothatagain,’shesaid.‘Itwon’tcometothat.’Andshenodded.‘Okay,’shesaidfinally.‘If
you say so. I suppose I’llhavetotakeyourwordforit.’
When I first began huntingfor property from which torun my physiotherapypractice,itwasevidentprettyquickly that it was going tobe slimpickings.Therewerenoshort-termleasesorwhatI
would consider fair rentalagreements. Property was inhighdemandandsowasatapremium. Landlords aroundWindermere and Bownesswere tying tenants up in ten-year leases, the majority ofthe buildings neededextensive external andinternal maintenance; somewere even without heating. Ineeded a place with twotreatment rooms, a waitingarea,atoilet(allpreferablyat
groundlevel,forpatientswhohad difficulty walking) andwithin easy reach ofsomewheretopark.Suchaplacedidnot exist,
anditwasatthispoint,whenI was considering giving upon the dream and eitherstaying with the NHS orrenting cheaper premises inKendal, that my dad advisedme to buy. Naturally, theprices were extortionate, thebusiness rates cruel, but my
main problem was that Iwasn’t eligible for acommercial propertymortgageunlessIhadafortyper cent deposit. Which Ididn’t.Not wanting to see me
walk away from my vision,my parents came to me oneevening, with the intent ofwithdrawing money fromtheir savings to invest in thepractice.Propertypriceswerestill rising, interest rates on
savings were low, and theydecidedthat theirmoneywassafer in bricks and mortarrather thanthebankandtheycould even see a greaterreturnonit.They loanedmeahundred
and ten thousand pounds.Money they’d accrued fromdownsizingtoatwo-bedroombungalow,moneythatwastosupplement their pensionswhen the time came. And Iborrowed the remaining two
hundred and forty thousandfromthebank.AfterWinston’s wage cut,
his womanizing, the loss ofthebaby,thecreditcardsandhissubsequentdeparturefromour home, my mind wasn’texactlyon the job. I couldn’tmake the payments on boththemortgageon thebusinessandtheoneonourhouse,andIlostitall.The properties were
repossessedbythebank.And
becauseIwastooashamed,Ididn’t tell anyone about theextentofthemessuntilitwastoolateandtherewasnotimefor a quick sale at a much-reduced price – meaning myparents ended up withnothing, when they couldhaveperhapssalvagedatleastsomeoftheirmoney.WhatIshouldhavedoneat
that point was declarebankruptcy – wipe outWinston’s loan and the
credit-card debt. But acombination of pride andworry about being turneddown for a mortgage in thefuturemeant I couldn’tbringmyselftodoit.Just before retirement, and
aftermuchsoulsearching,myparentsputtheirbungalowonthe market and moved toSilloth–overanhour’sdriveaway,inacheaperpartofthecounty–toensuretheycouldlive out their years with
adequatemoney.Our family became
fractured.Sickwithshame,Ibecame
the culpable person everyonenowknewmetobe:nottobetrustedwithmoney,nottobegiven any real responsibility,looked upon with acombination of disdain andpity.And Petra lost her
babysitters. Which was whattoday’s dig at Lizwas really
about. If you didn’t lose allthat money, I wouldn’t havetomakedowithVince’ssister…And so it went on. We
dancedaround the issuewithnormalsisterlychitchat,Petracovering her annoyance anddisappointment in the bestway she knew how, but,ultimately, all roads ledbackto this:How could you havesabotaged our parents’ livesinthatway?
IwishIhadtheanswer.Petragaveasmallshudder
asthoughtoridherselfofthenegative energy thatthreatened to take hold.‘Lecture over,’ she said, andplaced her hand on top ofmine. ‘Listen, we’re goingout to dinner with Scott andNadineonSaturday–nothingflash–whydon’tyoucome?Mytreat.’‘No,I…Ihaveto—’Petraturnedtofacemeand
frowned. ‘What do you havetodo? It’snotyourweekendtohaveGeorge,isit?’‘No,butI…’I couldn’t think fast
enough. Words escaped me.Lies escaped me. There wasnoway I could sit through adinnerwithScottandNadineafter spending the whole ofFridaynightwithScott.‘Roz?’ she prompted.
‘What’s going on? Are youseeingsomeone?’
‘No,’ I said quickly, andimmediatelyrealizedIshouldhave said yes. A pretendrelationship would be theperfectfoilinthisinstance.Petra, bewildered, shook
her head, before giving myhandasqueeze.‘Iknowwhatthis is about,’ she said. ‘Andit’s high time you got overthis inferiority thing, Roz.You can’t keep thinking ofyourself as worthless likethis. Just because Scott and
Nadine are wealthy doesn’tmean they won’t want tospendtimewithyou.They’renot like that. They don’tjudge the way other peopledo.’I stared down at our
claspedhands,unabletobearlookingatmysister.‘Pleasecome,’shepressed.
‘I know you’ll enjoy it. I’dloveyoutobethere,andyounevergetoutforanicemeal.Goon.’
Iwasabout tospeakwhenshecutmeoff.‘Roz,’shesaidseriously,‘I
will take it as a personalinsultifyoudon’t.’
15
LIKE A LOT of criminals, itwasn’t the crime itself thatwas problematic, rather, itwaswhattodowiththecash.Inanagewheneverything
is digitized, from earnings todental appointments, clearing
debts with freshly mintedtwenty-pound notes was notas straightforward as I firstthought. In fact, it wasn’tstraightforwardatall.I had assumed I could
deposit the four thousandScott paid me directly intomy bank account and, fromthere, I could pay my rentarrears.Butno.Shortly after making the
deposit I received a phone
call from my bank,apologetic, but firmnonetheless, requiringverification of the origin ofthecashdeposited.Theywerenow obligated to check onlarge cash withdrawals anddeposits in the fight againstfraud.Thinkingonmyfeet,Iexplainedthatthemoneywasa loan from my parents tohelpmeoutofafinancialfix,but it was quickly apparentthatIwouldnotbeabletouse
thisexcuseonaregularbasis.If ever again. Apart fromanything else, Her Majesty’sRevenue andCustomswouldalsowant toknowthesourceofanyfurtherdeposits.What I thoughtwas a fail-
safeway toearnmywayoutofdebtsuddenlywasn’t.Andit got me wondering, justexactlyhowdidthoseescortsoperating from their sparebedrooms in theirsemidetached houses ‘show’
themoney they earned?Youcan’t runahomeonnothing.Either they were claimingbenefits and the cashsupplementedtheirincomeorelse they listed theiroccupations as somethingotherthan‘prostitute’ontheirtax returns. ‘Masseuse’,perhaps.I had an appointmentwith
Scott thatevening,asGeorgewas to be picked up directlyfrom after-school club by
Winston (the internationalman of business was nowback in the country, itappeared),soIhadtherestoftheafternoontocomeupwitha way of accepting paymentfor my services that didn’tarouse suspicion. It seemedalmostunfair.Iwasdoingmyutmost to pay off my debts,but the law said I wasn’tallowedtodoitinthisway.Ithought about the drugdealers that commonly
featured on Traffic Cops,their pimped-up RangeRovers with the blacked-outwindows, andwonderedhowthey got away with it(assuming drugs, likeescorting, was amostly cashbusiness).Asit turnedout,Scottwas
experiencing similardifficulties.AndtomakesureI didn’t turn onmy heel andleave mid-date when Idiscovered he was without a
satchel full of cash, hemadean impromptu call at theclinic to discuss ourarrangement,ouroptions andtoputanewproposaltome.It would be this decision,
within the list of baddecisions, that would sendourlivesontheroller-coastertrajectory thatwas to changeeverything.Earlier, I had dropped
Georgeatschoolwithasmallrucksack containing the
essential toys and bits andpieces for his stay with hisdad. Winston, thoughincompetent in paying mechildsupport,wasfairlygoodat providing enough clothes,pyjamasandgamesconsoles.And because Dylis suppliedthree squaremealsadayanda constant offering of cleanlaundry, I never worriedGeorge was going withoutwhen he stayed over there.George and Winston would
rollick around, followingtheir noses into adventures,with none of the ties orresponsibilities that anchoredmostparentstotheirhomesatthe weekends. I imagined itwas like staying with yourfavourite carefree bohemianuncle, and aweekend of thiswas probably just whatGeorge needed, after theupheaval following thebailiff’svisitandthemeetingwiththeheadteacher.
After speaking toWinstonat length about George’sstealing, Winston finallyadmitted that George hadstolen fromhismothera fewtimes as well. When I’dblown my top at him forkeeping it from me, hisresponsewas‘Hejustwantedadog,Roz.Don’tbesohardonhim.’‘Well,hecan’thaveadog,
can he? He knows he can’thave a dog while we’re in
rentedaccommodation.’Ididn’tsticktheknifeinas
Imight.Didn’tdragupthatitwas Winston’s fault that thedog had gone in the firstplace. Because it waspointless. Not because wewere past tit for tat butbecause it would be lost onWinston. He would no moremaketheconnectionbetweenhis infidelity and George’sdogless state than he wouldbetween it and my
moonlighting for extra cash.As far as Winston wasconcerned, his behaviourdidn’thaverepercussions.Winston told me he’d
found over fifty poundsstuffed inside George’spillowcase – which meanthe’d been at it for far longerthananyofussuspected.Andprobably meant he’d thievedfrom Petra andVincent on anumber of occasions aswell.Idecidedtokeepthatpieceof
information to myself fornow, confident that mywarning to George of Nodogs ever again was enoughof a deterrent against hisstealinginthefuture.Itwasaround11a.m.when
IheardthetelltaleroaroftheFerrari outside in the carpark.Peculiar,isn’tit,howanelderly woman over-revvingherFiatPanda’s900ccengineismocked heartily by peoplebut doing the exact same
thing in a performance carcommandsgeneralrespect?I could hear Wayne
tripping over his feet,scramblingtoget tothefrontdoor to greet Scott, inexpectation of another ridethrough the Lyth Valley.ScotthadtoleratedWayne,hetold me, to get to me. He’dgiven him a loop ofcountryside, riding throughWinster, taking a right toStrawberry Bank, over
Gummer’s Howe and finallyspeeding north along theeastern shore ofWindermerebefore depositing Waynebackattheclinic.Somewhereduring the twenty-minutejourney Scott reported thatWayne began to speakdifferently, changing thecadence and rhythm of hiswords to match that ofJeremy Clarkson. When I’dscoffed at this, ridiculedWayne, Scott told me it
happened with every manwhorodewithhim.Itwasanunconscious thing, and theyreally didn’t know theyweredoingit.Rather than wait for
Wayne’sknockonthedoor,Ipopped my head out. ThepatientIwaswithwasprone,stippled with acupunctureneedles, and could be leftalone for a few minutes.Patients were often reluctantto continue the conversation
with needles stuck in theirhead. I suppose theyworriedthat any movement at allmight result in their brainbeingskewered.Notpossible,but Iwouldn’t discharge thisinformation readily, as Ienjoyed the brief snatches ofsilenceitafforded.The clinic door was wide
open, with Wayne standingon the threshold, his backtowards me. We’d had amonsoon-like downpour that
morning, the rainrhythmically thrumming onthe roof, like a marchingmilitary band. The delicate,desiccated scents of summerthat for the past few weekshad been carried on thebreeze were now in vapourform.And all at once the airhad become dense, sicklysweetandoverbearing.Scott must have dawdled
inside the car, as itwas onlynowthatIheardthecardoor
slam, followed by Wayneclapping his hands together,greeting Scott in a way thatwas meant to be blokey butsoundedsycophantic.Seeingme peer out of the
treatmentroom,Scottsaidheneeded to speak to me as amatter of great urgency and,whereWaynewouldnodoubtusually ignorea request suchasthisfromapatient–tellingthemIcouldnotbedisturbed,they must make an
appointment – he watchedhelplesslyasIgesturedacrossthe reception area to thenutritionist’s room, which Iknewtobeempty.Itwouldbe thefirst timeI
would witness Scott withouthis usual charmingdemeanour, with this rebuffofsomeonehehadnofurtherusefor.Iwassurprisedbytheease with which he movedpast Wayne, brieflyacknowledging his presence
but giving him no furtherattention, as though they hadnever had even aconversation in their lives.Wayne looked taken aback.Hewas perplexed by Scott’ssnubanddidn’tknowwhattomakeofit.Thenutritionist’sroomhad
been used that day as adumping ground for a largedeliveryofcouchrolls,boxesof tissues and toilet rolls,readyforWaynetosortout.
‘We have a problem,’beganScott.‘How’stheelbowdoing?’I
asked in an over-loud voice,pushingthedoorclosed.ButIneglected to close itcompletely, my thinkingbeing that if I were to shutmyself away with Scott itmight arouse suspicion thattherewassomethingbetweenus. Best to appear relaxed.Best to appear as though wewerediscussinghiselbow,so
there was no need for totalprivacy.Iturned,andScottshotme
alookasthoughtosay,Fuckthe elbow. Then he strodeacrosstheroom,tookmyfaceinhishandsandkissedme.‘Don’t,’Isaid,aghast.‘Not
here.’Hedidn’tapologize.‘What sort of problem?’ I
asked, instantly feeling thatqueasydreadthatcomesfromthe threat of discovery. ‘Is it
Nadine?’Heshookhishead.He seemed agitated and
edgy,nottheScottIwasusedto, and I wondered what ithadtakentounsettlehimso.‘It’s money,’ he said. ‘I
can’traisethemoney.’I took a step back. ‘You
can’t raise four thousandpounds?’Thatseemedunlikely.‘Ican’traisefourthousand
pounds in cash. Not right
now,anyway.’‘Ah,’Isaid,‘Ithought…’He smiled. ‘No, I’m not
quitethatstrapped.’‘Okay, so what happens
now?’‘Ihaveanidea,butI’mnot
surehowyou’llfeelaboutit.’‘Tryme,’Isaid.‘Well,ifIcontinuetodraw
cash from the business, itwon’t go unnoticed. Theaccountant’sgoingtowanttoknow what it’s for and,
though I think I can trust theguy, I don’t really want himpokingaround.Plus,hiswifeand Nadine are friends. Andas much as he likes topromise total confidentiality,we all know everyoneconfidesintheirwives.’‘Is tonight still going
ahead?’Iasked.‘That depends on you. I
wouldverymuchlikeitto,infact,’andhepaused,reachingout and running a finger
along my jawline. ‘I think Imay have a solution. But itmeans you’ll have to wait ashortwhileforyourmoney.’‘Howlong?’‘Afewdays.’‘Oh.’‘I realize you need it fast,
I’m aware of that. But thinkabout it: you can’t hide thatcash from the Revenue.They’ll catch up with youeventually andwant to knowhow you came by it. And
whentheydothat,dependingon how you handle yourself,they’ll come sticking theirnose into my business, Roz,and I just can’t take thatchance.’‘Okay,’ I conceded, ‘so
whatdoyousuggest?’‘You call yourself a
consultant.’‘Aconsultantinwhat?’‘Anythingyou like.Really
doesn’t matter. What’simportantisthatyoucomeup
with something credible,something you can invoicemy company for, and we’llcredit your account withintwenty-four hours. I wasthinking something along thelines of ergonomics, but ifyou can come up withanythingbetter,I’mallears.’‘Ergonomicswouldwork.’‘Thesooneryouprovidean
invoice, the sooner you’ll bepaid,’hesaid.‘Youcouldsayyouadviseusondeskheight,
back support, that kind ofthing,yes?’‘Icoulddothat.’‘And you’re okay about
tonight?’heaskedtentatively.‘Youmeanaboutnotbeing
paid?’Henodded.‘It’sunexpected,soIcan’t
say I’m totally okay with it,butIdohavealittlebreathingspaceafteryourlastpayment.I don’t want to compromiseour arrangement though, so
… Do you still want thewholenight?’‘Ofcourse,’hesaid.‘We’ll
meetatseven?’‘Seven.’‘I’llgo then,’hesaid. ‘Let
yougetbacktoit.’Hemovedtowards the door, pulled itopenand turnedbackaroundto face me. ‘Thank you,’ hesaid, ‘thanks forunderstanding.’I lifted my hand to bid
Scott goodbye and instantly
froze. Beyond him, Waynewasatthewatercooler.Again, Scott didn’t
acknowledge him as hepassed.Onlythistimetherewasno
sign of hurt or rejection inWayne’s eyes. Rather, hebegantowhistle.Hefilledhiscup,whistling
a jaunty, made-up tune,beforeflashingmeaknowingsmile.
16
AREN’TPEOPLESURPRISING?I have always had a
particularfascinationwiththeconceptofpeckingorder.Foreach person in any givensituationthereisahierarchy–whether they are aware of it
ornot.Often it’s an invisible
dance we do around eachother. Where do I fit withyou?How important am I inyourlife?Generally, though, we
knowwherewefit.Weknowwhere we are on theimportance scale, and webehave accordingly.We tendto sit in our allotted spaces,uncomplaining, not daring tomove out, not daring to ask
formoreforfearofarebuttal.So when, in the late
afternoon,Waynehitmewiththenewsthathewantedinonthe arrangement, well,understandably, I laughed inhis face at thepreposterousnessofit.When I saw that he was
actuallyserious,Isaid,‘Whatarrangement?’ and he said,‘Don’tinsultme,Roz.’Here’s what I thought he
was proposing: A cut of my
earnings to keep quiet. Athousandpoundsorsotoholdhis tongue, not to reveal thetrue nature of my businesswith Scott, to his wife, myemployers, the widercommunity.Butitwasn’tthat.‘I want a night with you,’
Waynesaidearnestly,andmymouthdroppedopen.‘Wayne,’Ibegan,‘thereis
a difference … a very bigdifferencewithwhatgoeson
between—’‘There’snodifference,’he
saidsimply.Apause.‘From what I could make
out from that conversationyou had earlier,’ he said,gesturing to the nutritionist’sroom, ‘Scott Elias is payingyou. He’s paying you asubstantial amount of moneyfor your services. Or have Imisunderstood?’Ididn’tdenyit.Iwantedto
seewherehewasgoingwiththis.‘Iwouldlikethesame,’he
said.I regarded him, trying not
to show my outrage.‘Wayne,’ I said carefully, ‘Idon’twanttodothat.’‘Roz,’ he replied, ‘I don’t
thinkyouhaveachoice,’andhe motioned towards thecomputer.‘Remember the anomaly I
pointed out to you,’ he said,
gesturingtothescreen.Evidently, I was not
allowed to look as, when Icraned my neck to see, heminimizedthepage.‘Ananomalywith?’‘Theaccounts,’hesaid.‘Yes. And you’re telling
methisnowbecause…?’‘It’s been brought to my
attention by the accountantsat HQ,’ he said, ‘that thisparticular clinic has been thevictim of – shall we say? –
the misappropriation offunds.’HQ, Iwas thinking, trying
not to scoff at the sillyofficiousness of his tone,when it hit me what he wasreallysaying.‘Stealing?’Iasked.‘It certainly looks that
way.’‘But there’s nothing to
steal,’ I protested. ‘We don’tstockanything…Nothingofanyuseanyhow.’
I was thinking about theteabags and toilet rolls I’dtaken recently, wondering ifhecouldbereferringtothose.But thenIput thatoutofmyhead because surely nobodywas spending their hoursquantifyingnormalusage?‘Howdoesthisaffectme?’
Isaideventually.‘Across the ten clinics –
and that includes more thanfiftyclinicians–youhavethehighest patient cancellation
rate.’‘But I have the highest
number of patients,’ Ireasoned. ‘The number ofcancellations is bound to behigher.It’sproportional.’‘Apparently not. The
accountantsatHQhavedonean audit, and your rate ofmissed appointments is fivetimes higher than anyoneelse’s.What’smore,nowthatI’ve had a chance to look atthe data more closely, those
missed appointments alltendedtocoincidewithwhenI was absent from the clinicmyself.’Iswallowed.‘And they are all patients
who usually pay in cash,’ headded.‘Careful what you’re
suggestingthere,Wayne.’Istaredathimhard.Hestaredback.‘Of course, HQ might be
willing to overlook any
misdemeanour thatmayhavetaken place,’ he saidcarefully. ‘Perhaps I couldpersuadethemtooverlookit,ifyoucatchmydrift.’‘Youhavenoevidence.No
evidence at all, Wayne, thatthis has anything to do withme.’And he then proceeded to
showme the ‘evidence’ he’dbeen collecting over the lastweekorso.The series of thefts from
the clinic, and my part inthem, was irrefutable, heexplained. He’d gone so faras to contact the patients I’dmarked down as absent,asking if they could confirmor deny their presence at theclinic at the allotted times.Mostwereonly toohappy tooblige, flicking back throughtheir diaries, their wallcalendars,ashedidn’tinformthemwhyhewantedtoknow,just that there had been a
problem with thecomputerized diary systemandheneeded to re-enter theinformation.‘What if I refuse what
you’re proposing?’ I said toWayne.‘ThenIgotothepolice.’‘Youwoulddothat?’‘Tell mewhy I shouldn’t?
You’ve been ripping thecompany off. And not onlythat, you now have thissidelinegoing,thatforallwe
know could be going onbehindthecloseddoorof thetreatmentroom—’‘Thathasneverhappened.’‘We don’t know that,
though,dowe?Thinkhowitwould look, Roz. Think howit would look if it came outthat you were chargingpeople for sex, as well aspurloining the takings?Patients wouldn’t come hereany more. It would be anunviablebusiness.Andwitha
purpose-designed clinic suchasthis, theownerssinkinginhundreds of thousands ininvestment, you can be surethey would pursue you witheverything they’vegot.Theirreputation as a healthcareproviderisontheline.’‘Please don’t go to the
police.’‘Iwon’t,’hesaid.‘DoasI
ask,andIgiveyoumywordIwon’tgotothepolice.I’lltellno one. You know I’ve
always been fond of you,Roz. I’ll keep it tomyself, Ipromise.’I exhaled, closedmy eyes.
Triedtothink.Hehadme, and I couldn’t
come upwith away out. I’dpocketed that cash when Iwas desperate. Trulydesperate. It wasn’t much.Thirty-five pounds here andthere. But it was theft,nonetheless.There were no good
options; just one bad optionslightlyworse than theother.And you know what youshould do. Your gut isscreamingat you tobackup.Reverse. Come clean nowandtakethehitbeforethingsget really out of control.Butyou don’t, because you areweak. And your habit oftaking the less bad option iswhatgotyouherein thefirstplace.‘Howwill you explain the
loss of takings?’ I askedeventually. ‘I assume theAccountsdepartmentwillstillwant to know where thatmoneyhasgone.’Wayne made a dismissive
gesture. ‘I’ll blame thecleaner who left a fortnightago. I’ll tell them I have nodirectevidence,butItrustthestaff I’ve got implicitly, andcan’t see who else it couldhave been. Of course, nowthat the thievinghasstopped,
thatwillallmakesense.’Hewaitedformyreaction.
Wettedhislips.‘Please,’ I said, appealing
to him with one last-ditchattempt, ‘don’t do this. It’sludicrous.’‘Isit?’‘You know it is. Please,
Wayne,don’tmakemebeg.’Andhelaidbothpalmsflat
onthedeskbeforelettingoutalong,exasperatedbreath.‘Am I that repulsive?’ he
asked.‘No.’(Yes.)‘Is it so absurd that I
shouldaskthisofyou?’I didn’t answer. My eyes
pricked with tears as thescene of what he wasadvocating played out in mymind.Therewasnoway.There was absolutely no
way I could go throughwiththis.‘You appreciate it’s game
over for you now,’ hewhispered as a patient exitedMagdalena’sroom.‘Youwillnever work again. You’llnever be allowed nearpatientsagain.’Hehandedmeatissue.‘I’d think long and hard
aboutthisbeforerejectingmyoffer,Roz.’
17
I HAD JUST steppedout of theshower,wrappedmy head ina towel and slipped on mybathrobe, when I heardknockingonthefrontdoor.Opening it, I saw my
visitor had a bottle of
champagneinonehandandalarge punnet of ripestrawberriesintheother.‘You’d better come in,
Celia,’Itoldher.She stepped inside and
began casting around thenakedroom.Taking in the bare walls,
the bare floor, she said, ‘Idon’tknowhowyoulivelikethis,’ her Liverpool accentsounding more pronouncedthan usual. ‘I really don’t.’
Then she asked, ‘Is Georgewithhisdad?’AndI toldherhe was, told her he wasstaying with Winston untilSunday evening, and shetrottedofftofindacoupleofglasses.Oddly, the champagne
flutes were one of the fewthings the bailiffs hadn’tseized. I leaned against thedoorframe,watchingasCeliabustled about the kitchen,unable to suppress a smile
whensheputtheteatoweltoher nose to check that itwasclean, before using it to gainsomepurchaseon the lodgedcork.‘What’s the occasion?’ I
said as she poured first intooneglassandthentheother.‘Occasion?’sheasked.‘Do
we need one?’ She handedmeaglass.‘Cheers,’shesaid.Then she admitted that shehad watched me from herbedroom window earlier on
myway in from the car, andit seemed as though I coulddo with some cheering up.‘Youlooklikeyou’vegottheweight of the world on yourshoulders.’‘Just a few problems at
work.’‘Ooh, that reminds me,’
she said, slipping off one ofher sandals, ‘Dennis hasdevelopedapain,righthere.’Shepointedtothefleshypartontheundersideofherheel.
‘Does it hurt him in themorningwhenhegetsoutofbed?’Iasked.‘Like a knife!’ she
exclaimed. ‘He can hardlywalk.’‘Plantar fasciitis.’ I
scribbled the name of theorthopaedic insoles Irecommend on a scrap ofpaper. ‘PickhimupapairofthosefromBoots,’Isaid.‘I’lltake a look at it over theweekend.’
Celia frowned as she readthe note. She thought theinsoles would be a waste oftime.‘They work,’ I told her
firmly.She folded the note, put it
inherpocketandreachedforher glass. ‘Why don’t youcome for dinner?’ she said.‘I’vegot some lovelyhalibutand I’ve donewhat I alwaysdoandboughtenoughforsix.You can do Dennis’s foot,
andI’ll—’‘Ican’t.’She put her drink down.
‘Whycan’tyou?’‘I’mmeetingsomeone.’‘Who?’ she said, her eyes
suddenlybrightwithinterest.Since we’d become
neighbours, Celia had tried,on numerous occasions andwithoutsuccess,tosetmeupwith a selection of eligiblemen.A couple of themwerethesonsofherreading-group
friends. Another was thebrotherofherpicture framer.Another, the nephew of theguy that came to clean heroven once amonth. They alllookedgoodonpaper.ButasI tried to impress on Celia,when someone said theycouldn’tunderstandwhytheirson/brother/nephew had beensingleforaslongastheyhad,therewasstillusuallyagoodreason.‘The good ones are
snapped up quickly,’ I toldher.‘Then why have you not
beensnappedup?’‘Imakebadchoices.’‘Maybeyou’retoopicky.’‘Maybe,’ I said.And I left
itatthat.But, honestly, you should
have seen thesemen. I don’twanttobecruel,butyouhadtowonderhowtheymanagedtotietheirownshoelacesandget out of the house each
morning.‘Don’t get excited,’ I told
Celia now as she waited forme to elaborate. ‘This is justsomebody I know throughwork.It’snotserious.’Celia made a face. ‘Your
generation.’ She spatcontemptuously. ‘How canromancenotbeserious?Andwhat does that even mean?You see these silly men onthe television saying theydon’t want to settle down,
saying they want no-stringsrelationships, and I say toDennis, “What fool of awoman would put up withsomething like that?” GoodLord,foralltheygetoutofit,they may as well go on thegame.’ She paused, musingon this fact as she finishedherdrink.Shaking her head, she
added, ‘Oldest job in theworld.’‘Thatso,’Ireplied.
AnhourlaterIwasinthecar,headingnorth.During the trip, all I could
thinkofwasWayne.Iwassobloody angry. Angry withhim. Angry with myself. IfI’d swallowed my pride andasked Petra for a little cashwhen I needed it, I wouldn’tfindmyself inthisposition.Inegotiatedtheslipperycurvesalong Rydal Water and mystomach began to cramp atthe thought of him. Wayne
hadcorneredmeattheendofthe day when the clinic wasemptiedofpatientsand therewas only Gary left, catchingup on notes, as he did eachday. Wayne asked if I’dreachedadecision.As he waited for me to
speakheheldhismouthopenslightly, something he oftendidwhenconcentrating,andIbecame transfixed by hislarge tongue. It was swollenandcoveredinathick,furred
white coating – indicative ofa chronic yeast infection, Isuspected.‘Sinceyou’regivingmeno
way out of this, I’ll do ittomorrowevening,’Isnappedat him. By then I was lividthat he’d put me in thesituation, and I didn’t try tohideit.‘Oh,’ he replied brightly.
‘Assoonasthat?’Thestupidbastardwasflattered.Staring at his tongue, I
refrained from saying that Ihad no choice but to get itoveranddonewith.That if Iallowed myself time to stewontheideaIwassuretobackout and, well, therepercussions of not doing itat all, he’d made very clearearlier.‘Georgeiswithhisdadfor
theweekend,’Itoldhim.‘Soit’s either tomorrow or in afortnight’stime.’‘Tomorrow,’ he replied
quickly. ‘Yes, tomorrowwould suit me perfectly,actually, because I have acouple of busy weekendsplannedlaterinthemonth,infact…’He then proceeded to give
me a list of activities thatconstituted his tedious littlelife.When he had finished I’d
stared at him for a moment,still totally shocked that hewascapableofthisblackmail.
Wayne and I had always gotalong pretty well. Sure, hehad his annoying traits: hisjokes were mostly crap, andhe could take his role in theclinic a little too seriously.But he’d been consistentlykind to me.We’d been kindto each other. I couldn’tbelieve this volte-face. I feltbetrayed.ItriedtoputWayneoutof
myhead fornow,as Ididn’twant to arrive for Scott in a
state of fractious agitation.Forsomeonewhohadknownme for such a brief time,Scott had an uncanny abilityto intuit what I was feeling,and I knew it would be adisastrouserrortoinformhimofWayne’sdemands.To Scott, Wayne was a
pointless individual whodidn’t even warrant acourteous nod. That muchwas evident from hisbehaviourthatafternoon,soI
didn’t need to ruminate forlong over whether to tellScott about Wayne’sintention.Firstly, even though Scott
had not aired this view, Iknew that, while he waspayingme,Iwashis.Andhisalone. The way he’ddescribed the ugliness of theconveyor-beltsexwaslesstodo with the girls themselvesand more to do with hisimagining the series of
revolting lowlifes that hadbeentherebeforehim.Sotherewasthat.But also, in neglecting to
inform Scott, I wasconsidering that vaingloriousstateyoufindyourselfinafterthe person you have sleptwith sleeps with someoneelse.Apersonyoudeemtobebelowyou.Andalthoughyoumay have liked the personyou first had sex withperfectly well, you couldn’t
now repeat it, on account offeeling insulted by themputting you in the samecategory as the subsequentpartner. It was humiliating.Anyway, all this to say itwould not be wise to informScott of tomorrow’s agendawith Wayne. I couldn’t riskhimendingourarrangement.AndofcourseIstillneeded
the money to pay off thecreditcards.I would deal with the
Wayne issue tomorrow. Fornow, I had topreparemyselffor the night ahead. So Iswitchedontheradio,fiddledabout until I found a stationplayingamindlesstrackwitha heavy bass, and when itcame time I overtook a pairof cyclists on a blind corner,which gave me a jolt ofadrenalin,thekickthatcomesfrom a moment ofrecklessness, something Ineeded to summon Roz the
Sexy Plaything and banishRoztheTotalShambles.
Scott was waiting for me onthe hotel balcony. He’dinstructed Housekeeping todry off the floor andfurniture, now that the rainhadcleared,sowecoulddinealone outside, overlookingGrasmere.Ihadgonedirectlyto the room upon arrival.Scott had texted the numberearlierandgavemedirections
soIwouldn’thavetostopbyreception. He had taken pre-dinner drinks with hisaccountant and the firm’ssolicitor, explaining toNadine that he would beaway for the night, as themeetingwouldrunonintotheearly hours. Then he’d leftthetwomeninthebarwithatwelve hundred pound bottleof cognac, telling them hewas sorry, but he would bebowing out early on account
of a full session’s drinkingscheduled for Carlisle Racesthefollowingday.‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I
said.‘Traffic.’Scott brushed it off and
saidnottoworry.Heheldthedoor wide and I walked in,dropping my bag by thearmchair. This room wastraditional.The typeof rooman older couple might findpleasing should they spendChristmas in Grasmere. The
decor was busy: goldwallpaper covered with liliesand heavy crimson curtains.Thefixtureswereeitherbrassorgoldand thefurniturewassolidoak.Scott and I regarded each
other,notspeaking.He gave a faint half-smile
and,thoughIknewhewantedto be here – knew heprobablyneeded tobehere–itwasplainbyhisexpressionhe had other things on his
mind.This didn’t fall into the
categoryofSecondDate inatraditional way, but it didbear some of the hallmarks.While Scott was freshlyshowered and clean-shaven,while he had that jitterytension thatcamefrombeingalonewithanewwoman,thebrightglintof inquisitivenesswas missing from his eyes.We’d already had sex. Themystique was gone. Work,
real life, would now crowdhis thoughts. And I guessedthat, should we engage inpolite conversation overdinner, his mind would beelsewhere.Iglancedthroughtheopen
doorofthebalcony.Thetablewas set, complete withcandles,abottleofsomethingonice.‘Wouldyoupreferwewentstraighttobed?’Iaskedhim.A little taken aback, he
gave a small cough andwidened his eyes. Then hesaid,‘Wouldyoumind?’‘Not at all. We can dine
later.’So we did. This time, he
stayedfullydressedand tookme from behind in thebathroom. I saw by hisexpression that he wantedfast,sluttysex,soIremainedin my heels, facing themirror, while he pulled myknickers to one side and
fuckedmelikeIimaginedheused to fuck Nadine – backwhenshewasstillintoit.Afterwards,we sat outside
beneaththegasheater,astheair had chilled (it was nowafter nine), and he thankedmewithwhatseemedtobeasense of wonder foranticipatinghisneeds.‘It’s not rocket science,’ I
replied, but to be honest I’ddoneitformyselfasmuchasScott. Wayne was still
looming heavily at theforefrontofmythoughts,anditwas as good away as anytogetridofhim.Scott remained dressed in
his navy suit but he’d askedthat I wear just myunderwear,with a hotel robearoundme,whileweate.‘You look beautiful,’ he
toldme.‘How’sthecrab?’‘Good.’‘IwishI’dordereditnow.’‘Havesome,’Isaid,andhe
told me to help myself to arazor clam. ‘Thanks,’ Ireplied, ‘but I’m not keen.’Thetruthwas,I’dnevertriedone. But on first viewing Icouldn’tshaketheimageofatapeworm, pickled informaldehyde, which hadrestedonadustyshelf in thebiology lab at school yearupon year. Petra had beenraving about razor clamsrecently, and I realized she’dmore than likely tried them
whenoutwithScott.The last of the daylight
dwindled as we heard asuccessionofcardoorsslam.Non-residents perhaps, whohad dined at the hotel andwere on their way home, orelsewereonthelookoutforalittle more excitement fromtheirFridayeveningthanthissedate hotel had to offer.Tomorrow the place wouldplayhosttoanotherwedding.Come to theLakes, stay in a
country hotel like this andfindyourselfoutnumberedbynoisy wedding guests eachSaturday night, along withbrides who are worse forwear, false eyelashes fallingoff,watching theprerequisitefirework display, theirchildren pulling at theirdresses, each sporting theirbrand-new double-barrelledname.‘What are you thinking
about?’Scottasked.
‘This and that. Mostlythat.’‘Doesiteverbotheryouto
bealone?’‘Yes,’Isaidtruthfully.‘You don’t relish the
solitude?Ialwaysfanciedmyownprivate—’‘Idaho?’‘Campervan,’hesaid.‘Oh, likeashedonwheels
tohidein.Icanseehowthatcouldbenice.IhaveGeorge,remember,sothereisn’talot
ofsolitudetobehad.ButIdomissaman.’Ifinishedeatingand laid my knife and forkneatlyonthesideofmyplate.‘I miss someone to share inthe responsibility – not theromanticstuffsomuch,Icanlivewithout that.OrmaybeIlearned to live without that,soIdon’tnoticeit.ButImissthe presence of a man.Someone to say, “I’ll checkyour oil and water for you,”someonetogetthepilotlight
going.Sayingallthis,Isoundlike I just miss my dad.Winston was crap at lookingafterme.’‘Is that what you want,
someonetoleanon,someonetotakecareofyou?’‘Ithinkso,yes.’‘Youcanalwaysaskme.’‘No, I can’t,Scott,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t ask you becauseit’s not part of thearrangement. Isn’t thatexactly what you wanted to
avoid?’He frowned. Threw me a
looktosay,Idon’tfollow.‘You wanted it this way
precisely because you don’twant to take care of anotherwoman. Paying for sex freesyou of that. Your words,Scott.Ihavenoproblemwithit.Itworkswellforme,too.’He reached for his glass
andlookedatmeseriously.‘Ireallyhatethethoughtofyoustruggling by on your own,’
hesaid.And it was as though his
words caught on the hairs ofmy inner ear. I shivered inresponse.Iwasn’tsurewhy.Perhaps
itwas theway he spoke, hiswordsloadedwithameaningIcouldn’tquitecomprehend.‘Next time you have a
crisis,Roz,’Scottsaiddarkly,‘youmakesureyoucallme.’
18
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Irose early, leaving Scott inbed, deeply asleep. I’d toldhim last night I would slipaway first thing. He wasplanning to eat breakfast atthehotelbeforedrivingnorth
for the races. Then he wasdining with Petra and Vinceat the no-frills Italian towhich I’d agreed to go butwouldbackoutoflaterwithamigraine.I never gotmigraines. But
sincePetrausedtheexcusesofrequently, she could hardlyquestion it. I was quitepleased with my ploy andplannedtogivePetraaquicktext at around two, tell her Iwas feeling a bit off, to
foreshadow the last-minutecancellation I would deliverlaterataroundsix.What did we do before
texts?Remember the nauseating
dread on the build-up tocalling in sick with ahangover? Hearing yourdisbelieving boss questionyou as you spoke in a thinwhimper: Yes, I think it’ssomethingIate…No,you’retotallyright,youcan’tbetoo
carefulwithfish.Wouldn’t it be great if I
could get rid of Wayne bytext?I slipped on jeans, flip-
flops and a pink T-shirt. IthoughtaboutleavingScottanote, but decided against it.Evidence has a way offinding itself in the wronghands. I ate two slices ofScottish shortbread and acouple of figs from thecomplimentary bits and
piecesonthedesk,anddranka quick cup of lapsangsouchong.ThenIheadedoff.With my bag slung over
my shoulder and anotherlumpofmoneyon itsway tomybankaccount–assoonasI invoiced Scott – I had thepuritanical sense ofaccomplishment that comesfromstrivingtowardsagoal.But who was I kidding?
LookatwhatIwasdoing.I drove beneath a thick,
lush canopy of trees. It wasstill early enough to spot theoccasional deer, tearing atsaplings in the fields beyondtheroad;stillearlyenoughtocatch a convoy of Fleetwoodfish vans on their waytowards Grasmere to maketheir first deliveries of theday. The morning stretchedout in front of me, full ofpossibilities, with only onehugeblemishon thehorizon.Wayne. After paying off my
immediate debts, I hadeighteen hundred pounds inmy bank account. I plannedtogettoKendalforjustafter8a.m.andspendmostof themorning there. Iwould stockthe house full of food andbasic essentials, beforeheading over toB&Q to buya new sofa, new crockery,new linen and a few scattercushions and whatnot tobrighten the place up. If Ikept myself busy, maybe I
could put tonight’s meetingwith Wayne from my minduntilthelastmoment.I would not be spending
the entire night with him. Ihadflatoutrefusedtodothat.But I did acquiesce to sex.Onetime,andonetimeonly.Turning into Morrison’s
car park, I made a mentalnote to pick up a couple ofminiature bottles of JackDaniel’s that I could knockback in the car outside
Wayne’s immediately beforeentering. There would be nopayment for this service.Onlythefreedomtocontinueearning in theway I do, andofcoursethepromisethatnoaction would be takenregarding the theft. WhichWaynehadnow talliedup tototal around seventeenhundredpounds.AsfarasIcouldtell,there
weretwothingsthatcouldgowrong.One,Wayne had lied
andwouldholdmetoransomfor ever (quite possible but,again, I had little choice).Two,Ibecamesosicktomystomach I couldn’t gothroughwithit(seeabovere:JackDaniel’s).I checked my watch. 8.53
a.m.Twelvehours fromnowandthiswouldallbeover.The shop was almost
empty,soIwasabletoperusethe aisles without thenuisance of too many other
shoppers. I filled the base ofthe trolleywithvariousfruitsand vegetables beforeheading straight to themedicines and cosmetics.There, Iwasable toexaminethe display of condomswithout fear of interruption,before hiding the packagessafely beneath a bunch ofbananas, away from pryingeyes.I had told Wayne I
expected him to wear two
Extra-safe condoms and Iwould be making a fullinspectionpriortointercourseto check for any ulceratedlesions or breaks in the skin.This was all very routine, Itold him, and he had noddedseriously, saying, ‘Couldn’tagreemore.Absolutely.’I dropped some
antibacterial bodywash intothetrolley,someantibacterialmouthwash, a bottle ofFemfresh (yes, I know the
vagina is a self-cleaningoven,butthiswasWaynewewere talking about) alongwith two bottles of NightNurse to knock me outafterwardsandhopefullysendmetooblivion.Iwasallset.
The house itself was apleasing little cottage locatedon the edge of Ambleside,justofftheroadthatleadsupto the Kirkstone Pass. If
Kirkstone Pass soundsfamiliar, you’ve most likelyheard it mentioned on thenational travel reports. It’softenthefirstofthemountainpasses to close after heavysnowfall, and lays claim tohaving the third highest pubinEngland.Wayne inherited the house
from his parents. His fatherwasapostalworker,deadtenyears,andhismotherlivedinshelteredaccommodation.
BecauseWaynewassavvy,and had persuaded his mumto transfer the house into hisnameuponhisfather’sdeath,thestatepaidforhismother’scare, leaving Waynemortgage- and dependant-free,withplentyofmoneyinhis pocket to spend on –wouldyoubelieveit?–fish.‘I didn’t knowyouhad an
aquarium,’ I said, beforetakingintheroomfully–lotsof chrome. Clean lines. Two
leathersofasinivory.A large rectangular glass
coffee table took upmost ofthe floor spaceand thedecorwas very much stylishbachelorpad. Iwassurprisedbythestandardofcleanliness.Hewasobviouslyveryhouseproud.He began pointing out the
most prized fish in the tank,whichcoveredoneentirewallofthelivingroom.Thehouseitselfwaspretty
isolated.Itwasaccessedfroma single-track road. Back inthe sixties, it had been aworking farm but, upon thefarmer’sdeath,thehousewassold toWayne’s parents, andthe surrounding land dividedup and sold off separately. Itwas now rented to twofarmers in Troutbeck whoused it to graze their sheep.I’d agreed to come herebecauseIknewnoonewouldseemycar,andbecauseIwas
notabouttomeetWayneatahotel and set myself backeighty pounds.And I’m sureitgoeswithoutsaying,butthethought of Wayne at myhouse was totally out of thequestion. Even without thepryingeyesofCelia.Two seahorses bobbed
aboutinthecornerofthetankand, without really meaningto, I reached out my hand,touching the glass. Suchendearing, vulnerable little
creatures. They are terribleswimmers, apparently,flapping about in the samespot. And was I correct inthinking it was the male ofthe species who becamepregnant? Now there’s athought.‘Doyouhaveagenerator?’
IaskedWayne.‘Naturally,’hereplied.‘What happens when you
goonholiday?Whofeedsthefishthen?’
‘MycousininGlenridding.Hekeepsreptiles.’Ofcoursehedoes.‘Welookaftereachother’s
menageries,’ he explained,‘whenwe’reaway.’I found myself thinking it
strange that I knew none ofthis. I had worked withWayneforsomeconsiderabletime, during which he’d toldmeaboutthefarmhouse,butIcouldn’t recall him talkingabout the fish. Odd, as this
was clearly his life. I couldonly imagine that I switchedoffwhenhespoke,absorbingjust the bare essentials. Petrasaid I did the samewith her.She said my hard drive wasfull and I needed todefragment to clear up somediskspace.‘So,’Isaidafteramoment,
‘thisisabitawkward.’‘It is?’ He seemed
surprised.I felt like I was in a bad
porn film, the actorsexchanginga seriesof stiltedlines before suddenly havingsex.Or perhaps an arty French
film. A grotesque, loose-fleshed man and a womanwithout make-up (‘Brave!’the tabloids would declareher)haveahuge,viciousrow… before suddenly havingsex.It was kind of tragic the
way Wayne had prepared
himself for tonight.He’dhadhis hair cut – somewheredifferent to his usual barber;perhaps he’d paid a bitmoreon this occasion. The resultwas that his blonde, almostcolourless hair had been leftlonger on top and cut razor-short at the sides. With histhin lips, sweating brow anddarkshirtbuttonedrightuptothecollar,he favouredanSSofficer.Ismiledwanlyhiswayand
suggested we might as wellget onwith it. I almost said,‘Get it over with,’ butmanaged to reelmyself in atthe last second. Afterdowning theJackDaniel’s inthe car before enteringWayne’s cottage, I had thatheady impertinence thatcomes from teetering on theborder of being drunk, whenyour confidence is at itshighestandeverythingseemsa lot funnier than it is. Now
was the time to do it. Anylonger andmy blood alcohollevelwoulddropfast,leavingme melancholy and, mostlikely, ashamed. And if Iremained true to form, thisshame would manifest asmildaggression.Iremovedmyshirt.Wayne’s eyes grew wide.
‘What,here?’hesaid.‘You really didn’t think
we’d be rolling around onyourbed,didyou?’
‘No,’hesaidquietly,butitwas apparent by hiscrestfallen look that wasexactly what he’d had inmind.‘Wayne,’ I said, wrinkling
my nose in disgust. ‘Sorry,butno.’‘Should I get undressed?’
heasked.Ishrugged.‘It’syourcall.’I was hoping he would
remain fully clothed, but no.First,heunbuttonedhisshirt,
exposingthefishbellyskinofhis chest. He glanced myway, uncertain, nervous Imay flee, I think, so I gavemy best encouraging look.The longer he dawdled, thelongerIwasstuckhere.Idrewthecurtains,stepped
out of my flip-flops andslipped off my jeans. Mymovements were fast andmechanical. I had thebusinesslike air one adoptswhen undressing for amedic
and, when I caught Waynewatching, for a second Ialmostfeltsorryforhim.Atwork, both his position
of authority and the fact hewas a stickler for detailcombined to make himunappealing on occasion. Hewas the boss everyone likedto dislike because he had apower, power over his staff,who were both bettereducated and earned moremoney than him. It was an
oddsituation,butanecessaryone. You go removing thehated figure from anyworkplace and the staff turnon each other. It’s far moreeffective to have one personwho everyone can complainabout.I’msuretheownersofthecompanywerewellawareof this. On the days thatWayne was absent from theclinic, we bickered. And Iwouldfindmyselfwonderingjusthowfarwe’dgowithour
snipes if he wasn’t there atall. Perhaps we’d turn oneach other, just as thoseinhabitants of Easter Islandare purported to have done.Though I should say Icouldn’t imagine actuallyeating Gary. No matter howmuchhegotonmynerves.All this to say that the
Wayne standing in front ofme was a sorry-lookingspecimen in his underpantsand socks. And even though
he was holding me underduress, and even though Ibeyond despised him formakingmecomehere,Inowsaw the reason for that waspuredesperation.I removed my underwear
and Wayne flinched. Ithought he might come rightthen and there, but hemanagedtoholdittogether.‘When did you last see a
woman naked?’ I asked, andheshookhishead.Hewasn’t
willingtosay.‘Okay,’Isaid.‘Ijustneedacoupleofthingsfrommybag.’I walked the few steps
across the room and, out ofthe corner of my eye, I wasawareofWayneremovinghissocksandunderpants.With the two condoms in
my hand, I made my waytowardshim.Rippingopenthepackets,I
heldhisgaze.‘One time and one time
only,Wayne.That’sthedeal.Areweclear?’Henoddedrepeatedly.‘Iwanttohearyousayit.’‘I promise,’ he said
breathlessly. ‘Hurry up, canyou?’‘No.Not until you tellme
you won’t bother me again.Thatyouwon’t speak of thisagain. And you absolutelywillnotinformanyoneofmyarrangement with Scott, northe thing with the missing
money.’He screwedup his face. ‘I
won’t. You have my word.Hurry, Roz, for Christ’ssake.’‘Are we clear, Wayne? I
meanit.’‘Yes.Yes.Absolutely.’‘Okaythen.’WithWaynesuitedupand
ready, I turned around, putmy hands on the windowsilland told him to go ahead. Ididn’t want to face him.
Certainly didn’t want histongue near my mouth. Iexpected doing it this waywould be such a turn-on forhim that he wouldn’t lastlong.Iexpecteditwouldbeover
withinseconds.Exceptnothinghappened.I waited. Twenty seconds
passed, and there wasnothing.‘Wayne?’Iwhispered.Hedidn’tanswer.Iwentto
turn around, but he reachedout, preventing me fromdoing so. ‘Don’t,’ he said.‘Don’t look at me,’ herepeated,hisvoicecatching.‘Wayne,whatisit?’‘I can’t do it,’ he
whimpered. ‘I can’t gothroughwithit.’Then he was rambling,
something about his bodybetraying him. I wasn’t sureif he’d had some sort ofmoral epiphany or he was
simply unable to sustain hiserection.‘Wayne, it’s okay,’ I said,
trying to pacify him. Then Itold him I wouldn’t look athim. Told him I would keepmy eyes away, but I wouldget dressed, and then maybewecouldtalk.A moment later, I was
reaching for my flip-flops,almostdressed.After that, I have no idea
what he was doing, because
thefuckerhitmeonthebackofthehead,knockingmeoutcold.
19
HAVE NEVER BEEN knockedunconscious.I’vefainted,butthat’s hardly the same thing.Infact,I’mjustgoingtotakea moment to explain thedifferencebetweenthetwo.Faintingoccurswhenthere
isalackofbloodflowtothebrain.It’s thebody’srightingmechanism. You faint, fallover, the blood doesn’t haveto fight gravity to travel upthroughthecarotidarteriesinyour neck and the braininstantly receives the oxygenit’sbeenlacking.Thisiswhysoldiers faint when standingfor extended periods onparade. Their blood isliterallyintheirboots.Unconsciousnessfollowing
a blow to the head is quitedifferent; it’saseriousaffair.It is not like, say, in themovies, where the villain isput out of action for a fewmoments, allowing our herotoescape,andthenhecomesto, fully functioning, only abitmorecross.No one really knowswhat
causesaconcussion,butmostare agreed on this: the brainhas become damaged,resulting in a temporary and
sometimes permanent loss offunction. Longstandingproblems can occur, theextent of which are undercontinual investigation. Aftersustainingablowtothehead,patients may havepermanently slurred speech,facial expressions may alterand, in some cases,personality traits change. Iknew of one guy, atradesman, who fell off aladder, and, where he’d
alwaysbeenmorose,thekindof unhappy, scheming typewho was highly critical ofother builders’ work,suddenlyhebecamehappy.Itmusthavefeltstrangeforhimto be babbling away to folk,his face animated and joyful,while they viewed himsuspiciously throughnarrowed eyes, noneof themquite ready to believe themiracle that stood beforethem.
And then of course therewas Mama Cass. Shereportedly increased hersinging range after being hiton the head with a piece ofcopper pipe whilst on abuilding site – although thisstory has been challengedover the years by friends ofCass Elliot, who said it wasusedasawaytoexplainwhyJohn Phillips left her out oftheMamasand thePapasforsolong(hisrealreasonbeing
shewastoooverweight).But I’m getting off my
point.I lay there on Wayne’s
carpet, more or less in thefoetal position but with myhead extended backwards,swallowing repeatedly, as Iappeared to have a surfeit ofsaliva. Iwasn’t afraid at thispoint,andIwascuriousastowhetherIwasunconsciousornot. Not many concussionsresult in a loss of
consciousness,andIcouldn’tsayforsureexactlywhathadhappened. All I knew wassomething was not as itshouldbe.IcouldhearWayne’svoice
as though through water. Hewaspanickedandcallingoutmy name and, inmy head, Iwas answering. I wasansweringloudly,shoutingasyou do when your ears aresubmerged in the bath andyou’reaskedaquestion.
But Wayne couldn’t hearme. And I couldn’t seeWayne.AndIcouldn’tmovemy head to see where hemightbelocated.Myauditorysystemwasall
off kilter. Wayne’s callingwas diminishing, just as thehum from the aquarium, thesoundofthebubblesrisingupevery few seconds, becameinsufferably loud. I tried tocovermyearswithmyhands.But movement wasn’t
possible.And then,naturally,IthoughtofGeorge.Oddly, up until that
moment, it hadn’t evenoccurred to me that I mightbeindanger.Silly,really,butIwassofocusedontryingtowade through my thoughts,on trying to understand myimmediate environment,knowing that on someintuitivelevelmysenseswerecompromised, that I actuallyfeltsafe.
More saliva flooded mymouth. That’s when I wasable to open my eyes andrealizeIhadbeensickearlier.The blow to the head hadcausedmetovomit.I began searching the
room, and my eyes came torestonWayne.Hewas rocking to and fro
on a dining-room chair, hishandsclaspedinfrontofhim.Was this how it would
end?
HadthelaughablerisksI’dtaken to try to right pastwrongsledmetothis?It seemed as though they
had.It was the cruellest of
ironies. In trying to freemyself from a life enslavedby debt, I’d become aprisoner.‘Wayne,’ I said, but it
didn’t come out right. Theword was blurred andformless. The sound was
shockingformetohear.Andfor Wayne, too, because hesnatched his head up andstaredatme.‘Fuck,’hewhispered.Then
he resumed his rockingaction.I turned over on to my
back away from the vomit,with my legs straight out.After lying with my kneesflexed for I wasn’t sure howlong,itwasarelieftostretchmy hamstrings. I pulled my
toes towards me, felt thestretch run right through mycalf muscles and into eachAchilles’.ThenItriedtoraisemy hands to test if I’dsuffered a stroke. Both armslifted evenly, so I turnedmyheadtowardsWayne.Ismiledathim.‘Why the hell are you
smiling?’heasked,appalled.And I thought: Good.
Facial muscles were stillfunctioning properly. Stroke
was now an unlikely event.With any luck, my speechwould come back when theinflammation in my brainbegantosubside.SoIdidnothing.Infact,Ifeltanoverriding
tiredness,soIsleptalittle.
When I woke, the roomwasinsemi-darkness.I could sense Wayne
nearby before opening myeyes. I stayed still and
listened.At first I thoughthewas experiencing difficultywithhisbreathing;itsoundedlaboured and uneasy. ButafterlisteningforaminuteorsoIrealizedhewastryingtocalmhimself.I watched him for a
moment and then readiedmyself for speaking, fearfulof the sound I was about tomake.‘Help.’To my ears it sounded
normal. So I said it again,onlylouder.‘Helpme.’Wayne went stock-still.
Then he put his hands to hisface and his body quakedirregularlyashetriedtoholdbackhiscrying.My head was throbbing.
He must have got me rightslap bang on the occipitalprotuberance. I had to keepmyfaceangled to theside toavoid the back of my skullconnectingwiththefloor.My
tongue was thick in mymouth like cottonwool.Andmythoughtswerewoozyanddisconnected.‘I wanted you to stay,’ he
whimpered. ‘That’s all. Ipanicked.Ijustwantedyoutostaylonger.’‘My head really hurts,
Wayne.Whatdidyouhitmewith?’He motioned towards the
desk. On it stood a small,chrome, hand-held fire
extinguisher. The type youmight see inside a boat’scabin, or a caravan. It wassmeared with blood. I feltaround the back ofmy skull.My hair was matted withbloodandtheskinwasraisedaroundthewound.IlookedatWayne.Hewas
uncertain of what to dowithme,whichwasnotgood.Andhewassweatingalot.Iwent to sit upbut, at the
smallest movement, pain
crashed through my head,keepingmegluedtothefloor.‘I’m not angry with you,
Wayne,’Ilied,placatinghim.Ikeptmyvoicewarm,steady.‘But you really need to helpme up. I need the bathroom,andI’mnotsteady.’‘I won’t hurt you, you
know.’He said this in a way that
suggested he found thethought unsavoury. Like itwas beneath him. Like he
wouldn’tstoopthatlow.‘I know you wouldn’t,’ I
said, going along with theinsanityof thesituation. ‘I’mnot scared,Wayne, but I amuncomfortable.’Hestayedexactlywherehe
was; it was as if I’d notspoken. His leaky eyesbecame empty as he lookedpastme towards thewindow.He must have opened thecurtains after he’d hit me. ‘Iwon’t be able to face you at
work on Monday,’ he saidabsently.‘You panicked. You just
got out of control for asecond. It’sunderstandable. Itotallyunderstand.’Heblinked.‘Youdo?‘Yes,’Isaidgently.‘Ishouldn’thavemadeyou
do this,’ he said. ‘It’sunforgivable.It’snotthewayIwanted it tobebetweenus.Notlikethis.Neverlikethis.’‘Neither of us is who we
wanttoberightnow,Wayne.I’m pretty sure of that. Butyou felt helpless. It’s partlymyfault.Imadeyoufeelbadabout yourself by saying Iwould only do this one time,by saying I wouldn’t stay.But you have to understand,Wayne, I’m only doing thisthingwith Scott because I’mdesperate, too. Like I said,it’s not who I want to beeither.’I tried to move again, but
painshotthroughmyskull.‘TheonlywayIgettokeep
anything is if I trap it,’Wayne said, his voicetrembling.‘That’s not true … and,
Wayne? Spare me themelodrama.’Heturnedonalamptothe
sideofhim.Itwasdim,thirtywatts maybe, the kind youleave on through the nightwhen you’re breastfeeding.Whenyouneed to locate the
baby without tripping overyourslippers.‘Willyougotothepolice?’
heasked.‘And say what? I came
here for sex because you’reblackmailing me, but youdecided to knock meunconscious instead? Notsure they’d really believethat.’‘You could say I raped
you.’‘Butyoudidn’t.’
He rose and came close,kneelingbesideme.Oddly, even though inside
I was still livid, livid withWayne, lividwithmyself forgetting into this situation, Iwasn’t scared. I watchedWayne’s sad, apologetic faceandcouldfeelonlypity.Gently, he put one hand
beneath my neck, and theother under my shoulders,preparing to lift me into asitting position. ‘I’m so, so
sorry,’hesaid.‘Wayne,’ I replied softly,
‘itwillbeokay,youknow. Ipromise,thiswillallbeokay.On Monday we’ll pretend itnever happened and we’llnever speak of it again. Nooneneedstoknowbutus.’Andheclosedhiseyesand
shook his head solemnly, asthoughgrapplingwithadeepthought. As though he knewwithout a doubt that itwouldn’t be okay. This was
not the end of the matter,whateverIsaid.Because how on earth
coulditbe?
20
ICOULDBARELYrememberthetrip home. After Wayne gotmesittingup, thepain inmyhead was too intense for meto remain vertical for morethan a few seconds and Ifound I needed to rest some
more. Imust have either lostconsciousness or slept – Iwasn’t sure which – for Iawoke covered with ablanket, no sign of Wayne,and then I got in the car andheaded home to Hawkshead.It was a wonder I arrivedthereinonepiece.Now it was the following
day, and I was in Petra’skitchen,hergrillingmeaboutflaking out of the dinner theprevious evening with Scott
andNadine.‘Didyougettheaura?’she
asked.‘Aura?’ I replied, having
no idea what Petra wasreferringto.‘Yes, the aura,’ she said
snippily. ‘The blurred vision,thenumbnessintheface, thepinsandneedles?’Igaveasmallshrug.Took
asipoforangejuice.‘Idon’tthinkso.’‘Well, you’ve not had a
proper migraine then. Youhad a headache. There’s aworld of difference.Headaches are inconvenient.Migraines are incapacitating.If you’d had one, youwouldknow. Did you takeIbuprofen?’‘Ofcourse.’‘Andnochange?’‘Nope.Nochangeatall.’‘Didyoutrylyingdownin
adarkenedroom?’sheasked.Ialmostlaughed.Kindof,I
wantedtosay.‘No, I didn’t try that,’ I
said.‘Iwillnexttime.’She looked at me
suspiciously, as though shedidn’t believe I’d had amigraine in the first place.She knew I’d cried off fromher dinner last night withoutgood reason, and this,coupled with her knowledgethat I was playing my cardsclose to my chest regardingmy financial situation, had
gotheralljumpy.Petra couldn’t stand not to
know.She separated rashers of
streaky bacon before layingthemonthegrill.Aloudwailcame from the garden, thekind of wail that wouldnormallymerit Petra runningwildly though the house tofind its source, breathlesslychecking if her child waslyingbentandcrookedat thefootofthestairs.
She looked up, cast asidelongglancetothegarden,tuttingdismissively.Thenshewent back to the bacon,rejigging it, moving eachslice along a fraction, toallowhertocramalittlemoreontothegrill.‘Doyouwantmetogoand
checkonClara?’Iasked.‘Vinceisoutthere.’‘Yes, but she’s still crying
prettyhard.’‘She’lllive.’
Rinsing her hands beneaththe hot tap, she toldme thatlastnighthadn’texactlybeena success. Their dinner withScottandNadinehadcometoa close rather early, ratherabruptly,actually, afterScottmadeanexcuseaboutaworkproblem that needed dealingwith, and the brittleness toher tone told me she feltsnubbed.BeforeIcouldrespondina
suitably soothing manner, as
wasmywaywhenPetrawaspissed off with someone,suggesting they probablydidn’tmeantobethoughtless,probably had a lot on, shechanged the subject, tellingme that even though I’d nottechnically suffered a truemigraine attack, I did lookverytired,andnotatallwell.‘Is something worrying
you?’sheasked.I feigned surprise. ‘No,’ I
said.‘NothingthatIcanthink
of,anyway.’Ididn’tsoundatall convincing, but then whodoes when asked such aquestion? ‘Do I really lookthatbad?’ I asked. ‘I thoughtI was looking rather perkytoday.That’salotofbacon.’‘There are six of us.Mind
you,Clarawillonlypickatit.She raided the cupboardsbeforewewereupandfoundthe doughnuts Liz left lastnight.’‘Six?’ I asked. ‘Who are
thesix?’Petrafrowned.‘Thefourof
us…andScottandNadine.Itold you they were comingforbrunch.’My forehead prickledwith
heat.‘Youdidn’t.’Petra cracked eggs into a
bowl,pausingtocountuponher fingers. ‘Two forVince,’she said out loud. ‘Two forScott … will you have oneeggortwo?’Without really realizing
what I was doing, I slid offthe stool and went to reachformybag.‘Where are you going?’
Petra said. ‘You’re notleaving,surely?’Of course I’m leaving, I
wanted to say. You don’tactuallyexpectmetostay.‘Just clearing a space,’ I
repliedweakly.‘Iwishyou’dtold me they were coming,Petra. I’m not really up tomaking polite conversation
thismorning.Myheadhurts,and—’‘Ididtellyou.’She didn’t. If she had, I
wouldn’t have come. Icouldn’t say that, though,obviously, so I had to let itrest.‘I look like shit,’ I said
afteramoment.Petrastoppedwhatshewas
doing and turned to faceme.Asmileplayedatthecornersof hermouth. ‘You just said
youwerelookingquiteperky.You’re not bothered aboutwhatScott thinksofyou, areyou? Because I can tell yourightnowhewon’tevenlookatyou.He’sthatkindofguy.Doesn’t notice women. Youcould be naked in front ofhim and he’d be morebotheredabout—’‘IwasmeaningNadine,’ I
replied quickly. ‘She’salwayssowellgroomed.’‘Go and wash your face
and put on some of mylipstick, if it makes you feelbetter.They’llbehereinfiveminutes. Though I don’tknow why you’re fussing, Ikeep telling you, they’re notwhat you think. They’rereallynotas…’Petra rambled on, but I’d
stopped listening. Inside, Iwas flapping. I was lookingaround for an escape, anexcuse, so I failed to noticeright away that she had also
taken on a high colour. Herneck, the tops of her arms,hadgoneadeep,blotchyred.Angry red, like patches ofpsoriasis.At first I thought it was
because her crush on thecouple had waned. Petrathrew herself into these newfriendshipswithsuchenergy,such gusto, that when thetimecamefor theotherpartytocoolthingsalittle,perhapsby accepting another
invitation rather than herown,shewouldbehavelikeajilted bride. Well, maybethat’s a little harsh, but shedid feel the hurtextraordinarilydeeply.I watched Petra move
about the kitchen. Watchedher staccato actions, herbreath catching in her throat,andknewrightthenthattherewassomethingmoreatplay.Dreadpouredthroughme.Petra was attracted to
Scott.ThenVinceappearedatthe
French windows. ‘Morning,Roz,’hesaidbrightly.‘Morning.’‘Howlong tillbrunch?’he
asked.Petraregardedhim,andher
jaw tightened. ‘Fifteenminutes. And you’ll need tochangethoseshorts.’‘Right-o,’hesaid,andshot
me a quick smile. ‘Georgeokay?’
‘Great.’‘Think he’ll be up for a
spot of fishing Thursdayevening?’‘He’dloveit.’‘Six thirty, then,’ he said.
‘I’llpickhimupafterhistea.’Vincedisappearedupstairs.
Petrawatchedhimgo,givingthe impression of beingunreasonablyirritatedbyhim.Therewasnothingunusualinherbossinghimaround.Thatwashowtheyfunctioned.But
the look in her eyes – thescorn–asheshuffledpastinhis shorts and flip-flops, thatwas something entirely new.Theshorts,incidentally,wereprettybad.Theywerefawnincolour and a shade too shortforarotundfigurelikeVince.The type worn by out-of-shapeAmerican spectators atgolftournaments.‘Haveyoutwohadarow?’
I asked Petra, hopeful herbehaviour was caused by
somethingotherthanScott.‘A row?’ she said,
distracted. ‘We never row. Iignore him when I’m angry,youknowthat.’‘Areyouangrythen?’Her shoulders heaved
visibly as she exhaled. ‘No,’shesaid.‘It’s just…it’s justsometimes he can be so’ –she paused before saying –‘disappointing.’ Then shelookedatmeguiltily,likesheknewshewasoutof linebut
shecouldn’thelpit.Thedoorbellrang.‘Christ,’ she said, peering
at the bacon. ‘I need to turnthese over now. Would youmindgettingthat?’
Long story short, Scott wasable to disguise his look ofshockuponseeingmeanswerthe door. And what couldhave been a period ofsupreme awkwardness turnedoutnottobewheneveryone’s
attentionwas takenbyClara,who threw themost splendidtantrum. I love watching agood tantrum. It brings outsuch odd behaviour in thesurrounding adults, nonemoresothanPetra,whohadatorrent of excuses as to whyClarawas conducting herselfinthismanner.AndalsofromNadine, who did her best toreassure Petra (on somesubliminal level, anyway)thatshewasnotabadparent,
andinnowayatfault.In the midst of all this,
Scott shot me a look acrossthe kitchen that said, Shit!This is unexpected! but thenfollowed it quickly with ashrug and warm smile asthoughtoconvey:Itiswhatitis.Let’snotfuckup.Sowedidn’t.We each stuck to the
harmless conversation ofone’s own offspring.ListeningtoNadineandPetra
cluckawaywasdullbutsafe,and Iwas about tomakemyexcuses and leave whenNadinethrewaspannerintheworks.‘Youknow,Roz,I’vebeen
thinking. I’msureyouwouldgetalongwithmybrother.’‘Oh?’Isaid.‘Yes,he’sbeensinglefora
long time. I’ve no ideawhy.He’sgot sucha lotgoing forhim.’‘Wonder why I’ve not
come across him,’ I saidvaguely,andglancedatPetra,whowasabsolutelybeaming.You would think by herexpression that Nadine hadmentionedroyalty.ShegazedtowardsNadine,eagerforhertogoon.But Scott said, rather
bluntly, ‘Your brother’s nouse to Roz.’ And Nadineturned tohim,herexpressioncalm but masking deepoffence.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why ishenouse?’Scottshrugged.‘He’s’–he
paused, choosing his wordscarefully – ‘he’s not whatyou’d call properlyemployed,ishe?’I glanced at Petra, and her
smile fell. She looked asthough all the air had beensucked out of her. Reluctantto upset Nadine, but feelingas though she must saysomething, she uttered, ‘Roz
islookingforsomeonestable.Financial stability is the key,more than anything else,really.’This might have come
across as pompous if youdidn’t know the history. ButPetra was protecting herselfhere as much as me. As itwas, Nadine didn’t appearconcerned with what Petrahad to say, she was clearlyfuming about Scott’sassessment of her brother,
and the rest of us looked atoneanother,helpless,waitingforhertoblow.‘My brother,’ she said
through her teeth, ‘is aperfectly decent humanbeing, who has no financialburdens. He is kind towomen, incredibly loyal and,just because he doesn’t haveyour ambition, Scott, it doesnotmakehimaloser.’Scott sat back inhis chair.
‘I didn’t call him a loser. I
justdon’t thinkhe’s right forRoz,that’sall.’Nadine did a double take.
‘And you would know thishow?’‘Because’–andhe looked
atme as he said this – ‘Rozseems like shewouldwant aguy with something aboutthem. Your brother’s adrifter. He’s a nice guy, buthe’s not going anywhere.He’ll still be living week toweekwhenhe’ssixty.’
Nadine shook her head. ‘Ican’t believe you come outwiththisstuff.’‘To be honest,’ I
interruptedweakly, ‘itwouldbeimpossibleat themoment,anyway.George isn’t stayingwith his dad for anothercoupleofweeks,soI’mstuckathome.NotthatImind,it’sjust—’‘You could go on
Thursday,’ Vince piped up,the first words he’d uttered
since we’d sat down. ‘Youcould go out with him onThursday.’ He’d fashionedhimself a bacon-and-eggsandwich,andashebitdowna little of the yolk spurted.Petra looked away. ‘I’mtaking him fishing.He couldspend the night here, or Idon’t mind dropping himback late, give you a chanceto have a couple of drinkswith this guy. If that’s whatyouwant.’
Nadine turnedback tome,her head angled to one side.She was waiting for aresponse.‘Okay’ came out of my
mouth without my realizingI’dactuallyspoken.And it was only when I
glanced at Scott that I sawwhatIhaddone.Hewasangry.Hedidn’twantmetomeet
Nadine’sbrotheratall.
Winston dropped Georgebackathomejustafterseven.‘You need to have a talk
withhim,’hesaid,asGeorgewalked past me, glum andsilent, and went straightupstairstohisbedroom.Celia was in her front
garden watering the hangingbaskets with a pump-actionwatering can specificallydesigned for the task. Sheappeared fully focused, evenfrowning slightly as she
adjusted the spout, but shewasclearlyeavesdropping.I tiltedmyhead inCelia’s
direction and asked Winstonif he wanted to come in,indicating that I’d rather notdiscuss George on the frontstep.Buthedeclined.‘Gotahotdate,’hesaid.‘Ohyes?’‘MickeyTallis.We’re kite
surfing on MorecombeSands.’‘Trynottokillyourself.’
Winston had knownMickey Tallis for years andknocked about with himwhenhecouldn’tfindanyonebetter.Hewas the lastof theunmarrieds.I tendedtoavoidMickey (particularly whenhe’d had a drink) as healwaysmanaged to bring theconversation back around toUltravox. And what anabsolute travesty it was that‘Vienna’ was denied thenumber-one spot on account
of Joe Dolce’s ridiculousnoveltyrecord,‘ShaddapYouFace’.None of which was
relevant now, but it poppedintomyhead.Winstonremainedwithhis
weightagainstthedoorframe,not quite ready to leave. Heglanced towards Celia,noddedhello,andthenturnedback tome. ‘He’s still prettycut up about the incident atschool.’
‘George is?What did yousaytohim?’‘Itoldhimhecouldn’ttake
money and other people’sstuff, because they make amassive deal out of it.But itdidn’t mean he was a badpersonoranything.’Silently, I mouthed,
Shhhhh, to get him to lowerhisvoice.‘Whatdidhesay?’‘Says hewants to go back
tohisoldschool.Hereckonshehasn’tgotanyfriendshere
and he wants to go back toWindermere.’‘I’lltalktohim,’Isaid.‘Okey-doke.’Thenapause.‘Roz?’‘Whatisit,Winston?’‘Youlooktired.’I shrugged. ‘It’s been a
roughweekend.’‘Are you okay?’ he asked
tenderly. ‘I mean, are youmanagingokay?’‘I’m fine,Winston.Go fly
yourkite.’
Upstairs, George sat on thenew beanbag I’d picked upfor him fromPoundstretcher.It was cheap. It wouldprobably last about fiveminutes.Georgehadhisbacktothedoorandwaswrigglinghis small body, trying toenvelopasmuchofhimselfinthe thing as possible, asthoughtryingtodisappear.‘Hey,’Isaidsoftly.
‘Hey,’hereplied.‘Doyoulikethebeanbag?’‘Yeah.’I sat down on his bed.
Gesturing to his duvet cover,Isaid,‘Igavethisawashforyou.It’llsmellniceandcleanwhenyouclimbinlater.’‘Thanks,’he replied, and I
feltsilly.Whatdidhecare?For a time that afternoon,
whilemakinguphisbedwithfreshlinen,smoothingoutthecreases, fluffing his pillows,
rearranging his Pokémonfiguresonthewindowsill,I’dhad the short-lived sensationoffeelinglikeagoodmother.‘Your dad says you’re
worriedaboutschool.’‘Iwanttomoveschools.’‘Okay,’ I said carefully,
‘but where would you go?There’s only one school inHawkshead. That makesthingskindofdifficult.’Heturnedtofaceme.‘We
couldmoveback.’
‘We can’t, honey. Notstraight away, anyhow. And,besides,you’dstillhavetogoto school tomorrow, whetherwemovehouseagainornot.’‘I could go to my old
schoolandyoucouldtakemethere on your way to work.Ollie Mundine goes toWindermere each daybecausehismumworksatthepostoffice.’So he’d really put some
thoughtintothis.
‘Okay, I see where you’regoing, and yes, it would bedoable. You could moveschools,andyes,Icoulddropyou there onmyway to andfromwork,butI’mnotgoingtodothat.’‘Whynot?’‘Because the only reason
youwant to leave is becauseyou’re ashamed of whatyou’ve done. And you can’trun away from things,George.Whathappensifyou
get into trouble at your nextschool? Then what? Wemove again? And again?Every time you don’t likesomething, you can’t justpackitinorrunaway.’‘Whynot?’‘Because you run out of
options, honey. And soonerorlateryouhavetofaceuptostuff.’
21
AT WORK THE followingmorningtherewasnosignofWayne. It was now tenfifteen, I was on my thirdpatient of the day and theother clinicians werespeculating as to the reason
forhisabsence.Absence with no
explanatory call was not likeWayne.Gary took it upon himself
tophonehimbutcouldgetnoanswer on either the mobileor landline, so after askingeach of us whether wethought he should informhead office, and each of ussaying no, inform them thefollowing day if he stillhadn’t turned up, he went
aheadanddidit.After the events of
Saturday,Iwasn’tcompletelysurprised Wayne had goneAWOL, but it was a littleworrying, as itwas sooutofcharacter. Wayne nevermissed work unless he wasincapacitated by illness, andhe would always call. Hewould leave lists ofinstructions for us, as thoughheweretrulyindispensable.Wherethehellwashe?IfI
could turn up for work afterwhat hadhappened, so couldhe.Perhaps Wayne was
thoroughly ashamed of hisbehaviour on Saturday andhad gone on a drinkingbender.Perhapshe’dbebacktomorrow, looking worse forwear,fullofapology.AsIsaid,aftermybangon
the head on Saturday night,my memory of leavingWayne’s was a little hazy. I
could recall him babbling,tellingme repeatedly he wassorry for his actions, that hemight not make it into workonMonday.Hesaidhemightneed a few days to clear hishead. Or at least I think hedid.NowIwasn’tsurewhatIremembered.I’dgonehomeandcrashed.
I didn’t need the bottle ofNight Nurse, the trauma tomyhead inducinga solid tenhours of dreamless sleep, the
like of which I couldn’trememberhavingsinceIwasa teenager. I’d wokendisorientated and dizzy, withlittle memory of the drivehome, feeling relievednonethelessthatmybodyhadtakencharge,fallingintosucha depth of sleep that I wasspared the ordeal of relivingthenightatWayne’soverandoverinmyhead.After a long soak in the
bath, by ten o’clock the
following morning my bodyseemed intact. My senseswere functioning again andwithonlyminimalswellingtothe head and a scalp woundhiddenbymyhair,brunchatPetra’shadn’t seemedsuchadisastrous way to finish offthe weekend – all thingsconsidered.ExceptnowIhadadate.I had a date with the
brother-in-law of the guy Iwasscrewingformoney.
I had tried, repeatedly,afteragreeingtoit,tocancel.Itriedtowormmywayoutofit. But Nadine was smartingafterherexchangewithScott,and the whole situationbecame a stand-off betweenthe two of them. She wasconvinced that Scott wasunfairly pigeonholing herbrother, as was typical whenpeople chose to livedifferently to him, and themore he tried to talk her
round, the more she dug herheelsin.Also, where at first Petra
had sided with Scott, in somuch as she believedNadine’sbrotherwouldbeanunsuitablechoiceatthisstagein Roz’s life, as she phrasedit, she ended up doing acomplete about-face,declaring, ‘Who are we todecidewho’srightforher?’Petrified of saying the
wrong thing, tripping myself
up, I watched the situationunfoldwithincreasinghorror,asScottdraggedupinstancesof Nadine’s brother’sfecklessness.Needless to say, with all
that swimming around inmyhead this Monday morning,and a full patient list, Icouldn’truminateforlongonWayne’s absence, so I left itto Gary to try to track himdown.KeithHollinghurstgroaned
nowas I sprung the jointsofhis thoracic spine.Therewasaspinousprocess–T8–thathad become perpetuallylodged and proved stubbornto get moving. I climbed onto the treatment couch,straddlingKeith from behindto get my full weightperpendicularly over the topof him, and pressed downthroughmythumbs.After twentypushes,Keith
begged for mercy, and some
air–it’s pretty impossible totake a breath when havingthisperformed–andtoldme,craning his neck and puffinghard, that he had apropositionforme.‘Not another one,’ I said,
rememberingthelasttime.‘Hearmeout.Not…’and
henoddedhisheadwheretheword ‘wanking’ should be,not able to bring himself tosay it in the presence of alady. ‘No more of that
nonsense,’hesaidguiltily.I climbed down and
washed my hands as Keithstruggled with the task ofturning himself over –imagine a woodlouse tryingto right itself. It occurred tome that it wouldn’t be longbeforeKeith, likethehumblewoodlouse, would becomemaroonedinonepositionandcouldn’t turn over withoutassistance.Once sitting, and with his
breathingnearnormal,hetoldme he’d bought a small bed&breakfastatauction.‘Daft,really,’ he said. ‘The moneywas burning a hole in mepocketandIboughtthethingwithoutthinking.’Ihadnoideawherehewas
goingwith this,andknowingKeith and his previousrequests, it really could beanything. So I remainedquiet.‘Anyway,’ he went on,
‘whenIlookedatit,Irealizedit’s going to be hell to staff.You gotta live on site withthose things, or else theydon’tmakemoney…Hestarted to coughat this
point.Big,hackingcoughs.I handed him a wad of
tissues and waited as hehawked up the phlegm. Thistookthreegrowlsandanotherlong spate of coughing.Without comment, or even aflicker of disdain, I passed
him the bin to drop in hisdepositofsoiledtissue.On first qualifying as a
physiotherapist, eachclinician rotates betweendepartments toaccrueawidebase of knowledge and togive them some idea of theareainwhichtheywouldliketo specialize. It was on onesuch placement, respiratorycare, that I developed mypoker face, used for dealingwith such stomach-turning
situations as the removal ofKeith’sphlegm.The woman was a tiny
bird-like thing, as mostchronicbronchitispatientsare–thesheeramountofenergyneeded for breathing, to getthe air into theircompromised lungs, tends touse up calories faster thanthey can ingest them. Herchest rattled like an oldEwbank as she spoonedtomato soup into her mouth.
Beside her was her sputumpot. Each respiratory-carepatient had one to spit theirsecretionsinto,anditwasmyjob to check the colour ofthem every few hours forsigns of infection, blood andothernasties.WithherglazedeyesfixedontheTVhangingfrom a bracket high in thecorneroftheroom,Iwatchedas she dipped her bread intothesputumpot, twice,beforechewingonitthoughtfully.
Anyway, all this to say, Iwasnottotallygrossedout,asmost would be by Keith inthis instance, and wasgenuinely interested in whathehadtosaynext.He dabbed at his eyes.
‘I’ve got builders in there atthemoment,tearingtheplaceapart.’‘What are you planning to
dowithit?’‘Offices,’ he said. ‘I
thoughtyoumightwantone.’
Iwaited.‘Not on a lease,’ he said.
‘Just month-to-month rent.All bills included exceptphone. There’ll be adownstairs toilet and spaceforyourpunterstowaitinthehallway.’‘Howmuch?’‘Seven hundred a month.
But I’ll waive the first twomonths’ rent, let you get onyour feet, if you treatme forfreewhenIneedit.’
‘Youwoulddothat?’‘You’ve always seen me
right, Roz. And I know youdon’t like it how LaughingBoy out there’s always gothis eye on you, controllingyoureverymove.’‘YoumeanWayne?’‘You could work for
yourselfagain,love,’hewenton.‘Beyourownboss.Whatdoyousay?’I did a quick sum in my
head. With what Keith was
offering,overheadsdeducted,I could increase my weeklywage by around thirty percent. That was as long as Ididn’tscrewupagain.‘I’d say thankyou,Keith,’
myvoicecatchingas Ispokehis name. ‘Thank you, thankyou,thankyou.’Andhesmiledbroadly.‘Grand,’ he said. He
touched my shoulderaffectionately,ashecouldseeI was tearing up. Then he
gaveme a firm pat, the wayyouwould aWelshCobyouwere particularly fond of.‘That’s my girl,’ he said.‘That’smygirl.It’llbeyourstomoveintoinamonth.’
22
THE PHONECALL came onmymobile at around mid-morning, during my teabreak.Iwasoutsidewatchingwithinterestasasongthrushtried to smash open a snailshell using apieceofbroken
roof tile as an anvil. Therepetitive tap-tapping hadcaught my attention,remindingmeofthepiecesofgrit Winston used to launchagainstmybedroomwindow,backwhenhewasonhiswayhome from the pub after I’dthrownhimoutforgood.‘RozToovey?’‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Can you
speak up? The traffic fromtheroadisquitenoisy.’‘Iwastoldtoringyou,’the
caller said. ‘By my sister.Nadine?’‘Oh, yes.’ I found myself
screwing up my face.Wanting to cut the callwithoutfurtherconversation.‘So then,’ he said, ‘this is
mecallingyou.Bitawkward,really.’I took a breath. ‘Did
Nadine mention why shewantedyoutogetintouch?’A small laugh. ‘Yes. You
are a nice person whom she
thinks I might findinteresting.’‘Shesaidthat?’‘Of course not. You want
thetruth?’‘Whynot?’‘She said she was friends
with your sister, who wasdesperate to get you togetherwith someone who wasn’t atotal fuck-up. And Iimmediately sprang to mind.Frankly, I think she’sprobably sick of hearing
aboutyoursinglestatus.’‘Whatelsedidshetellyou
about me?’ I asked, amusednow.‘Nice figure, bit scruffy –
whichshethinksIam,too,soI took that with a pinch ofsalt.Shesaidyou’reacould-be-kind-of-fun-for-a-whiletypeofperson.Whatdid shesayaboutme?’‘She said you were
definitelynotaloser.’‘I’mnot,’hesaid.
‘Well,that’sgoodthen.’‘I believe we have to go
out on Thursday. Is thatcorrect?’hesaid.‘That’scorrect.’‘Doyouhaveanywhere in
mind?’‘Surpriseme,’Isaid.‘Allright,RozToovey,’he
said.‘Iwill.’When I finished the call I
wassmiling.Anditwasonlylater, when treating Scott’selbow, that I realized I’d
forgotten to ask him hisname.
‘His name is Henry,’ Scottsaid,regardingmesteadily.Ihadholdofhisforearmin
onehand,andwiththeotherIwas pushing down on hiswrist to stretch out theextensor muscles. His elbowwas almost better, and thiswould be the last treatmentsession.‘Soyouaregoingtogooutwithhim?’heasked.
IstoppedwhatIwasdoingandtookastepback.‘You’d rather I didn’t,’ I
said.Astatement.‘No, you can seewhoyou
like,’ he said. ‘It hasabsolutelynothingtodowithwhat I think. It’s just, like Isaid yesterday, Henry’slimited.’‘Limited? He sounded
nice.’‘Nice,’ he repeated.
Spitting the word from his
mouth.‘Look,Scott,’Isaid,losing
patiencewithwhatever gamehewasplaying,‘whatdoyousuggestIdo?Itwasyourwifewho orchestrated this, yourwifewhobasicallybulliedmeintodoingit.Itriedtosayno.InfactIdidsayno.Perhapsifyouhadn’tbeensovehementin your attack on yourbrother-in-lawyesterday,thenwewouldn’tfindourselvesinthispickle.’
‘You think she did itbecause she suspectssomethingbetweenus?’‘I think she suspects
nothing.She forced the issuebecause you were so againstit.Becauseyouweresofault-finding about her brother. Itwas puzzling to watch. Icould see Petra didn’t knowwhattomakeofit,she—’‘Fuck Petra!’ he snapped,
outofnowhere. ‘Petrahasn’tgotanoriginalthoughtinside
herhead.’Again,Ipulledaway.Quietly, firmly, I said,
‘Stop it, Scott. That’senough.’Iwas taken aback. I’d not
seenhimlikethisbefore.‘Stopwhat?’hedemanded.Keepingmyvoicelowand
withoutprovocation,Isaid,‘Idon’t understand why youactedlikethat.Itwaslikeyouwanted to be found out. Doyou want them to know
what’s been going onbetweenus?’‘Of course not. Don’t be
fuckingridiculous.’‘Thenwhat?What?’And it was as if he had
stalled. I stopped speakingbecause, all of a sudden, hisexpression collapsed and heliftedhishandstohisface.He bowed his head before
exhalingdeeply.Then he reached out his
hand, gesturing as though to
say, Give me a minute. Ireally need a moment toregrouphere.With his eyes soft,
remorseful now, hewhispered, ‘This is so hardfor me.When can I see youagain?Ineedtoseeyou.’
True to hisword, as soon asmy invoice was sent to hisoffices,anhourlaterthefourthousandfromScottlandedinmy account and I began to
dream about the future. Notthe fantastical dreams of thedesperate that had occupiedmy thoughts in recentmonths. Instantly, I stoppeddreaming about lottery winsandsurprisewindfallsandgotback to planning theupcomingmonths. I couldn’trepay my parents overnight,that much was clear, but Icould, if things worked outwith Keith Hollinghurst’sbenefaction, begin to earn a
decent living, putting awaysomemoneyeachmonththatwouldgo towardsmakingupfortheirloss.Atthispoint,Ididn’tknow
howlongthethingwithScottwouldcontinue.Notforever,I knew that, and his recentbehaviour–goingfromnastyto oddly clingy in the spaceof a second – had unsettledmesomewhat.Butwhenyouseethatmoneystarttomountup, when you’ve lived each
dayfrightenedofwhatelseiscoming through yourletterbox, it can be hard togive up on something solucrative. Two more nightswith him and the credit-cardbalancewouldbezero.And, ifkeptsecret,noone
was going to get hurt by ouractions. I wasn’t rippinganyone off to make money,trampling over the littlepeople. There were noharmful environmental
effects. I was even going topay tax onmy earnings. Thesocialist in me almostapproved.And yet I couldn’t
reconcile myself to the factthat what I was doing wasokay. No matter how manywaysIlookedatit.Also,Inowhadasenseof
growinguneasethatwhathadstarted out as a businessarrangement, – what for mewasverymuchstillabusiness
arrangement – was perhapstakingonanothersignificanceforScott.AndofcourseIfeltsick with guilt when mythoughtsturnedtoNadine.It would be our third
meeting when I would get asenseofthingstocome.This timewedid not need
thewholenight.Scottwantedtomeet badly and I toldhiman entire night wasimpossible. I explained thatGeorge was fragile. He
understood, and wenegotiated a one thousandfivehundredpoundfeeforanafternoonoffunandpleasureto be undertaken thefollowingday.So now, on Tuesday
morning, without Wayne’spryingeyes, Iwasable todosomething I would notordinarilydo,andthatwastocancel theafternoonpatients.I moved them around andslotted them in elsewhere,
giving the vague excuse of a‘hospital appointment’.Patients tended to be tooworried you might havesomething sinister wrongwith you to pry, so theyrearrangedwithoutcomplaint.Andshouldtheworsthappen,shouldWayne return while Iwasout,myexcusewouldbethat Iwas at the hospital for‘a head X-ray’, which oughttokeephimquiet.Scott had rented a cottage
on the north-eastern shore ofConiston Water for the nextthreeweeks–paidforincashso no one could track it.Hisplan had been to take it forthewholeofthesummer,buthe was told by the lettingagent that a family fromBristol had booked for mid-August.Coniston lies due west of
Windermere,thelakeitselfisa lot quieter, and the cottagewas accessed either directly
from the water or from aprivate lane. I suspected theowners had run a little shortof money after fixing theplace up for renting, as thelane needed attention.Presently, it was just twogravel tracks, with roughgrass in between, whichcaught on the undercarriageof the car. I could just aboutmake it through in the Jeepand Scott was able tonegotiate it well enough in
the Range Rover, but astandard saloon would haveto park in the lay-by off theroadanditspassengersarriveonfoot.I assumed thiswas one of
thereasonsScottchoseit.We could stay there
undisturbed, invisible to theoccasional car which camealongthissideofthelake.Ofcourse, the main attractionwas that we could come andgo as we pleased. It was a
hideaway. In fact, once he’dorganized the booking, Scottchided himself for notthinking of it earlier. Whywaste time in hotels, wherethere was the risk ofdiscovery, when he couldsimplytakeaplacelikethis?The advantage formewas
it was only five miles and atwelve-minutedrivefrommyhouse. I could slip out ofwork,getthecarferryacrossWindermere, have sex with
Scott for the afternoon, bethere to pick George up andhave tea on the table, allbeforefivethirty.And be fifteen hundred
poundsbetteroff.At one fifty p.m. I made
my way along the track. Itwasborderednotbytheusualdry stone wall but by thickhedgerow.Frommyelevateddriving position, I could seeover the tops to the flat floorof the distinctive U-shaped
valleybeyond, carvedout byaglacierinthelasticeage.Atthe end of the track, Scott’sRange Rover was reverseparked neatly to the side ofthewood store.With the sunreflectingoffhiswindscreen,Ididn’t realizehewas in thefront seat, andhe startledmeby climbing out of the carunexpectedly.‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Iwanted
towaitouthereforyou.’‘Youneedn’thave.’
‘I thought we could go intogether.Ithoughtitmightbenice.’‘What, and pretend like
we’re a real couple, on ourholidays?’He seemed hurt.
‘Somethinglikethat,’hesaidquietly.Inside, the cottage was
pretty, but had been finishedin a rush. The light switcheswere spotted with emulsionand parts of the skirting
boards didn’t quite runtogether correctly.Therewasa note on the table to say anelectrician would be in thefollowing morning to fix theshowerinthemainbathroom.Sorry for the inconvenience,itsaid.‘Quaint,’IsaidtoScott,as
I wandered from room toroom.‘It’s shoddy,’ he replied.
‘I’m glad I didn’t take it forthe whole summer. I’ll look
forsomethingbetter.’We stood looking out of
the French doors. Beyondwasthelake,flatandcalmasglass and reflecting the treeson the opposite bank. Alongwith the other stretches ofwater thatmake up theLakeDistrict,Conistonhasaspeedlimit of 10 miles per hour.For a long timeWindermerehad no such limit, and theshorelinehadaperpetualoilyiridescence from spilled
diesel. Early-morning walkswouldbespoiledbytossersinwetsuits revving their jet-skisloudly. I wasn’t sorry aboutthe introduction of the speedban, though many were.Including Scott. He’d had tosellhispowerboat.Awareofthetime,Iturned
to Scott and began to kisshim.Pushing my hips forward
into his, I slipped the tip ofmytongueinsidehismouth.
Icouldfeelresistance.Unsure how to play it, I
started to unbuttonmy tunic,but he reached out. ‘Don’t,’he said flatly, ‘you’rebehavinglikeaprostitute.’I let my arms fall to my
sideandlookedathim.‘Whatexactlydoyouwantmetodo,Scott?’ I asked. ‘We haven’tgot much time. I assumedyou’dwantto—’‘Getcracking?’His voice was laced with
sarcasm.Hisexpressionhard.Ipulledaway.Fastenedup
mybuttons.‘Would you rather we
didn’tdothistoday?’Iasked.‘Ijustdon’twanttofuckas
soon aswewalk through thedoor,’hesaid.‘Apologies,’ I said,
irritated, ‘but last time youdid. Last time that’s exactlywhatyouwantedustodo.’He swallowed, and we
stood in silence. It was the
first time we’d had a heatedexchange, and neither of usknewquitehowtoact.‘Hey,’ he said after a
moment, touching my cheekwithhisfingertips.‘Don’tgetupset. I don’t know what Iwant.IknowIwantyou,butI don’t want it to feel likeyou’re only here for themoney.’Whattosaytothat?‘Icouldn’tdothiswithjust
anyone,’Ibegan,intendingto
smooth things over.Massagehisegoalittle.‘I know, I know.And I’m
sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’thavemadeyoufeelthatway.Let’sgoupstairs.’I managed a weak smile.
As we climbed the stairs hetold me he wanted to watchme undress slowly while hewaitednakedonthebed.With reference to my
physiouniform,hesaid,‘Youcanbenurse.’
Iundressedasherequestedandheaskedmetoliedown.‘Close your eyes,’ hewhispered, thenproceeded tokiss me tenderly, starting atmy ankles. When I went torespond,hesaid,‘No,don’t.’He made love to me that
afternoonwithsuchaffection,such devotion, that I reallyshould have realized theextentofhisfeeling.ButIdidn’t.Iwasafool.Or maybe I just simply
chosetoignoreit.
23
‘WHEREAREYOU?’askedPetracrossly. ‘I’m outside yourtreatment room, holding acheese-and-tomato quiche,and that guy Gary saysyou’ve gone to the hospital.What are you doing at the
hospital?’‘Can Gary hear you?’ I
replied,sittingupquicklyandslidingtotheedgeofthebedawayfromScott.‘No.’ She lowered her
voice. ‘Idon’t thinkso.He’sbackinhisroom.’I exhaled. ‘I’m skiving,’ I
said.‘Oh, that’s a relief … I
thoughtyouwereill—’‘Petra!’ I warned, before
she blurted out anything
more.‘Yes, yes, sorry.’ She
stoppedspeaking,andIheardher heels move across thefloor. ‘I’m outside now,’ shesaid a moment later. ‘Hecan’t hear me. Why are youskiving?’‘Because I can. Wayne’s
not there to watch my everymove, so I thought I’d givemyselftheafternoonoff.’‘Luckyyou.’‘Coming from someone
who hasn’t worked full timeinoverfifteenyears.’‘You’re counting, I see.
Anyway,’shesaid, ‘whatamI supposed to do with thisquiche?’‘Will it keep until
tomorrow?’‘Shoulddo.’‘Okay,popitinthefridge.’‘Whatfridge?’‘Inthekitchen,attheback
of the clinic. You’ll have toclose your eyes when you
open it, ’cause it’s prettygrubby. No one cleans it.Stickanoteonthetopsaying‘Handsoff’orGarywillhelphimself. I’ll take it hometomorrowinstead.’‘All right. Where are you
now?You’renotathome.’‘Iam.’‘So you’ve gone and got
carpets all of a sudden, haveyou? Speaking to you, itusually sounds like you’reinside a shipping container.
Alltinnyfromthelackofsoftfurnishings.’‘I’minbed.’‘Intheafternoon?’‘Yes, Petra. In the
afternoon.Peopledothat,youknow.’‘Oh,’ she said, genuinely
surprised.Petra often had a
puritanical view of resting.Shewassuspiciousofanyonewho rested without a validmedical reason and thought
people who slept late werewastingtheday.‘So,thanksforthequiche,’
I said lamely, trying to bringherbackontrack.‘Not a problem,’ she
replied, and she rushed meoff the phone at that point,because she had a text andcouldn’t access it whilecontinuingtospeaktome.I turned around. Scott had
his arm thrown across hisface.
‘Youliesoeasily,’hesaid,his voice heavy with post-coitalsleepiness.
The following morning,Wednesday,Iarrivedatworkearly. As I’d rearranged apatient from the previousafternoontocomeinateight,IdroppedGeorgeatbreakfastclub – unlike after-schoolclub,youdon’tneed tobookin advance. I was twentyminutesintothesessionwhen
I heard voices in reception. Ipopped my head out toinvestigate,expectingtoseeapatient wanting to make anappointment, or else buysome of Wayne’s pointlesshealth-foodsupplements.Butitwasacouple.Andan
ill-matchedcoupleatthat.Seeingmeat thedoor, she
stood first. She was aroundforty,mediumbuild,wearinga grey, smart, two-buttonedsuit,withblackpipingaround
thelapel.Beneath,sheworearound-necked T-shirt whichhad the white-white newnessof a firstwear.Her hairwaspulled into a neat ponytail atthenapeofherneckand sheworelittlemake-up.There was something
immediately familiar abouther–anoldpatientperhaps?Idecidednot,becausethoughher expression was pleasant,eager almost, she didn’tregard me in a way that
expectedrecognition.The man was older and
bordered on scruffy. He wasshort, rounding and woreyesterday’s shirt, which washeavily creased. He had amoustache that neededtrimming.‘Hello. Sorry to bother
you,’ the woman said. ‘I’mDS Joanne Aspinall and thisis my colleague DS RonQuigley.We were hoping tospeaktoaMrGeddes.’
‘Wayne Geddes is nothere.’‘Anyideawhereheis?’‘I’venot,I’mafraid.’‘When did you last see
him?’Thiscaughtmeunawares.‘I … I’m so sorry,’ I
stammered, ‘but I’m actuallyin the middle of a treatmentsession rightnow.Wouldwebeabletodothislater?’‘Sure,’saidDSAspinall.‘Imaybesometime.’
Shesmiled.‘Norush.It’saquiet day at the office, so tospeak.We’rehappytowaitaslongasittakes.’Iclosedthedoor.Aslongaswhattakes?This was the last thing I
needed.Thepolice–andnotjust the police, but CID –sniffing around. What onearth did they want withWayne? Had he reneged onour deal and told HQ it wasme who took that money?
Had they now passed thematter on to the police?Christ.Ineeded tobuysome time
to get my thoughts straight.Work out what to say tothem.As it was, I didn’t have a
great deal left to do withregards to the patient I wasworking on, but I dawdled. Ipretended there was an areaof the rear deltoid that couldbe contributing to the
patient’s problem and spentan inordinateamountof timebreaking down the tissue,mobilizing the scapula, allquiteunnecessary.When I could delay no
more I finished up and toldthe patient I’d meet her atreception.Thedetectivesseemedvery
at home. They had none ofthe anxiousness apparent inthe faces of patients as theywaited. – waited, knowing
theywereabouttoexperiencesome degree of pain. Therewasn’t a week went bywithout someone makingreference to ‘physio-terrorists’, and I’d smile asthough hearing the term forthe first time. The twodetectives slouched happily,though, shoulders relaxed,knees dropped slightly apart,asifwatchingtelevisionwithabeer.AfterI’dscheduledanother
appointment and bid thepatient goodbye, the twodetectives approached thedesk. I closed the bookingspage on the screen and toldthem I would be with themshortly.‘We’ll just loiterhereuntil
you’reready,’themansaid.‘Loiteringwithoutintent,’I
answered, and he tried tosmile.Eventually, I told them I
was free and asked what I
couldhelpthemwith.Facesserious,theyshowed
me their warrant cards and Ilaughed nervously at theformality. It seemedextraneous and silly, likewhenthewaiterpoursa littlewine for tasting, and youhave to go through therigmarole of saying that it’sacceptable. Very nice, thankyou.Pleasepourtherest.‘Weare trying toascertain
the whereabouts of Wayne
Geddes,’DSAspinall began.‘Any information you canprovide us with would beverywelcome.’‘I don’t know where
Wayneis,’Ireplied.‘Is it normal forhim tobe
absentfromwork?’‘It’soutofcharacter.’They both nodded
thoughtfullyandDSAspinallwithdrew a notebook andpencilled something illegibleinit.
As shewrote, I turnedmyface towards DS Quigley.‘Can I ask what this isabout?’‘Preliminary inquiries,’ he
answered.‘Inquiries into what?’ I
asked.Hemade a face as though
he wasn’t at liberty to sayrightnow.‘So you say it’s out of
character for Mr Geddes notto be at work for … how
many days, is it?’ DSAspinallasked.‘If he doesn’t come in
todaythiswillbethethird’‘Hewould usually be here
by now, would he?’ sheasked.I nodded. ‘He arrives
early.’‘Toopenup?’‘Yes, but we’ve all got a
set of keys, just in case he’sdown at HQ, or overseeinganotherclinic.’
I couldn’t believe I’dactually used Wayne’s termof‘HQ’.‘Andwhendidyousayyou
last saw him again?’ sheasked.Ihesitated.‘ItwouldhavebeenFriday
afternoon,afterwork,’Ilied.‘Howdidheseemtoyou?’
sheasked.I thoughtofWayne in that
moment. Wayne giving methe ultimatum. Wayne
threateningtogotothepoliceif I didn’t acquiesce, if Ididn’tgiveintohisdemands.‘I’m not sure what you
mean,’Isaid.‘Did he seem worried?
Agitated?’‘Notespecially.’‘Whatdidyoutalkabout?’‘I’m not sure I remember.
Work. The comingweekend.Ourplans.’‘WhatwereWayne’splans
fortheweekend?’sheasked.
‘Idon’tthinkhesaid.’‘So you told him about
yourplans?’‘I guess I must have.
Look,’ I said, trying to slowthisdownbefore shehadmeblurting out something I’dregret,notwantingtodivulgetherealnatureofmybusinessat Wayne’s house onSaturday, ‘I can’t reallyremember. Me and Wayne,we’re not what you’d callclose. He’s my boss. I
exchangepleasantries, I keepthingsneutral.Idon’tpryintohis life, he doesn’t pry intomine.’DS Aspinall smiled. ‘I
understand.’She flicked over a page in
hernotebookand requested Ibearwithherforamomentasshe jotted down a couple ofthings.It was one of those
awkward silences that I hadthetendencytofillwithchit-
chat. I stayed quiet,rearranging a few items onthedesk. I removed thebackof theholepunchand tappedittwice,thesmallwhitepaperdiscs fluttering into thewaste-paperbasket.I looked up and saw she
wasstillwriting.DSQuigley had his hands
inside his pockets and wasrocking back and forth fromhis heels to the balls of hisfeet. His shoes made a soft
squelching noise that heseemedtobeunawareof.Heturned and glanced aroundthereceptionarea.‘What kinds of things do
you get in here?’ he askedme.‘You mean what kinds of
problemsdowetreat?’Henodded.‘Backsandnecksmostly.’He raised his eyebrows,
indicating that was not whatheexpectedmetosay.
‘Since early man decidedto stand upright, to govertical, he has experiencedproblems with the spine,’ Iexplained.‘I thought it would be
knees,’ he said, flexing his,and wincing as he did so. Icould hear the crepitus, thegratingofboneonboneashestraightenedup.(Incidentally,the more flirtatious malewould ask ifwe sawa lot ofgroinstrains.)
‘We do see a quite a fewknee problems,’ I went on,‘but mostly it’s backs andnecks … then knees,shoulders and feet. Alongwithafewsportinginjuries.’DS Quigley nodded
meditatively.‘What’s Mr Geddes’ role
here?’DSAspinallasked,hernote-taking finished for thetimebeing.‘Practicemanager.’‘Ishewellliked?’
I widened my eyesinvoluntarily and laughed alittle.‘Nocomment.’DS Aspinall smiled in
response,thenwaitedtoseeifIwouldaddanythingfurther.‘IsWayneinsomekindof
trouble?’Iaskedcarefully.‘Wejustneedtofindhim,’
shereplied.‘Have you checked his
house?’‘We’re going there next.
This was on our way, so it
madesensetostopherefirst.We’vebeentoldhehasmadeno contact with work sinceFriday.Isthatcorrect?’‘AsfarasIknow,but,like
I said, I’mnot really theoneto ask. Gary, who’ll be inaround eight forty-five, maybeable tohelpyou.He’s theone who called head officeand reported Wayne absentfromwork.’She kept her gaze on me
and, out of nowhere, it
dawned on me how I knewher. She was a few yearsbelowmeatschool,andsincethenI’dseenheraroundfromtime to time. She’d lostweight, though, or elsechanged her appearance.There was definitelysomething different abouther. I just couldn’t put myfingeronit.Afteramomentsheasked,
‘Does Mr Geddes have anyfamilylivingnearby?’
‘His father’s dead and hismumisinahome.’‘Anysiblings?’‘Notthathe’smentioned.’‘Okay, thank you,’ she
said. ‘I think that’s all weneed fornow.Wemightpopback later, ifweneed furtherinformation.’I tried to mask my relief
that the interrogation wasover by doing something Iwould never do –commentingonherposture.
‘Do you suffer from neckproblems,Detective?’‘Whydoyouask?’‘Just in the way you’re
moving.Youseemas thoughyou might have somestiffness at around C5/6level.’Irefrainedfromsayingshe
had what we unflatteringlycalled a pokey-chin posture.Often stiffness in the lowerneck and upper thoracicregion of the spine causes
people to thrust their chinsforward. This has the effectof limiting their rotation –when they try to turn theirhead to the side, theyelevatetheir shoulder at the sametime. Think Paula Abdul,robot-like, turning toadmonish Simon Cowell inthe early days of AmericanIdol.‘I had a breast reduction,’
DS Aspinall said simply.‘I’ve been left with stiffness
in my upper back from theyears of constant—’ Shestoppedmid-sentence.Sheletmefillintheblanks.Her partner, DS Quigley,
lookedtothefloor.‘Ah,’ I said, unfazed now
thatwewerebackonmyturf,‘it can be such a cruelcondition. Sometimes theupward-facing dog stretchcanhelp.Ifyouliftyourheadbackwardsaswell,asyoudoit.Doyouknowthestretch?’
‘Ido.I’lltryit,’shesaid.Sheclosedhernotepadand
made like she was ready toleave.Casting around the
receptionareaonelasttimetomake certain nothing hadslipped her attention, shethankedme formy time andhanded me a card with herdetails on it, should Waynegetintouch.She walked a few steps
from the desk and, just as I
thoughtIwasridofthem,shestoppedand turned, frowningas though grappling with apuzzlingthought.‘Did Mr Geddes ever
mentionanymissingmoney?’sheasked.
24
‘MONEY?’IREPEATED.‘Yes,’ said DS Aspinall,
‘money.’DS Quigley, who had
alreadyexitedtheclinic,nowdoubledback,lingeringinthepassageafewfeetbehindhis
partner. His face remainedpassive, open, and I realizedinstantly this was a well-practised set piece betweenthetwoofthem.Lure the victim with their
affable, friendly demeanourbefore going in for the killwhen the victim was offguard.‘I don’t think Wayne
mentioned anything,’ Imurmured.‘Try casting your mind
back to last week,’encouraged DS Aspinall.‘Did he question you aboutany irregularities in theaccounts?’Just then, thefrontdoorof
the clinic opened andMagdalena appeared,carryingascalemodelof thespine, complete with all themajornerves,andaprolapseddisc at L5 level. I had beenhuntingforityesterdaywhenI couldn’t get through to a
patient the idea thatsomething pressing on anerve in his back could givehim pain in the front of hisshin. He was convinced hehad a fracture, even thoughtheX-raysaidotherwise.Magdalena gave a token
smile to the two detectives,and said, ‘Guten Morgen,’whichwaswhatshedidwhenshe didn’t want to engage inconversation. Shedisappeared into her
treatment room, whereuponshe switched onClassic FM,loud enough to be heardthroughthecloseddoor.DS Aspinall gestured
towards Magdalena’s room.‘Sheworkshereaswell?’‘Yes.’‘German?’‘Austrian.’‘We’ll need to interview
you all at some point,’ shesaid.I told her that would be
fine and then waited for hertosayshewasleaving,again.‘Youwerethinkingbackto
last week?’ she prompted,phrasingitasaquestion.‘Oh yes,’ I replied, as
though I’d clean forgotten,and made a show of liftingmy eyes to the ceiling,pretendingtorecalltheeventsofthepreviousfewdays.Eventually, I shook my
head, saying, ‘No. I’m reallysorry, but I can’t remember
Wayne mentioning anyirregularities. He tended tokeep the accounting stuff tohimself. He had a way ofmakingout like itwasaboveourheads.IfyouknowwhatImean.’‘Sure,’shesaid.‘Igetit.’I got the sense the
interviewwasnowover, so Imoved out from behind thedesk, mumbling somethingabout getting ready for thenextpatient.
DS Aspinall watched mecarefully before thankingmeagainformytime.‘Seeyoulater,’shesaid.Iforcedasmile.‘Yes,later
then.’IlisteneduntilIheardboth
car doors bang shut, then Irantomytreatmentroomandpushed aside the Venetianblind. They were in a Fordsomethingorother.Icouldn’tmake out what. But it was anew, black saloon –the type
of non-descript, top-of-the-rangemodelthemedicalrepsarrivedin.DS Aspinall was driving.
Shereversedfast.Recklessly,actually. And then sped offoutoftheclinicentrance.Iwasshaking.WherewasWayne?Ifhehadreportedme,why
wasn’t he here? Somethingwas very wrong with thiswholesituation.Ineededsomeair.
I went outside to the carpark and sat on the bench.Aboveme,abuzzardcircled,gaining height. I watched astwo jackdaws made anassault, dive-bombing thebird, screeching theirwarnings, until it changed itscourse away fromwhatmusthavebeentheirnest.The clinic door opened
behindme.‘What was that about?’
Magdalenaasked,referringto
our two early-morningvisitors.‘The police. They’re
lookingforWayne.’‘Why they look for him
whenwe havemanymissingchildren?’‘Whatmissingchildren?’ I
askedher.‘I don’t know,’ she said
defensively,‘buttherewillbesome.Forsure.’I didn’t pursue it.
Conversations with
Magdalena often ended withher walking off, oddlywounded,as ifyou’dmadeadirect attack on her. Icouldn’t fathom if thingswerelostintranslationorthiswassimplyhowshewas.The patients felt it, too.
They’d exit her treatmentroom wearing befuddledlooks of shame, eitherbecause they somehow feltthey had offendedMagdalena, or else because
they’dcomplained she’dhurtthem physically … whichoffendedMagdalena.‘Did Wayne ever talk to
you about the accounts,Magdalena?’Iasked.She shook her head. ‘He
always talk about his stupidfish.’‘Didheeveraskyouabout
somemissingmoney?’Hereyeswidened.‘Hedidnot,’shesaid,with
alookofTellmemore.
I stood up. ‘No, meneither,’Isaidabsently,andIheadedbackindoors.Trying to keep occupied
and not let my thoughts runamok, I put together aninvoice to send along toScott’s office. This time Ibilled them for a lifting-and-handlingcourse.IbilledScott’sfirmforthe
full £1,500. And then IemailedtheattachmentinthehopeI’dgetpaidsoon,rather
than printing out a copy andsendingitthroughthepost.Gary arrived, and I told
him about the police. Hewanted a blow-by-blowaccount of their questions.When I’d finished he said,‘Sounds like they’reinvestigatinga fraud.Doyouthinkhe’sclearedoffwithallthetakings?’‘Unlikely,’ I said quickly.
‘Besides,what takings?Mostof our transactions are
electronic, so themoney’s inthebank.’Gary shrugged.
‘Rememberthatguyfromthegolf club, the secretary,who’dbeenskimmingmoneyoffthemembershipfees?’‘Vaguely.’‘He’d been at it for years.
He got awaywith over sixtythousand before anyonenoticed.’‘Whatever happened to
him?’
Gary made a spookyaction, wiggling his fingers.‘Nobody knows,’ he saiddramatically. ‘But they didfindhiscarneartheferryportat Stranraer. So either hethrew himself in the sea, orelse he got over to NorthernIrelandunseen.’IlookedatGary,andallat
once I was filled with theurgetoflee.Wasitpossible?I had money in the bank.
George wanted to leave. Infact, only that morning, he’daskedonceagain ifwecouldmove to another place.Winstonwouldbeguttednotto see his son, but then, hehadn’t been thinking aboutthat when he was outscrewing other women, hadhe?Icouldgo today. Icouldpackuprightnow,beforeDSAspinall and her colleaguehad the chance to return andquestion me further. A new
start. Where would I go?George and I had up-to-datepassports, we could drivesouthandjustkeepondrivinguntilwefoundsomewhereweliked. Live by the beach inAquitaine. Go across theborderintoSpainandliveforcheapinGalicia.‘Roz?’I could hear Gary’s voice,
asiffromfaraway.‘Roz!’‘What?’
Gary was regarding melike I’d lostmymind. ‘Yourpatient is here,’ he said,pointing to Sue Mitchinson,who was sitting, twisted, onone side of her bottom, apained expression on herface.‘What’ve you done to
yourself, Sue?’ I asked,regainingmylucidity.‘Had a fight with the
Hoover,’ she said. ‘On thestairs.’
She followed me into thetreatment room, mumbling,‘Am I glad to see you!’whereupon I closed thedoor,shelving all thoughts ofescaping for the time being,tellingherI’dhavehersortedoutasfastasIcould.
As it was, the police didn’treturn that day, and so myrehearsed responses went towaste for the time being. Infact,nothingat allhappened,
aside from huge speculationfromGaryandMagdalenaastoWayne’s whereabouts andthequantityofmoneyhemayhavetakenwithhim.Curiously, I was able to
discussthisasthoughitwerereal. As though I, too,believed Wayne to beresponsible. Terrible, really.But I didn’t have a lot ofchoice. Getting anxious, Itried Wayne’s mobile everyfew hours, but itwas always
thesame.Noanswer.
Thursday evening rolledaround before I knew it, andafterall theunease,worryingabout what exactly Waynewasplayingat, itwasnicetohave something else to thinkabout. I’d texted my addressto Nadine’s brother afterreceivinghiscall,andhewastopickmeupatseven.Withno clue as to what he hadplanned, I dressed middle of
the road, in a summer skirt,sleevelessshirtandsandals.Ididn’tbotherwithanymake-up, save for a little gloss onmy lips, as my skin had areasonable colour and, as Ithink I may have mentionedpreviously, I’m kind of crapatapplyingit.Vincehad takenGeorgeat
five. He’d called, telling menot to bother feeding him.Theywouldpickup fish andchipsenroute.‘WhatdidIdo
right to deserve such a greatbrother-in-law?’ I askedhim.To which he replied I wasactually doing him a favour.Petra was in a monumentalsulk,thelikesofwhichcouldgoon forweeks, andhewaspleased to get out of thehouse.‘What’sitaboutthistime?’
Iasked.‘Ah, the million-dollar
question. It’s one of thosewhereIhavetoguess–sorry,
whereIshouldalreadyknow–without her having to tellme.’‘Oh,’Isaid.‘Yes,’hereplied.‘Oh.’Then he said, ‘I’ll bring
him back around ten? Doesthatgiveyouenoughtime?’‘I’m sure that’ll be more
than enough time.Bring himbackatnineifyouwant.It’llgiveme an excuse to get ridofmydateifhegetsboring.’‘As you wish … though,
Roz?’‘Whatisit,Vincent?’‘I think this guy might be
allright.’‘What makes you say
that?’‘JustafeelingIget.’
He arrived early. I had thelounge window thrown wideand the back door open tocreate a wind tunnel effectthrough the house. I didn’tplan on inviting him inside,
on account of the drearyinterior and the generallysparse, unloved feel of theplace.AsPetramentionedonthe phone, I had not yet gotaround to acquiring newcarpets, so we were stillmanaging with the blackasphalt flooring. The placelooked pitiful and I wasembarrassed.Also, after a full day of
sun, the lounge had thetendency to surrender the
ingrained odours of tenantspast. The room would fillwith the pungent smells ofscorched coffee, hints oftobacco and worn sockswhich I could never find thesourceof.I was applying a second
coatofcandy-pinkvarnishtomy toenails when I heardCelia’s voice through theopenwindow.‘So you’re the gentleman
fromwork thatRozhasbeen
keepingasecretfromus!’My stomach folded in on
itself.Thoughitwasnotpossible
tomakeouthisexactwords,Iwas able to discern from histonethatmydaterepliedwithsomething polite and self-effacing. I just hoped hedecidednottoquizmeonthismystery man ‘from work’later.Asitwas,Iinstantlyforgot
allaboutthis,becausewhenI
opened the door, ‘You?’wasoutofmymouthbeforeIhadthechancetostopit.He gave an apologetic
smile, saying, ‘Surprise,’ratherflatly.Myfacefloodedwithheat.ItwasHenryPeachey.The
insurance agent who hadpricked my thumb to obtainblood.Christ, he was attractive.
HewasattractiveandhewasNadine’sbrother.
Shit.Shit.Shit.Shit.This was not something I
hadanticipated.Ihadplannedto bow out of this one dategracefully, never to meetagain.I was aware of Celia’s
perplexed expression as shecaught sight of my panickedface. I could almost hear herthinking that it was nowonder I was still single ifthis was how I greeted
potentialsuitors.‘Whydidn’tyousayitwas
you?’ I said in a forcedwhisper.‘Because I wasn’t sure
you’d accept the date,’ hewhisperedback.‘I would have,’ I replied.
‘Anyway, stay there,’ I toldhim, trying to gathermyself.‘I’ll get my bag. Where arewegoing?’And he made a wide,
sweeping gesture with his
hand. ‘Anywhere you like,’he said. ‘I thought we’dfollowournoses.’Heworefaded jeansanda
grey marl T-shirt. He was alittle taller than me by acouple of inches and had aneat backside. There was anice thickness to themusculatureofhisupperbackthatwassoappealing.Andhewalked like a boxer. Sure-footed,solid.What was I doing? I
couldn’tgo.Ishouldn’tgo.Ihadtogo.Icouldn’tstop
myself.We headed towards the
gate, past Celia, who, in thetime it had taken for me tograb my bag and shoes, hadmanaged to apply freshlipstick and fashion aridiculously large, wide-brimmed hat on her head. Itwasheldinplacewithapieceof chiffon tied beneath herchin, and I shot her a
bemusedlookasIpassed.ThecarwasaredPeugeot.
It was meticulously clean,around fifteen years old, thekind of sensible vehiclebestowed upon a teenagedboy and in which he wouldlearntodrive.‘Enjoy yourselves!’ Celia
cried, clapping her handstogether happily. She wasbeaming.‘We will,’ replied Henry,
opening the passenger door
forme.‘Bye,Celia,’Isaid.She waved us off and I
exhaled, relieved she hadn’tpressedHenryforanyfurtherdetails but feeling hugelyunsettledandtwitchythatI’dbeendupedbyhisconcealinghis identity. I cast my mindback to our first meeting,trying to remember if I’dsomehow spoken of ScottElias.ScottElias,hisbrother-in-law.
Had I slept with Scott atthatpoint?No.Thatcamelater.Atthe
hotel,whereHenrywinkedatme. Bloody hell. Could hehave glimpsed Scott therethat night? He must havebeen moments away fromseeing him. Was this somekindoftrap?What a mess. I couldn’t
thinkstraight.Icouldfeelmycomposurestartingtocrack.We hadn’t gone very far,
maybe just a few hundredyards, when Henry indicatedbeforepullingover.He liftedthe handbrake and turned inhis seat to face me. Dreadswamped me as I regardedhim. He had the look ofsomeone who was about tooffload,andIwasterrifiedofwhathewasgoingtosay.He thrust out his hand.
‘Henry Peachey,’ he said,smiling. ‘I’mverypleased tomeetyou.’
‘Roz Toovey,’ I repliedshakily, takinghishand, ‘butI thinkwemay have alreadymet.’‘I’m so sorry about that. I
should have told you on thephone that I knew who youwere. I can see I’ve alarmedyou. You look as thoughyou’ve seen a ghost.Canwestartagain?’I tried to smile. ‘Okay,’ I
saidweakly.There was an awkward
silence,duringwhicheachofus struggled to findsomethingtofillthevoid,andthenathoughtoccurredandIstartedtolaugh.‘Whatisit?’heasked.‘Myaddress.’‘Whataboutyouraddress?’‘You already knew it. I
toldyouIwouldtextyoumyaddress when we spoke onthe phone, but you alreadyknewwhereI lived. Igave ittoyouwhenyoucametothe
clinic.’He winced. ‘Ah, yes,’ he
said.‘Itwasonyourrecords.’‘You know everything
aboutme.’‘Not that much,’ he said.
‘Anyway, does it botheryou?’I shrugged. ‘At least you
knowI’venotgotAIDS.’He shifted in his seat, his
face suddenly serious again.‘I’m not really allowed todiscuss the results of the
bloodtest.It’sconfidential.Itwillbesentout toyouin thepost.’Ijustlookedathim.‘Oh,comeon,’Isaid.‘You
wouldn’t be here if that testwaspositive.’I didn’t tell him I’d been
tested theminute I foundoutWinston was screwingaround. Along with anothertest six months later, just tobesure.ItoldhimIcouldreallydo
with a drink, and hebrightened at that. ‘Pub?’ hesuggested eagerly. ‘Or thecheapskateoption?’‘Explaincheapskate.’‘WecallattheCo-op,pick
up a selection of beers, anddrinkthematabeautyspotofyour choosing. Crispsoptional.’‘Let’sdothat,’Isaid.
25
TARN HOWS WAS as good aplaceasany.It’samileorsofrom Hawkshead and a nicespot to sit andwatch the sungo down. People flock herebecause,basically,you’vegotall the scenery you’re ever
goingtoneedpackedintoonesmallarea.There is the tarn itself –
perfectlyplaced,prettycobaltunder a blue sky; inky blackwhen beneath cloud. Thewoodland,withits lonepinesatthewater’sedge,givingtheplace a romantic feel. Andthen there’s the view to theLangdale Pikes, the fells allthe more majestic from thisaspectandelevation.The downside to Tarn
Howsisthesheerquantityofpeoplewhovisit, particularlyoflate,asthepatharoundthewater has been improved tosuch a degree that you couldget aroundon roller skates ifyousetyourmindtoit.At this time, getting close
tosevenforty-five,therewereonlyafewstragglers leftanda group of Japanese tourists.We stayed in the car as thegroupexitedtheminibus,notwanting to get caught up in
the general confusion asumbrellas (to be used asparasols) were opened,camerasstrungaroundnecks,selfiesticksextended,wedge-heeledtrainersadjusted.We grabbed our beers and
sunglasses and headed off.Instead of going towards thepath, though,we turnedbackon ourselves, climbing thesmall hill which lies duesouthoftheroad.Theviewisimmeasurably better, and
hardly anyone is anarchicenough to go against theNationalTrustsignposts–soyoucanmoreorlessbankonhavingittoyourselves.Henryalsohadlivedinthe
area since birth, he said. So,having visited Tarn Howsthroughout our youth, wewere without the look ofloved-up wonder displayedon the faces of many of thefolk stumbling upon thisbeautyspotfor thefirst time,
couples whose expressionswere so full of hope for theyears ahead, as though thisone experience would be thebenchmark of their entirerelationship. This is how it’sgoing to be, you would seemanifested in the girls’springy gait, the affectedcadence of their words, andI’d think, cruelly:Every day,sweetheart.Everyday.‘Here all right?’ Henry
asked, gesturing as he
reached the summit, thebottles clinking against eachother in the bag he carriedwithhim.Therewasapatchofgrass
thesizeofadoublemattress,flattened from an earlierpicnic. I told Henry it wasfine,andwesettledourselves,Henrytakingtheopenerfromhis pocket. He offered me abottle of Miller, giving meanother gentle, chiding lookof disappointment at my
choice. ‘All of this,’ he’djoked earlier, motioning tothe array on offer in theCo-op, ‘and you go for blandAmericanbeer?’‘BlandAmerican beer that
Ihappentolike,’I’dreplied.‘What?’ I said tohimnow
as he removed the cap fromhis bottle, ‘You’d prefer oneof those women who drinkpints of Guinness, orCaffrey’s, while watchingrugbywiththeboys?’
He cast me an amusedsmile. ‘I’ve been out with acoupleofthose,actually.’‘I thoughtyoumighthave.
Everbeenmarried?’‘Just once,’ he replied. ‘I
wasmarriedonce.’We went on talking for a
time, one of thoseconversationswhen you skirtaround topics, trying eachother out for size, consciousnot to offend or try too hardto impress. Our exchanges
were frisky and teasing, butthe whole time I was morethan a little guarded onaccountof theScottsituationnever being far from mymind.‘So,’ Henry said, after
we’d discussed films,musicianswefoundirritating,foreign places we’d like tovisit.Iwasrelievedhedidn’tstart banging on about hisbucketlist,assomanyofthemenIknewdid,notrealizing
theirlistwasexactlythesameas everyone else who readGQ: scuba dive on theGreatBarrier Reef, live inBarcelonaforayear,gettheirpilot’s licence. ‘So, you’reseeing someone fromwork?’saidHenrycasually.This caught me off guard.
I’d hoped he’d not reallyregisteredCelia’scommentofearlier.As I stumbled on my
words, he said, ‘I can’t think
whoitmightbe.NotWayne,surely?’‘No,’ I shot back quickly.
‘No,notWayne.’He blew out his breath,
smiling. ‘I couldn’t reallypicture that relationship. IfI’mbeinghonest.’I took a swig and stalled,
thinkingthroughthebestwayto proceed. If I admitted toseeing someone – anyone(they didn’t actually have toexist)– Iwouldhaveanexit
strategy.I could say I was pretty
muchforcedintothisdatebyhis sister, Nadine, and wasseeing someone secretly thatnooneknewabout.That’s what I should have
said.That would have been the
sensible thing to do. To getout now before anyone gothurt.Except I couldn’t bring
myself to do it. Henry was
too damned beautiful and Iwasalreadycaptivated. Ihadthe sense that, even if I triedto go ahead and tell Henry Iwas involved with anotherman, something completelydifferent would shoot out ofmymouth.‘I don’tmean topry,’ said
Henry, cajoling softly, ‘but,obviously,itwouldbenicetoknowifI’mwastingmytimehere.’Idrainedmybottle.
‘There’s no one,’ I saidfirmly, and he raised hiseyebrows in surprise. ‘I wasseeing a guy, but it’s over. Ifobbedmyneighbouroffwiththat lie because she’s alwaystryingtosetmeup.ItoldherI was seeing someone fromworkjustto,youknow…’‘Oh,’ he said, looking
relieved and genuinelypleasedatthesametime.‘Oh,well,that’sgoodthen.Didn’twant to have to fight over
you.’Ismiledweakly.‘Not least because I’m a
shittyfighter,’headded,ashepassedmeanotherbottle.‘What are you good at?
Justoutofinterest,’Iasked.‘Me?’ he replied, and
without missing a beat, said,‘Living.’‘What kind of answer is
that?’‘TheonlyanswerIhave.’I laughed and began
pickingatthewetlabelontheside of the beer bottle. ‘Thatdoes sound rather big-headed,’Isaid.‘Does it?’ he replied. ‘I
don’t mean it to. I’m notsaying, “Hey, isn’t my lifegreat, isn’t yours rubbish?”Just that I try to spend mydays doing as many of thethingsthatIenjoyandhardlyany time doing the things Idon’t.’‘Suchasworking,’Isaid.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Such asthat.’He tipped the neck of the
bottle of his strawberry aleagainst mine. ‘Cheers,’ hesaidhappily.
Foxy was yapping in thegardenwhenwereturned.‘Be quiet!’ yelled Celia,
beforeblowingherwhistle.Not wanting Henry to see
thestateoftheinteriorofmyhome, and also, not wanting
him to be around whenGeorge returned, I didn’t askhiminforcoffee. In fact, I’dsaid goodbye to him as I’dclosed the car door. Wedidn’t kiss.Celia andDenniswere enjoying the last of theevening sun on their newlypurchased bench seat, and itwould have been supremelyawkward.Nonetheless,Henry took it
uponhimself tofollowmetomyfrontdoor.
‘Nice time?’ asked Celia,and I mumbled that it waslovely,thanks.Iwasawareofher shooting Dennis a look.She now thought I was thetype of woman whosabotaged every relationshipby being too picky. Shedidn’t have to say it. It wasthere, plain as day, in thelines of disapproval at thecornersofhermouth.Turning the key in the
lock, I said to Henry, ‘I’d
inviteyouin,butmyson…’I let the words hang,
hoping he’d make the leapbetween George arrivinghome soon and his presencebeinginappropriate.‘Then invite me in,’ he
said.‘Georgewillbeback.’‘So,youdon’thavefriends
round?’heaskedmildly.‘Notever?’‘Notthemalekind.’‘Whynot?’
‘Because I can’t stand that“This is Mummy’s newfriend” crap. Or, “George,come and meet your UncleHenry.”It’sbadforkids.’Heregardedmeasiftosay
I was being over the top,overprotectiveofGeorge,andso I told him, in a whisper-shouting kind of way, thatsince hewas not a father, hehadnorealgroundstoairhisopinion on my parentingdecisions.
For a second he appearedangry.Itwasfleeting,though.Thekindofshort-livedsurgeyou experience when cut offintraffic,beforerealizingyouactually know the old guy inthecarinfront.‘Just five minutes,’
persistedHenry.‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t.
Sorry.’‘I want to see where you
live.’‘AndI’dratheryoudidn’t.’
At that moment Celia gotup from the bench seat andtoddledacrossthefrontlawn,hands on hips. ‘Would youtwolovebirdscareforaglassofPimm’s?’‘Not for me, thanks,’
replied Henry quickly. ‘I’mdriving. And Roz has justoffered to treatme to one ofherfamouscoffees.’Celia’s face dropped.
‘Perhapsnexttime,’shesaid,and Henry threw Celia his
most charming smile, saying,‘Definitely. Wouldn’t missit.’Heturnedbackaround,and
his eyes were alive withmischief.SoIpushedopenthedoor.‘The lounge,’ I said flatly,
andgestured forHenry togoonin.IturnedandsawthatCelia
hadn’t moved. She was stillinthesamespotonthelawn.‘Sorry,’ I mouthed to her
silently, ‘do you mindterribly?’, feelingbadwhenIsawhowdejectedshelooked.‘Not at all,’ she blustered,
recovering herself. ‘Go!Enjoy!’ and then: ‘He’sterribly handsome, Roz,’ shewhispered, her tone nowgirlish and conspiratorial. ‘Isheakeeper?’
Henry hadwandered throughto the dining room. ‘I seeyou’re going for the
minimalistlook.’‘Listen, if you going to be
critical—’He put his finger to his
lips. ‘I’m not. But Roz, youdon’t have any furniture.Whatonearthhappened?’‘Oh,youknow.Stuff.’‘Haveyou justmoved in?’
heasked.‘Not exactly. I had a visit
fromthebailiffs.Anyway,doyoustillwantthatcoffee?’He tried to smile
sympathetically but wasn’tentirely sure if I was pullinghisleg.‘Letme,’hesaid,andhe moved towards thekitchen. ‘You sit down’ – hecasthiseyesaroundtheroom– ‘you sit down there… onthatbox.’I stayed where I was. My
sandals were starting topinch,soIremovedthemandstoodinmybarefeet.A moment later he
reappeared.‘Cups?’
I shook my head. ‘Justwhat’ssoakinginthesink.’‘It’s like my student days
all over again,’ he saidbrightly. ‘Tea out of a glass,vodkaoutofabowl.’I followed him into the
kitchen.Theballsofmy feetmadeasoft,thwackingsoundon the linoleum as I moved.‘What did you study?’ Iasked.‘Chemicalengineering.’‘Shouldn’t you have a job
at,like,ICI,orsomething?’Henodded.‘You’reright.I
should.’‘Butinsteadyou…?’‘Piss about in insurance
twodaysaweek.’‘What do you do when
you’renotworking?’‘Read,mostly,’hesaid.‘Why?’He laughed. When he
realized I wasn’t joking, heconsidered my question. ‘Doyou knowwhat,’ he said, ‘if
you’d asked me that a yearago,I’mnotsureIcouldhaveanswered. I certainly don’tread to escape, or as someself-improvement exercise, ifthat’s what you werethinking.’I shrugged. ‘I wasn’t
thinkingthat.’‘I’ve always enjoyed
reading,’ he explained. ‘I’vealwaysfoundmyselfwantingto pick up a book withoutreallyquestioning thereason.
Except last year I read areview of a book by JohnMalkovich.’‘I didn’t know he was a
writer,’Isaid.‘I’m not sure that he is.
The review was by JohnMalkovich,notthebook.’‘Mymistake.’‘Actually now that I come
to thinkof it, I’mpretty sureit was a reviewer pretendingto be John Malkovich.Anyway, the book wasMay
We Be Forgiven by A. M.Homes.’Hepaused. ‘Doyouknowit?’‘Idon’t.’‘No matter. It’s not
important. It’s what he saysin his review that highlightsthe reason I read. He sayseveryoneissodullnowadays.Basically, everyone’s sofrightened of upsetting otherpeople, there are nocharactersleftanymore.Andwhen he sat down to read
MayWeBeForgiven,hewasat last spending time withsomeone interesting. Hefound the main character sointeresting,socompelling,hecouldn’t wait to get back tothe book. In answer to yourquestion, I think that’swhy Iread.’‘Becausepeoplearedull?’‘Yes. You have nice teeth
bytheway.’‘Thankyou.’He realized at this point
that there was not enoughwater in the kettle, by thesound it wasmaking. Fillingit at the sink, he said,casually, ‘So, bailiffs. That’skind of a big deal. How didthathappen?’‘IspentmoremoneythanI
had.AndIwasleftinabitofamessbymyex-husband.Heran up quite a few debts inmyname.’‘Ah, yes. I remember.
Shitty thing todo.Youdon’t
seemtooupsetaboutit,ifyoudon’tmindmysaying.’‘I was. But what’s the
point?Ipickedhim,afterall.At first I spent a lot of timeblaming, back in thebeginning,beforeIrealizeditwasn’tgoingtogetmeoutofthe trouble I was in. No onewasgoingtocomealongandsay, “Do you know what?You are so totally right. It’sall Winston’s fault.” Andbesides, there are a hell of a
lot of people morecompromised thanme. But Ishould have handled it betterthan I did. Anyway,’ I said,‘things are easier now. Theworst is over. I’ve managedtoclimboutoftheholeIwasin and things are starting tolookup.’‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I
admireyouforthat.’Ilookedaway.‘Doyoulikeyourjob?’he
asked.
‘I like parts of it. I enjoyoffering relief to a person inpain,it’sjustittakesup—’‘Allofyourtime?’‘Yeah.’I went on to explain how
myownclinichadfoldedbutthat I still hankered afterworkingformyselfagainoneday.‘So why don’t you?’ he
asked. ‘Why not just go italoneagain?’‘There isanopening todo
just that, but I’m scared. Imade a hash of it last timeand ended up workingridiculous hours because Icouldn’t say no to people.And then I let them downanyway because of myirresponsibility.’‘You’re not irresponsible,’
he said. ‘You bring up achild, alone, whilst workingfulltime,withverylittlehelpfromanyone,fromwhatIcangather. How is that
irresponsible?’‘That’skindofyoutosay,’
I replied. ‘But people takerather a different viewpointwhen—’Hewavedmywordsaway
with his hand as if to imply:What do they know aboutanything? He said, ‘I readrecently that seventy-one percent of people dislike theirjobs. That’s a lot ofdissatisfied people spendingtheir lives doing something
theydon’tlike.’‘Do you like yours?’ I
asked.‘Not especially, but I only
worktwodaysoutofseven.Ireckon you could do prettymuchanythingfortwodaysaweek. Of course, we weretold that, with the advent ofall the labour-savingdevices,everyone would be on athree-dayweekbynow.Thatnever quite happened,though.’
‘Whydoyouthinkthatis?’‘They need to keep us out
of mischief,’ he said. ‘Whatwould happen if we weresuddenly let loose with allthatfreetime?Therecouldbeanarchy.’ He smiled. ‘Therewill always be some peoplewhowanttoworkallday.Letthem,Isay,andleavetherestof us in peace. Naturally,there are some people whocan’tseemtounderstandwhyI would choose to earn less
and work less. Becausewealthistheonlyindicatorofsuccess nowadays, and soon.’Winston,too,wentthrough
a protracted anti-commercialismphase.Givinglong speeches aboutautonomy, themisunderstoodLuddites, the myth that arewarding life is to be hadthroughhardwork.The trouble was, he still
keptonbuyingstuff.
I asked Henry who hemeant when he said somepeoplehadaproblemwithhischoices,andhereplied,‘ScottElias.’I shiftedmyweight tomy
otherfoot.He said, ‘You’ve met
Scott,Iassume?’‘Hmm-mm, a couple of
times.’‘Total wanker,’ he said. ‘I
can’tunderstandwhyNadinestays with him. Well, I
suppose I can. The kids, andallthat.Butstill.’‘You don’t like him,’ I
said, my tone neutral, myexpression neither one thingnor the other. And hefrowned, before saying,‘What’stolike?’‘I can see how you might
notseeeyetoeye.’‘Idon’tseeeyetoeyewith
him,’hesaid,‘becausehe’sadickhead.’‘Not because he’s loaded?
You’re not jealous of hismoney?’Iaskedplayfully.‘That’s the thing: take
away the money and look atthe man. What’s left?Nothing.Hasheeversaidonefunny or interesting thing inyourcompany?’Ididn’tanswer.‘Imean,whatdoeshedo?’
he said. ‘What does heactually care about? Scott’sgot all thatwealth, andwhatdoes he do with it? Buys
objects.That’sit.’‘You’re suggesting he
shouldsavetheworld?’‘I’m suggesting he could
dosomethinguseful.Theguyshaftseveryonehecomesintocontactwith.’‘Inwhatway?’Iasked.‘In every way. He has to
push everything, he can’t letgo. He can’t stand to lose apenny.’‘Really?’Isaiddoubtfully.
‘He seemed pretty generous
to me. My sister seems tothinkso,anyway.’Henry laughed. ‘Oh yeah,
Scott the nice guy. Scott’llbring the wine, he’ll pay thebill. But, I’m telling you, hedoesn’t put his hand in hispocket unless it’s taxdeductible.He doesn’t spendonepennyofhisownmoney.Everything comes out of hisbusiness. Every so-calledgenerous thing he does goesdownasabusinessexpense.’
I immediately thoughtabout billing Scott forservices rendered. He’d toldme he had a hard timescraping the cash together.Which had been hard tobelieve.‘Hurryupwiththatcoffee,’
Isaid.‘He’s got to beat the
system,’ Henry continued,unabated. ‘He’s a greatexample of greed gone nuts… never enough, never
enough. He takes it all forhimself and he puts nothingback. And he has a wickeddarktemper.‘Honestly,’ said Henry,
‘Scott Elias is never happyunless he’s screwingsomeone.
26
SOIWASabusinessexpense.I had no right to be bitter
about this – what differencediditmakehowScottfundedourencounters?And yet, oddly, I was.
WhatScottreceivedfromme
in the way of ‘services’ wasessentially free. By lying, bycooking the books in thisway,hewasable tofundourencounters with money hewouldhavehadtopayin taxto the InlandRevenue.Sohecouldsleepwithmeasmanytimes as he wished, and, asHenry pointed out, itwouldn’tcosthimapenny.Should I havebeena little
insulted by this? Probablynot.ButIwas.AndIcouldn’t
help but wonder how elseScott manipulated hisfinancial statements to hisownends.I never really bought
Scott’s excuse of beingunable to get enough cashtogether to pay me. Had heset up this invoicingarrangement so that he couldin fact delay paying me? Iwas still waiting to be paidforourlastencounter.Washeholdingback thepaymenton
purpose, so he had morecontrol of the situation? Hadmorecontrolofme?It was now the weekend.
Saturday morning. We wereat George’s swimminglesson,whichwaskindlypaidfor by Dylis. He was levelfive, which meant he couldswimthreestrokes,float,divedown for a brick, but notactually swim very far. Nothis fault, nor the teacher’sactually, it was the result of
the municipal pool closing afewyearsagowhenitranoutof money. Now the childrenof South Lakeland had tolearntoswimatvarioushotel‘spas’. This wasn’t ideal,since the pools weregenerally only ten metreslong and, occasionally, adisgruntled guest wouldobject to sharing the spacewith the kidswhen they hadpaid goodmoney to be here,and the children would have
togetout.Lessonover.Today there was just one
elderly lady doingbreaststroke–headoutofthewater, her body almostvertical, not really goinganywhere but smiling all thesame. She was enjoying thechildren as they tried theirhardest tostayafloatontheirbacks: skinny white torsosbobbing,headscolliding.I sat at the small café bar
area with my laptop open.
Thoughitwasonlytenthirty,there was the smell of chipsand cooking oil rather thanchlorinehangingheavyintheair. At the table next to meweretwomothers.Theywereregulars whom I saw everyother Saturday. One (Gail, Ithink)hadgingerhighlights–thehand-paintedtypeappliedwith a brush; the otherchangedherhaircolour fromweektoweek.Theyspenttheentire lesson hunched over,
faces inches apart, eyesnarrowed, discussing Gail’sdivorce. Occasionally, I’dhear the tell-tale words andphrases that surrounded abreak-up (Relate, co-parenting … and: ‘I made aroastdinnertwiceaweekforthat ungrateful bastard. Theylive on fish fingers whenthey’rewithher.Lazybitch’)soIknewtogivethemawideberth.I craned my neck upon
hearing spluttering, a childhaving inhaled too muchpool. When I saw it wasn’tGeorge, I went back topunching inmybankdetails,havingtappedintothehotel’sfreeWi-Fi.Mybalancewasthesame.Scott’s last payment had
stillnotarrived.Ichewedonmythumbnail.
Itwasn’t like I could call upthe company secretary: ‘Thatinvoice I sent you?The fake
one?Yes,canyoupleasepayit?’And I didn’t want to call
Scott.Iwashoping to avoidhim
for a few days. Let the dustsettle after my date withHenry.WhichScotthadbeennone too happy about, and Isensed he might want tointerrogatemeoverit.Henry had pressed to see
me again and I had agreed.I’dsaidIwouldcallhimbut,
asyet,Ihadn’tpickedupthephone.I liked him. I really liked
him. But the timing was oh-so-shitty. Why couldn’t hehave entered my life in amonth’stime,whenIwasridof Scott? When my debtswererepaid?I’d gone a little quiet on
Henrytowardstheendof thedate, the enormity of thedeception crashing throughmeasHenryprattledonabout
Scott,completelyoblivioustomystateofmind.He’dleft,Isuspected, somewhatbefuddled by my suddenremoteness, perhapsmisinterpreting it as anaversiontowardshim–whichcouldn’tbefurtherfromwhatIwasfeeling.I refreshed the page now,
somehow hoping to see themoneymagicallyappear.Concentrating on the
screen,Ididn’tnoticeGeorge
approach until he was at theside of me: shouldershunched over, shivering,hopping fromone foot to theother. ‘I need to use thebathroom,’hesaid.‘Sogo.’‘YousaidIwasn’ttogoin
thereonmyown.Yousaid Icould only go in there whenyou’rethereorthereareotherkids.’That’s right, I did. I
apologized and got up. I’d
forgottenthat.Youcan’tevenlet your children use the looalone any more since beingtold they can be assaulted insupermarket bathrooms,swimming-pool changingrooms.Did our parents realize
howeasytheyhadit?‘Go out to play and don’t
come back till tea time,’ mymother would say. ‘There’sfifty pence for chips andgravy. Don’t buy sweets.’
And that was just about theextentofherparenting.‘You’ll have to go in the
women’s,’ItoldGeorge,andhescowled.‘I don’t want to go in
there.’‘Well, I can’t go in the
men’s.’‘Why?’‘Because they’ll be naked.
Go in the women’s, and bequick. You’re missing yourlesson.’
Hescootedoff,andIfoundmyselfwondering,notforthefirst time, after all the recentcoverage in the press, if theincidence of paedophilesamongst celebrities washigher than in the generalpopulation. Or were theysimply representative of thepopulationasawhole?Or, and this was my
growing suspicion,was theresomething present in thepsyche of men who were
drawntolifeinthepubliceyethatalsopredisposed themtowant to have sex withchildren? Someone shouldreallydoastudy.‘Alldone,’saidGeorge.‘Youwashyourhands?’‘Yes.’‘Really?’‘I’mgoinginthepool,’he
argued, and got away fromme before I could send himback, doing that half-run,half-stepthingyoudoonwet
floortiles.Iwatched him skid a little
ashereachedthewater,eageras he was to get into thewarmth again, and my heartjuddered.Staysafe,baby.Myprayer.ThethingIsaidwhenI felt powerless to protecthim.Two weeks ago, I’d said
the same prayer when I’dallowedhimtoleavethepoolwith a child I knew littleabout. Of course George
knew everything about him,having spent the whole twodays previous playing withhim.His grandfather broughthim to his swimming lesson,the family were new to thearea, and theywere keen forthe child, Leif, to makefriends.The grandfather was
affable,friendly,anearringinhis left ear, a semi-circularscar on his chin – an oldglassing incident, perhaps?
George had hold ofmy shirtandwaspullingatit,beggingme to let him go rather thanspend a boring afternoonalone with me. I wascornered.Ismiledawkwardlyat Granddad, trying to thinkof an excuse and feeling hotwithshameat thesametime,becauseIwas totally judgingthismanonhisappearance.What do you do in this
situation?‘Okay, you can go,’ I
eventually said, reluctantly,and spent the afternoonsayingtheprayer,mymantra,overandover.Later that night, my fears
wererealized.George returned home
withdrawn anduncommunicative, hewouldn’t eat his meal, andplayed in his room so as nottobenearme.We’dhad‘thetalk’ every so often … Ifanyoneevertriestotouchyou
in your underpants … Ifanyoneever tellsyou tokeepa secret from me. But notknowing exactly theseriousness of what I wastrying to convey, Georgealwaysbrusheditofffastandsaidsomethingsilly.I knocked on his door.
‘Everythingallright?’He nodded, without
lookingup.‘Can I get you a drink?’ I
askedhim.
‘No,thankyou.’‘George? Did something
happentoday?’Hedidn’tanswer.‘Did Leif’s granddad get
crosswithyou?’‘No,’hesaidquietly.‘Didhe…didhetryto’–I
paused, trying to find theright words – ‘did he try totouchyouatall?’‘No.’‘Was there anyone else at
thehouse?’
‘Leif’sbrother.’‘Andhowoldishe?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘Guess,’ I said. ‘Younger
thanyou?Olderthanyou?’‘Younger.’‘Anyotheradults?’‘Hisnanna.’‘Andwhatwasshelike?’‘Prettyold.’‘Okay, George, listen.
What exactly happened overthere,becauseIcanseetherewas something, and I’m not
leavinguntilyoutalktome.’My voice was shaking. I
wastryingtoremaincalmforhissake,butIjustcouldn’t.He scratched at a scab on
hisknee,reluctanttotalk.‘George!’Ipressed.‘Talk.’Andhetookabreath.‘Well,’ he began, hesitant,
not reallywanting to. ‘Well,’he said, ‘you knowPokémon?’Iclosedmyeyes.Fellback
againstthewallinrelief.
‘Ido,’Isaid.‘Well, Leif has got, like,
thirty-three figures, Mum…and…and,well,whenIsawthemIwasjealous.’JesusChrist.See this ishow itgotyou.
This is how fucked up youbecame, paranoia plaguingyoureverythought.‘I’ll get you some more
Pokémon, love,’ I told him,and then I went and downedtwoshotsofbrandy.
The children were nowjumpingin–starjumpsforiftheyeverfoundthemselvesinan emergency situation,jumping from a boat perhapsintobrackishwater,unabletosee the bottom. The teacherwas explaining theimportance of slapping downhard with their arms as theyhit the surface, trying toimpress the reasons to avoidgoingdeep.Itwas prettymuch lost on
thekids, though,who took itas an opportunity to try tosplasheachother–legally.I refreshed thepage again.
Still no money. And then itdawned on me that sincetoday was Saturday therewould be no bank transferuntilMondayattheearliest.Idly, I gazed out of the
windowtothehotelcarpark,wondering if there wasanythingIcouldfeasiblydoifthat money didn’t show up,
when my attention wascaught by a black RangeRover.Black Range Rovers were
commonplace. At themoment,maybenot somuchas white, but they werepopular around here all thesame. Except this was anenhanced Range Rover, anOverfinch Long Wheelbase.Over two hundred thousandpounds’ worth of car. Andtherefore not so
commonplace.It was Scott’s Range
Rover.I slid down a little in my
seat so that only my eyespeered over the top of mylaptopandwatchedasthecarcrawled around the car park,asifsearchingforsomething.There were plenty of emptyspaces,sohewasn’ttryingtopark.Hebegan a second circuit.
He hadn’t yet spotted me
observinghim.PerhapsIwasinvisiblefromoutthereifthesunwasontheglass.Whywashehere?Howdid
heknowIwashere?But then ifhewas looking
for me, he would havespotted my car immediately.TheJeepwasbytheentrance.And even if he hadn’tmemorized my registration,he would know it was mineonaccountofthedentonthebonnet, causedby a runaway
supermarkettrolley.Soifhewasn’tlookingfor
me,whowashelookingfor?Myhandhoveredovermy
phone.Thiswascreepy.DidIhavethenerve?DidI
allowhimtoexplainhimself?There were five rings
before I saw his brake lightsilluminateandheansweredatthefarendofthecarpark.‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You free to
talk?’‘Sure.’
His voice was lazy. Acover-up, as I’d not heardhim speak slowly unlessactually dozing off. Mystomach spasmed as Iwatched him edge the carforwardalittle.‘There’s a bit of a
problem,’Isaid.‘Whatkindofproblem?’‘TheinvoiceIsent.It’snot
been paid and I’m stillwaitingforthemoney.’‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, that is
surprising.Deborahisusuallyveryprompt.Sheshouldhavesent it on Wednesday. I’lllook into it foryousoonas Icanandmakesureit’ssortedout.’‘Wonderful. Sorry to be a
nuisance,but,youknow.’‘Noneedtoapologize.You
wantyourmoney,Iget that.’Therewasnowaharderedgeto his voice. He released thebrakesoncemoreandmovedthe car off to the right. If he
continued along that coursehe would again come rightpastwhereIwassitting.Iswallowed.‘So, you’re okay, then?’ I
said.‘Champion.’‘What are you up to? Are
youdoinganythingtoday?’The nose of the car came
intoview.Through the windscreen I
gotaclearpictureofhim,andmy breath stuttered in my
chest as I feared hemay seeme.‘Nothing much,’ he said
casually, while his eyesdarted left and right, left andright, scanning the parkedcars.‘Justreadingthepapers,catchinguponafewbitsandpiecesathome.’His lie sent a shiver right
upthelengthofmyspine.‘Sounds good,’ I
murmured.‘Yeah,relaxingandhaving
abitofarecharge,’headded.‘Arecharge,’Irepeated,as
he paused now by an oldpiece-of-shit Peugeot furtheralong.Thecarwassimilar toHenry’s. Same colour. Samemodel.Scottsurveyedthecarfora
full ten seconds beforeanswering.He thought the car was
Henry’s.He thought Iwasatthis hotel, with Henry. Scottwas checking up onme. But
howdidheknowIwasevenhereatall?‘Listen,’ he said,
distracted, ‘can I call youback? I can hear Nadine onher way through from thekitchen. I need to get off thephone.’‘Noproblem,’Itoldhim.AndIwatchedashehitthe
accelerator and sped off outofthecarpark.
27
THAT AFTERNOON SAW thearrival of a new dining tableand a new cooker – a free-standing electric ovenwith aceramic hob on top.Nothingfancy, but it was clean. AndsinceI tendedtosubscribeto
the late Clarissa DicksonWright’s view that one canmake perfectly good food ona two-ring hotplate, I wasthrilled to see it replace thegrease-covered monstrosityVince had donated. Evenafter I’d given it a thoroughspraywithMrMuscle, I stillcouldn’t bring myself to useit. The burnt fat gave off anodourofranciditythatlodgedin the nasal linings – muchlike when all those animal
carcasseswereburnedduringthe foot-and-mouth epidemicof2001.Thatsmellstayedinthe air, and in your nose, formonths.I hadn’t expected to miss
cooking. Preparingmeals forGeorge at the end of a longday had long since lost itsappeal. But when faced withthe prospect of being unabletocookanythingatall,well,Icouldn’t wait to get back inthekitchen.
Petra and Vince werecomingover,aswellasClara,andsoIgotonwithpreparingmy crowd pleaser: spaghetticarbonara. Vince instructedme to leave thewine tohim,and even though I tried toprotest, explaining that Iwasn’tasstrappedforcashasIhadbeenoflate,heinsisted.He had a new Portuguesewhite – F.P. Branco, whichhe’dbeengiddyformetotrysincediscoveringitrecently.
I roughly chopped sometomatoes, harvested byDennisthatmorning.IinvitedbothCeliaandDennisalong,too,sincePetraandCeliagotalongwell,eventhoughPetracomplainedthatCeliabecameterribly boastful about herfamily after two glasses ofwine (Celia would have saidthe same about Petra, if sheweren’t my sister). But theyhad tickets to the LakelandBook of the Year Awards.
One of Celia’s book grouphad self-published a slimbiography of William andDorothy Wordsworth, whichCelia said was very wellwrittenbutnotreallymykindofthing,sobestavoided.To the tomatoes I added
basil (again from Dennis),olive oil, seasoning and asplash of sherry vinegar,before making a plain greensalad for the kids. Georgewas positively repulsed by
the ideaofa rawtomato,notthat it stopped him dousingeverythinginketchup.As well as now being in
possessionofakitchenfulloffood for the first time inmonths, I had wine glasses,cups, twonewsaucepansandplates that matched. I’d alsosplurged on new school poloshirts for George, bathtowels, tea towels, andbeddingforbothofourbeds.The school holidays were
almost upon us. It would beoneofthelastquieteveningsbefore the adjoining holidaycottage became filled with aprocession of noisy families.Families shouting at eachother after dark when they’dhad too much to drink,realizing too late that theydidn’t actually like spendingthisamountof timewithoneanother.‘So,’ said Petra, as we sat
outonthepatio.
‘So?’Imirroredback.‘So, howwasHenry?’ she
said.‘Bywhichyoumean?’She shot me a look as
though to say, Not how washeinbed,youidiot.‘Imean,doyoulikehim?’
shesaid.‘He seems nice enough,’ I
replied,teasing.‘Nice enough for what? A
fling? A relationship?Marriage?’
‘Oh,marriagedefinitely,’Ireplied,deadpan.‘Have you heard that
Hollywood now has its ownmarital version of the 5:2diet?’ saidPetra, and I askedhertoexplain.‘Instead of eating for five
days and fasting for twodays,’shesaid,‘youlivewithyourspouseforfivedaysandhavetwodaysoff.’Vincelookedinterested.‘Or is it the other way
around?’ she said. Petrathought for a moment,working through the logisticsof it. ‘Yes, it must be theother way around. Five daysoff,twodayson.’‘Likeafireman,’Isaid.‘Exactly,’ she replied.
‘Celebrity couples say itmakes their marriages workmuch better, and it’s morefulfilling.’‘That’s because they’re
essentially dating,’ said
Vince.‘Wheredidyoureadthis?’
Iaskedher.‘A magazine in the staff
room. Not a trashy one. Thehead doesn’t allow those. ItwasMarieClaire. Or one ofthose thinking women’smagazines where the articlesare way too long … anddepressing.’Vince said to Petra that
they already had their ownversion of the 5:2. She
became cross with him oversomething he had no ideaabout, and then proceeded toignore him for two days.‘Worksperfectlywell for us,doesn’tit,love?’Petra pretended to swat
him away and told him tofetchsomemorewaterforthetable.Once Vince was in the
kitchen out of earshot, Iremarkedthattheyseemedtobeonspeakingtermsagain.
‘We’refine,’shesaid.‘Whatwasitabout?’‘Honestly?’ she asked.
‘Dissatisfactiondressedupassomethingelse,Isuppose.Doyoueverlookatyourlifeandthinkyouweremeanttohavemore?’‘Moreofwhat?’‘Moreofeverything.’‘Petra, you do have
everything.’‘I know. I have all of the
important stuff. And I’m not
being ungrateful, I’m reallynot. It’s just, sometimes, Ilook at other people and Ithink—’‘You’re talking about
Nadine.’Sheepishly, she admitted,
‘That’s wrong, I know,’ shesaid. ‘Nadine is a wonderfulperson and she andScott areso good together, and theydidn’t always have all thatwealth. Sometimes envy getsthebetterofme, though,and
I get annoyed abouteverything. I get so bloodyangry.’I stopped eating and held
her gaze. ‘Vince is a greatguy,Petra.’Shenodded.‘I’mabitchto
takeitoutonhim,aren’tI?’‘Howwouldyoufeel ifhe
ignored you for not beinggood enough? Not beingprettyenough?Richenough?’She threwme an outraged
look as though to say,He…
would…not…dare.‘Precisely,’Isaid.Shetoldmeshe’dtrytobe
kinderwithhim. ‘Youknow,Henry might be a great guyfor you. Nadine absolutelyadores him,’ she prattled on,beforepausingandglaringather daughter. ‘Clara, that iswaytoomuchpastayouhaveon your fork. You reallymustn’tshovelyourfoodintoyourmouthlikethat.’IcaughtGeorge’seyeashe
surreptitiously removed halfofthespaghettiloadedonhisfork.A few weeks ago I’d
caught him twirling the forkin the centre of the plate tosee if it was possible to gethisentireservingontoitand,incredibly, he managed it. Ididn’t reprimand him, as hepicked the whole lot up andchewedbitsoff,muchasyouwould a toffee apple. It tookmeback towhenPetra and I
were kids and we’d havecompetitions to see whocould pile the most chips onourforks.I remember Petra winning
onmostoccasions.‘Nadine is very protective
of Henry,’ Petra continuednow, ‘because of whathappened.’I stopped chewing. ‘What
happened?’‘Hedidn’ttellyou?’‘Idon’tknowifhetoldme
or not, because I don’t knowwhatyou’retalkingabout.’Petra lowered her eyes to
her plate and dropped hervoice to all but a whisper.‘Hissondied.’‘Oh,’Isaid,utterlyfloored.
‘Ididn’tknowthat.’There was a moment of
silence when she let meprocess what had just beensaid. Then she went on. ‘Itwas a swimming-poolaccident.Hegotsuckedintoa
faulty filter when divingdownforpennies.’‘Oh,God,’Isaid.‘Terriblething,’saidPetra.
‘His wife took her eyes offtheboytohelpcleanupafteraparty.Theirmarriagedidn’tsurvive after that.Understandable,really.’Petraputhercutleryat the
side of her plate. ‘Do youmindifIleavethis?’shesaid,andIshookmyhead.I’dlostmy appetite, too, I told her.
‘Nadine said that’s whyHenrycamebackhere,’Petraexplained. ‘He couldn’t bearto be amongst people whoknew. He needed a cleanbreak.’‘Where did it happen?’ I
asked.‘Itwasatafriend’shouse.
He and his wife were inLondon for work. He had ahigh-powered job to do withchemical something-or-other.’
‘Engineering,’Isaid.‘That’sright.’Petragulped
down the remainder of herwine.‘Should I open another?’
Vince asked, coming backoutside.His tone was gentle,
fatherly. He said it in a wayyou would ask a person iftheyneededanothericepack,anotherpainkiller.‘Please,’Petrareplied.‘Do
youminddrivinghome?’she
asked, and Vince said hedidn’t.With her glass refreshed,
Petra leaned in towards me.‘Henrydidn’tmentionanyofthistoyou?’‘Nothing,’Ireplied.‘Hedidn’thintatwhathad
happenedtohim?Youdidn’tdetectthesadnessatall?’‘Quitethecontrary.Hewas
quite exuberant, prettyforceful in his ideas. For thewhole of the evening hewas
ina jollymood.Although—’Isaidandhesitated.Droppedmy gaze as I remembered.‘There was one momentwhen there was something…’Ifelt thestingofshameas
itcamebacktomefully.‘Hewantedtocomein–to
come into the house – and Ididn’twanthimto.’‘Whynot?’‘Various reasons. I didn’t
wanthimtomeet’–Ipaused,
tilting my head in George’sdirection–‘sotherewasthat.Andofcourse,thehouseisadisaster, and I just didn’twanthiminside–youknow,judgingme.‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘he
thought Iwas being over thetop about him not meetingGeorge, and I kind of blewmy top at him. Saying that,since he wasn’t a father, I’dappreciate it if he kept hisparentingadvicetohimself.’
Petrawinced.‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ll
apologize.’Quite unaware of our
conversation, Clara andGeorgewere talkingamongstthemselves at the end of thetable.‘Youtwofinishedwithyour plates?’ I asked, andGeorge said yes,whileClaralooked toPetra to check if itwas okay to leave what wasleft of hermeal. Petra didn’tnotice, lost in thought as she
was,soImoutheditwasfine.‘Scoot,’ I told them quietly.‘Go and play. I’ll call youwhendessertisready.’We sat in silence, each of
us watching the kids at theendofthegarden.Theywerepointing to the wild rabbits,andgiggling,GeorgemakingClaralaughwithwhateverhewassaying.‘Just imagine,’ said Petra
softly, gesturing to thechildren, ‘just imagine. That
poor,poorguy,’andhereyesbegantofill.BothVinceandInoddedwithoutanswering.Theminutespassed.Eventually,Igaveherhand
asqueeze.‘Iloveyou,Petra,’I said. ‘I don’t tell you oftenenough. You’re such a goodsistertomeandIloveyou.’‘Oh, honey,’ she replied,
overwhelmed. She searchedfor a tissue before blowinghernose.‘Iloveyou,too.’And then, between the
tears, she said, ‘Vincent, youtellthosechildrentogetbackover here right this instant. Ineed to hold on to them.Tight.’
28
WHEN I ARRIVED at work onMondaymorningtherewasafamiliar vehicle in the carpark: the black Fordbelonging to the twodetectives. Wayne hadn’tbeeninworknowforaweek.
Itfeltlikerain.Theairhadthatthickqualitythatmadeithard to breathe. I closed thesunroofandgotout,makingmywayover to the driver’s-side door of the Ford. DSAspinallloweredthewindow.‘Morning,’ she said. Herpartner was finishing asausage roll, dusting off hismoustache with the paperbag. The car smelled ofbutterypastryandsage.‘Goodmorning,’Ireplied.
‘Time for a quick word?’DSAspinallasked.‘Justletmegetopenedup.
Givemetwominutes?’‘Much obliged,’ she
replied, and raised thewindow. They remainedinside the car, as requested,and by the time they enteredtheclinic Ihad thekettleon,hadremovedthepost,openedthe window in reception asthe air was a little stale, andwasmoreorlessready.
‘Anynews?’Iasked.‘Wayne Geddes is
officiallymissing.’‘Hewasn’tbefore?’Isaid.‘Not exactly. Mr Geddes
wasaccusedoftheftfromhisemployers.Theyreported thetheft to the police, and wewere looking into it forthem.’I got the impression from
her tone that the smallamount of missing moneyhad not exactly been high
priority. That she had notexpected theft to turn into amissing-personcase.‘So you haven’t found the
money?’Isaidshakily.‘No.Andwehaven’tfound
WayneGeddeseither.’‘There really is no sign of
him?’ I asked, perplexed,because where the hell washe?Sure,I’dexpectedWaynetolielowforafewdays.Getover his embarrassment, gethis head together and so
forth, but now this womanwas telling me he wasnowheretobefound.He wouldn’t abandon his
house and take off. I wasalmostcertainofthat.Hehada lot of equity in that house.He would be leaving behindeverything he had. Hissecurity for the future. Itdidn’tmakeanysense.‘His mobile phone hasn’t
beenused,’DSAspinallsaid.‘What about his credit
cards?’Iasked.She shook her head.
‘Although that’s not unusualfor a person wanting todisappear.They’reawarethatmost retailers have camerasabove the tills, as do mostcashpoints. Often there is aperiod of inactivity on thatfront for up to a month.Especially if they have asurplus of cash – which webelieveMrGeddeshas.’But he hadn’t. That cash
hadlonggone.‘By the way, the stretch
you recommended has beenworking,’shesaid.‘Sorry?’‘Upward-facing dog?’ she
said. ‘The yoga stretch? Myneck’smuch improved. I feltthe benefit straight away. Ican reverse the car nowwithoutithurting.’‘Oh–good,’ I stammered.
‘Goodtohear.Listen,didyougotoWayne’shouse?’
‘Wedid.After tospeakingtoyoupreviously.’DSQuigley,whohadbeen
silent up until now, held hisnotepad in the arm’s-lengthposition of the long-sightedand agreed that’s what theyhaddone.‘And,obviously,hewasn’t
thereorelseyouwouldn’tbehere,’ I said. ‘What did youfind?’‘As far as we could tell
there was no one home and
—’‘You didn’t go inside?’ I
asked,astonished.‘Wewerenotauthorizedto
do so. Therewas nowarrantat that time, Mrs Toovey.We’re not allowed to breakin.’‘Washiscarthere?’‘Ibelieveso.’Again, a quick glance to
her partner, who, after amoment, concurred with herstatement.
‘So,whatwe’d like to do,Mrs Toovey, is take a lookaround here, see if we can’tcome up with something topointusintherightdirection.Thiswashisdesk,wasit?’‘Yes, this iswhereWayne
wouldspendhistime.’‘Anyotherareasyouthink
wouldberelevant?’‘The kitchen,’ I said. ‘He
dida lotofbrewingup.Andhewasinchargeofthestock.To be honest, he had his
handsineverything.’Where had Wayne gone
after I hightailed it onSaturday? My memory ofleaving the house wassketchy at best. There werepockets of time that weresimply missing. Hadsomething happened that Icouldn’t recall? Had I donesomething to Wayne that Icouldn’trecall?Irememberedwaking and there being nosign of Wayne. But what if
thatwasn’tcorrect?WhatifIhad simply blanked out hispresence?Christ.‘What time do the clients
arrive?’DSAspinallasked.‘Patients. My first arrives
infifteenminutes.’They started poking
around. I suspected theywould find little of interestbut didn’t quibble all thesame. They asked a fewfurtherquestions:DidWayne
mention any financialdifficulties?Didhetalkaboutmeetinganyonestraight fromwork on the Friday he waslast seen, or over theweekend? Did he talk aboutleavingthearea?No,noandno.When it seemed as though
they had finished, I askedwhyWaynewasnowclassedasofficiallymissing,whenhewasn’t before. What hadchangedexactly?
‘His cousin,’ replied DSAspinall. ‘He’d not heardfrom Mr Geddes and so lethimself into the property.Once inside, he becameworried. He said it was veryout of character for MrGeddesnottobeintouch.’‘So his cousin doesn’t
think Wayne cleared offwithout telling anyone?’ Iasked.‘He says not. He says Mr
Geddeswouldneverhaveleft
without making properarrangements with him.Arrangements to takecareofhisfish.’‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Of course.
Thefish.’‘Yes,’ she replied,without
lookingmyway.‘They’realldead.’
29
WAYNE’S DISAPPEARANCE HADthrown me completely offbalanceandso,eventhoughIdidwanttocallHenry,Ikeptpickingupmymobile, goingto contacts, and thenbottlingout. I was being a coward
about it. I just couldn’t seemtofindtherightwords.Henryhadn’tbeenintouch
either, since our date of lastweek. I think after his smallspeech about Scott Elias, Ihad clammed up a little andgiven off an abashed airwhich may have beenmisinterpretedasdisinterest.When I say I may have
donethis,Imeandefinitely.Henrymust have left with
the impression I didn’t care
forhim.But I couldn’t leave it like
that.Notnow.He picked up on the tenth
ring.‘Henry,’Isaid.‘Roz,’hereplied.‘I didn’t think you were
goingtoanswer.’‘I didn’t think you were
goingtocall.’‘Henry—’ I began and
stopped.‘Whatisit,Roz?’
I tookabreath. ‘Petra toldme about your son,’ I said,‘andI justwantedtosaythatI’mreallysorry.Iwasabruptand insensitive on Thursday,back at the house, and Iwanted to apologize. Iwouldn’t have said what Isaid about not wanting yourparenting advice if I’dknown,and—’‘You didn’t know,’ he cut
in, his tone brusque but notunkind.‘Noharmdone.’
‘Ifeelterrible.’‘Ididn’twantyoutoknow.
Not straight away, anyway.And it was six years ago, soyou’rehardlyatfault.’Therewasasilence.I could hear Henry’s
breath, heavy, as though hewaswalking.‘What was he like?’ I
asked quietly, after amoment, and Henry didn’tspeak. Eventually, he gave asmall, humourless laugh and
instantly I regretted myquestion.‘Sorry,’Isaid.‘Henry,I’m
sosorry,Ishouldn’thave—’‘No,’ he replied. Then he
sighed. ‘No, it’s not that.Noone ever asks, that’s all. Noone ever asksme about him.Theyaskhow I cope.How Iget through the days. “Howdo you go on,” they say,“whentheveryworstthinginthe world has happened?”They make it all about me.
No one ever wants to knowaboutElliot.’‘It’s because they’re
frightened,Henry.’‘Iknow.’‘Elliot,’ I said. ‘Tell me
aboutElliot.’‘Ilovedhim.’His breathing quietened
and I sensed he had stoppedwalking now. Paused rightwherehewasonthestreettothink about his son. I didn’ttalk.Iwaited.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘do youwanttomeetup?BecauseI’dlike to tell you about him.Fuck,’ he said emphatically,‘I’d really like to talk abouthim. About everything. Idon’tgettodothatanymore.AndIknowit’sprobablymyown doing, but I feel like Ineed to sometimes…Ican’ttalk toNadine. She cries toomuch.’‘Sure,’ I said softly. ‘I’d
likethat,Henry.’
We got together two dayslater. I had no babysitter,Winston was in Newquay –his mother pretended not toknow where he was, until Itold her I didn’t want anymoney out of him. Then sheadmitted he’d taken off withtheblondegirlwiththedirty,matted hair (dreads) who’dbeenworkingat thecampsitefor the summer. ‘He’s backFriday,’ she assured me.Anyway, it wasn’t exactly a
date that I’d scheduled withHenry, so he called at thehouse, and we walkedtogether to the swings withGeorge and his friend Ollie,whohadstayedoverfortea.Theboyskickeda football
around and Henry and I satononeofthepicnicbenches.I’d asked Henry if it wasokay to bring George along,sensitive to the fact that hewas here to talk about hisown son, and he’d frowned,
answering with, ‘Well, whatelseareyougoingtodowithhim?’Wewatchedtheboysfora
while.Georgewasnonaturaland had little control of theball. Awoman in her fortieskeptsendinghimblacklookseach time it went anywherenear her toddler. I pretendednot to be aware and turnedmyattentiontoHenry.‘NowthatI’mhereIdon’t
knowwheretostart,’hesaid.
I toldhimnottotalkatallifhedidn’t feel like it. Iwashappytohavesomeonetositwith. Iwas happy to be herewith him. Usually, I camealone.‘He’s a good kid,’ Henry
said, nodding towardsGeorge, who was about totakeacorner.‘Yeah…didElliotplay?’‘I tried to get him into it,
buthehadnointerest.’‘SameasGeorge,’Isaid.
‘His granddad wasdevastated,’ Henry said,smilingatthememory.‘And George’s,’ I said.
‘My dad’s a big BoltonWanderersfan,andhisfatherbefore him. He was kind ofgutted George couldn’t careless. He’s over it now, Ithink.’‘Yeah, my dad was the
same,he—’Somehow,whentakingthe
corner, George had managed
tokicktheballbehindhim.‘Excuse me!’ came the
shrill voice of the nearbymother. She set off, stridingtowardsus,abouttogiveusapiece of hermind. ‘Iwonderif you would mind tellingthoseboysthatI’dappreciateit if theykept thatballunder—’‘Lads,’ I yelled over to
GeorgeandOllie,‘playattheother end of the pitch.’Theyobliged without complaint,
and I ignored the woman,turning back to Henry. ‘Youweresaying?’‘Nicelydone.’‘I’m well practised. There
are a lot of parents who getoutraged rather easily aroundhere. They don’t seem tothink that theiroffspringwilleventuallygrowupintonine-year-oldsaswell.’‘Irememberthetype,’said
Henry, ‘the full-on parentswho behave as though the
parks were built especiallyfor them.They used to driveme nuts, going on all theequipment,talkingnonstoptotheir kid, encouraging –Christ, clapping – the wholeAren’t I a fantastic parent?bullshit.’I nodded in agreement.
‘Theymakeyoufeelcrapforreading a newspaper whenyou shouldbe engagingwithyourkid.’‘Should you be engaging
with your kid at everymoment, do you think?’ heasked.‘No,doyou?’‘It’s definitely weird,’ he
said.‘Anyway,whatwerewetalkingabout?Football?’‘Yourdad,’Isaid.‘Oh,yeah,’hesaid,andhis
expression turned once morereflective.‘How has he coped with
thelossofagrandchild?’‘Better than Helena’s
parents,’hesaid.‘Helenaisyourwife?’Henodded.‘Was.’‘Doyoukeepintouchwith
them?Helena’sparents?’‘I call every couple of
weeks, just to check in.Helena doesn’t know. She’spretty heavily medicated, sotheylookafterher.I triedto,but she didn’t want mearoundintheend.’‘Sheblamesyou?’‘She blames herself. She
wasn’tatfault,butitmadenodifference. She blamesherself and, ultimately, I’mnot exactly sure whathappened to us. I couldn’tseem to help her, and shedidn’t want me near her, soherparentsaskedmetomoveaway.Reluctantly,though–itwasalastresort.ItellpeopleI couldn’t bear to be aroundanyone that knew about theaccident, but it wasn’t that.My wife couldn’t bear to
havemearoundanylonger.Itried todowhatwasbest forher.’Inodded.There wasn’t really
anything I could say. Theworst thing in the world hadhappened. His marriage hadfallenapartasa result.Therewerenowordsofconsolation.‘Thank you for asking
aboutElliot,’hesaidsoftly.‘We all need to talk about
ourkids.’
‘Mostpeople,evenfriends,assume I’d hate to talk. Thatit’sthelastthingI’dwant.’Ihesitated,notexactlysure
how to answer. ‘I’m noexpert,’Isaid,‘butthepeopleIknowwho’velostachilddowant to talk. Rather thancausing pain, it seems tobringsomecomfort.’He clasped his hands
togetherandnodded.I said, ‘You should see
your face, by the way, when
you talk about him. Youbecome a different person.Yourwholefaceshines.’‘Itdoes?’‘Yeah,’Isaid.‘Itdoes.’The boys were edging
closertothissideofthepitch.I glanced at thewomanwiththe toddler, who wasstanding, hands on hips,waiting for me to reprimandthem,soIdidn’t.‘IhadthefeelingIsaidthe
wrong thing the other
evening,’ said Henry. ‘IthoughtI’dannoyedyouand,thoughIreallywantedtocall,I didn’t think you’d want tohearfrommeagain.’‘Youdidn’tannoyme.’‘No?’Helookeddubious.‘The last few weeks
haven’t exactly been plainsailing.AndIsuppose itwasjustthefall-outfromthat.’‘Anything I can help
with?’heasked.‘Thanks,butit’sover.’
He went to say somethingfurther and then changed hismind, sensing, perhaps, thatwhatever had been troublingmeIwasn’twillingtoshare.‘I think that’s why I was
drawntoyou,’hesaid,afteramoment, reaching across andtakingmy hand. ‘You know,whenwefirstmet?’‘During the insurance
assessment?’ I asked,surprised.He went rueful. ‘I like to
playmycardsclose,’hesaid.‘But I knew almost straightawaythatyouwouldn’ttrytofix me. You had your ownshitgoingon,soyouweren’tgoing to try and makeeverything better. Or askstupid fucking questionsabout how I feel … I wasattractedtothat.’I smiled at him. ‘How do
youfeel,Henry?’‘Notsobad,actually.’
WedroppedOlliebackathismother’s and walked home,George carrying the footballrather than attempting todribbleitalongthepavement.Vincehad leftabottleof thePortuguesewhiteinthefridgeon Saturday, so I opened it,pouring out two glasses,whilst Henry kicked the ballaround in the back gardenwithGeorge.I watched from the open
window.
Henry had an easy waywith him. He wasn’t out toimpress,nordidhetry togetGeorge to like him. He wascasual. After a minute or soHenrypickedup theballandsaidtoGeorge,‘Youwant todo something else?’ andGeorge nodded. Henry toldhim he didn’t really likefootball either and I sawGeorge smile coyly inresponse.Then the two of them sat
on the edge of the patio,shoulder to shoulder, and fora second I got a glimpse ofwhatlifecouldbelike.Aglimpseofafuture.
30
THE TEXT READ: ‘Are youfree?’Ireplied:‘For?’Scottwrote:‘Theusual???’Me: ‘I’ve still not been
paidforlasttime…’And of course, then, he
called.It was now Thursday
morning and I’d beenavoidingScottpartlybecauseof Henry partly because ofmy unease at his presence atthe swimming pool, butmostly because I knew Ineeded to end thearrangement and I was toonervoustofacehim.I’d sent Scott a couple of
innocuous texts, given him agentle nudge to chase up the
remaining money, and he’dreplied, tellingmehewasonto it; and again later, sayingthey’dhadproblemswiththecomputingsystematwork. Itwas all sorted out now,moneyon itsway,andsoonandsoforth.Butithadn’tarrived.‘Roz, huge apologies,’
ScottsaidbreathlesslywhenIpickedup,‘Ihadnoideayouwere still waiting. I’ll drawout the cash. I’m terribly
embarrassed. I hate owingmoney.’‘That’s okay,’ I said
evenly.‘Money’snotastightasitoncewas.’‘No,’ he laughed. ‘You’ll
have no further use for mesoon. I’ll have to come upwith some other way to lureyouback.’I laughed along with him,
though when I looked at myreflectionIwasn’tsmiling.‘So,howiseverything?’he
asked. ‘You’re still busy atwork,Ipresume?’‘Always.Youknowhowit
is.I’vehadanoffer,actually,togobackonmyown.’‘Oh?’‘Yes,fromapatient.Aguy
I’ve known for years hasoffered me premises.Affordable premises.And hedoesn’t really want anymoneyupfront,sothere’snogreatriskinvolved.’Scottwassilent.
‘Scott?’‘Sorry, sorry, I got
distractedthereforamoment.That’s simply wonderfulnews, Roz. I’m delighted foryou.’ His words soundedhollow. ‘When will you getgoingonthisnewventure?’‘A few weeks, I think.
There are some renovationsthatneedtobecompleted,butitshouldn’ttaketoolong.’‘Excellent.Andwhatabout
Henry? How are things
workingoutonthatfront?’‘Okay,’ I said, non-
committal.‘Do you see it going
anywhere?’Strange how people think
they have a right to know. Iwouldn’t dream of askinghowaperson’smarriagewasgoing, or their relationshipwiththeirmother.Though I did suspect
Scott’s inquiryhadless todowith concern for my long-
term happiness and more todo with finding out if I’dsleptwithhisbrother-in-law.‘You didn’t think to
mention he’d lost his son?’ Isaidcarefully.Scott cleared his throat.
‘Musthaveslippedmymind.’Iwas about to replywhen
he said, ‘Why, is he playingthesympathycardagain?’Gut-punched, I nearly
droppedthephone.‘I thought he’d stopped
with all that.’ He said. ‘Ithought that the whole pointofhimmovingbackherewasto put it all behind him.Anyway, it wasn’t like ithappened yesterday. And hedoesn’t like people to talkaboutit,so…’Iwasn’t quite sure how to
respond.Eventually, I recovered
enough to say, ‘So, themoney,Scott?’‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘The
money.’‘Whatdoyousuggest?’Andhesaid,‘HowaboutI
dropbytheclinicwithitinanhour?’
I turned on the windscreenwipers. The weather hadchanged abruptly. A fastmoving storm was sweepingacross the area and hadeveryone scurrying for theirhomes.The wiper on the driver’s
side of the Jeep wasdamaged.Witheachstroke itmade a soft groan, thenjuddered, leaving behind asmall patch of unclearedglass, obscuring my line ofsight. I had to sit tall andslightly forwards in the seattomakeouttheroadahead.I was on my way to the
Coniston holiday home thatScott had rented for ourconvenience. I had declinedhis offer of stopping by the
clinic, thinking it prudent tomeet where we couldn’t beobserved. And it occurred tomeaswediscussedthemeet-up thatwehadn’t fullymadeuseof theplace–perhapsashe had first hoped. Iwondered if Scott wasannoyedbythis.Ifhewas,hedidn’t give the impression ofbeing so. In fact, he brushedaway my remark with acomment about how life hadthehabitofgettingintheway
ofthebest-laidplans.Did I detect a certain
brittleness to his tone? Icouldn’tbesure.Idrove through thehamlet
of Hawkshead Hill, past theBaptistchapel–atinychurchslottedrightinamongstarowofneat,pretty,whitecottages.The road climbed steadilyuntil reaching the crossroadsat the summit.Turn right forTarnHows,thespotatwhichI’dwatchedthesungodown,
drinking beer with Henry.Head straight on forConiston.Idescendedslowly,thecar
buffeted by the crosswinds,and practised the beginningsofmyspeech.I planned to tell Scott that
we both knew ourarrangement must come to aclose. That we could notcontinue,thingsbeingastheywere. It was too risky. Fatehad planted obstacles in our
way, in the shape of Henry,amongstotherthings,andthiswouldbetheendofwhat,forme, had been an enjoyable,not tomention lucrative, fewweeks.Butitwasnowover.That should be all right, I
thought. Say that, take themoney,andrun.And Scott had alluded to
the same line of thinking onthephoneanhourago.Justashe bid me goodbye he hadlaughed,saying thatourshad
probably been the mostsuccessful relationship of hislife.Hewishedtheycouldallbe that simple, he said. Weboth got exactly what weneededoutofit.Ten minutes later, and I
turnedofftheroad.Abranchhad been pulled from anearby oak and lay strewnacrossthetrack.Iwasuponitbefore realizing and decidedto chance driving over it,rather than get out and hurl
thethingoverthehedgerow.There was a hard clunk
beneath thechassis, followedby a feeling of dragging abody beneath the car. A fewyards further on and it musthave released, as I wasdriving freely again. I didn’tgetouttocheck.Alwaysbestnottoknowwhatdamagehasbeendone,Ifound.At theendof the track the
cottage appeared. Lesspicturesque than last time, it
looked more like what itactually was: secluded, starkandalittleshoddy.There were no lights on
inside.Istayedinthecarandwaited for Scott. Thewindscreen soon becamemisted so I got the enginerunning again, directed someof the heat upwards.Instantly,itwasstuffy.Lowering the window an
inch, I heard a bell. It wasringing, faintly, and must
have been positioned eitheronayacht’smast,orelseonabuoy, out on the lake somewayfromtheshore.Thewayit cried out at irregularintervals was eerie, evokingthe image of the loneswimmer taken under thewater in the opening scenesofJaws.I shuddered. And then
there were headlights. A fullbeam hitting my mirror,blinding me for a moment.
And the crunch of gravel. Acar moving too fast andcomingtoastopbesidemeinapartialskid.I looked over. Scott lifted
hishandandclimbedout.Ihopedhemighthandover
the money and we could beonourway,butno.Hestrodetowards the front door, keysjangling, and when I calledhisnameheignoredme.SoIfollowed.Once through thedoor,his
mouth was on mine and myweight was pushed againstthewall. I had ahook inmyback.‘Thank God,’ he said
breathlessly.‘Scott,wait.’‘Ican’twait.’I tried to put some space
between us. ‘Please,’ I said,pushing him away. ‘Please,justgivemeaminute.’He took a step back and
regarded me. His expression
was worried, uncertain.Childlike, inasense.Hewasthesmallboywaiting for thegrown-up to explain exactlywhathehaddonewrong.‘Iwasn’t expecting this,’ I
began.‘You don’t want to?’ he
said,genuinelyastonished.‘I just—’ and I paused,
tryingtoclutchatthethreadsof my speech. I hadn’timagined this scenario. Fromhis manner, from the
impression he gave on thephone,IexpectedScottandIwould have a shortconversation – cordial,civilized–inwhichwewouldboth agree our arrangementwas over. We would saygoodbye.Perhapskissforoldtime’ssake.Butitwouldbeakissof fondness.Awishyouwellkindofkiss.NotthekissI’d just had forced uponme.Andcertainlynotfollowedbythelookofutterdejectionthat
wasnowonScott’sface.Heswallowed.When I still hadn’t
answered,heasked,‘Whyareweevenherethen?’I straightenedmy spine. ‘I
cameforthemoney,Scott.’‘Oh,’hesaid.‘Ithoughtyouknewthat.’He gave a sad laugh and
shook his head. ‘Imisinterpreted. When yousuggested meeting here, Iassumed that you wanted to
…’Heletthewordshang.I moved towards him. ‘I
didn’twant anyone to see ustogether,’ I explained gently.‘Ithoughtifwemetherethenitcouldbeprivate.’He reached out his hand
but,beforehecouldtouchmyface,Itookholdofitinmine.‘You’redisappointed,’Isaid.‘Couldn’twejust—’‘Sorry,wecan’t.’‘That sounds rather final,’
hesaid.
I blew out my breath.‘Scott, you’re not reallysuggestingthatwegoon,areyou? This whole thing, it’stoorisky.’‘Because of Henry,’ he
saidflatly.‘NotbecauseofHenry.’‘Have you fucked him
yet?’‘No. But that’s not really
your business.’ There was aflicker in his jaw, a slow,deliberate blink of the eyes.
Instinctively, I shrunk back,and in the space of a secondhe was upon me again.Pushing me hard into thewall.‘I don’t want you to,’ he
hissed into my ear. ‘I don’twantyouevertofuckHenry.’His mouth was on mine,
and he was grabbing at thehemofmyskirt.‘Scott,don’t.’Heignoredmywords.His hands were rough, his
breathing ragged. He pulledupmyskirtandyankedatmyknickers,makingmeyelp.Then he pulled away to
unfastenhisjeans.Istaredathim.‘What are you doing?’ I
saidcoldly.‘Whatthehelldoyouthinkyou’redoing?’Andhestopped.He looked at me with a
strange expression. Almostdumbstruck. As though hewasn’tquitewithit.
‘I don’t know,’ hewhispered.I pulled down my skirt.
Straightenedmyself.‘I don’t know what I was
doing,’herepeated.We stood in silence, both
ofustooshockedtospeak.I longeddesperately toget
out. To get away from thehouse.Togetawayfromhim.NooneknewIwashere.NotonepersonintheworldknewwhereIwasrightnow.
‘I’m sorry, thatwasoutofline,’hesaideventually.‘Youthink?’‘It was the idea of you
two,’hesaid.‘Thethoughtofyoubeingtogether is just tooclosetohome.’Hehada lookofhatred in
his eyes that contradicted hisapology. I swallowed hard,glancing towards the frontdoor.‘Scott, that’s exactly why
wecan’tgoon,’ I said. ‘It is
tooclosetohome.’‘And by that what you
meanisyoudon’twanttogoon.’‘Why wouldn’t I, Scott?’ I
replied sharply. ‘Think aboutit.Whywould I not want todo it? This thing, thisarrangement, has almost gotmeoutofdebt.Iwasclosetolosing my home before this.My son and I would havebecome homeless. And if Iwere to continue with what
we’ve been doing –Christ, Icould have savings. I couldget somewhere in life again.Butitcan’tgoon.’‘Why?’Iheldhisgaze,butIdidn’t
answer.‘This is a good
arrangement, Roz,’ heargued. ‘No one is gettinghurt.Noonewillfindout.’‘Thingshavechanged.We
are no longer two people,practically two strangers,
coming together for mutualgain. There are other peopleinvolved now, and it’sunfair.’‘Who?Whyisitunfair?’‘Yourwife.Mysister.And
yes,nowthere’sHenry.’He flinched again at the
soundofHenry’sname.‘I don’t want to be found
out, Scott,’ I said. ‘Iwant toend it before we do anydamage to the people I careaboutthemost.’
Hehunghishead.I went to go on, went to
statemy case further, but hecut me off. ‘It’s okay,’ hesaid.‘Iunderstand.Whenyouwereburiedindebt,youwerewilling to take the risk. Andnow that you’re not, you’renot.Igetit.’He handed me the money
he owed me before reachinginto his inside pocket andwithdrawing a small,midnight-blue Dorothy bag.
‘Iboughtyouthis.’When Ididn’t take it from
him,he said, ‘Please. It’s foryou.Pleasetakeit.’I loosened thecordaround
the neck of the bag. Therewasabox.Inside,therewasapair of earrings. Small, non-fussy diamonds in a white-gold setting. ‘They’re reallypretty,Scott,thankyou,butIreallydon’t—’‘Take them,’ he snapped.
‘Infact,wearthemnow.’
Scared, reluctant, I did ashe asked, lifting my hairawayfrommyface.He gazed me for a time,
smiled,andthenheshookhishead,saying,‘IreallythoughtI’dhaveyouforlonger,Roz.’And I replied, ‘I’m so
sorry,’ as earnestly as I wasable.‘I didn’t imagine it would
end this quickly,’ hecontinued. ‘I suppose Iexpecteditwouldcontinueas
longasIwanteditto.’‘Did you?’ I asked
carefully.‘Yes,’hesaid.‘Idid.’I tried to smile. Tried to
make light of it. I wasconscious of keeping himcalm. ‘You sound as thoughyouthoughtyouwerebuyingmeforlife,’Isaid.Scott made as if to speak,
buthehesitated.Then he said, ‘I would do
thatforyou.’
I dropped my head,embarrassed by hiswords. ‘Idon’tunderstand.’He reached out and took
holdofmyface.Withhisgriptight,heliftedmychin.Squeezinghard,hestepped
towards me, until his facewas inches from mine. ‘Iwould take care of you,’ hewhispered. ‘I’d take care ofyou for life, as you put it, ifonlyyou’dallowmeto.’
31
THE LATE AFTERNOON rainsplattered against the clinicwindow.Ipushedmythumbsintoahairygluteusmaximus,the flesh unforgiving as thepatient tensed in response tomy touch. ‘Try to let it go
looseifyoucan,’Itoldhim.‘It hurts like hell,’ he
replied. ‘There must besomethingseriouslywronginthere.’He was a new patient. A
fifty-something solicitor whohad blustered into the clinicwith an authoritative air,answering my questions asthough he really didn’t havetime,andCouldn’twejustgetonwiththis?When he undressed I saw
hehadhisunderpantsonbacktofront.Imovedacrosstohisother
buttock and sunkmy thumbsintothatside.Heflinchedandthen yelped as though he’dbeen bitten. ‘It’s a triggerpoint, see?’ I said. ‘It hurtsjustasmuchontheleftasonthe right. Please do relax ifyoucan.’His silence indicated
begrudging acceptance thathisarsewasnotabout to fall
off any time soon, and heremained uncommunicativefor the remainder of thesession. Apart from, that is,when I pushed too deep andhe would suck the spittle inbetween his teeth. So IthoughtaboutScott.Ithoughtaboutwhathe’dsaidearlier.Obviously, we hadn’t got
as far as the logistics of hisabsurd proposition becauseI’d got out of there just assoon as I could. Now that I
hadthechancetothinkaboutit,though,Iwascuriousastohow he imagined we wouldmaintainsuchanarrangement– if he was in fact seriousabouthisofferof‘takingcareofmeforlife’.Would he deposit a
monthlysumintomyaccountand pop by whenever herequired intercourse? Amistress, then, in thetraditionalsense?Or would we remain with
the systemofmybillinghimforservicesrendered?After his proposition Scott
hadbecomeawareofthefearin my eyes and had relaxedhis grip on my face, onceagain feeling appalled by hisown actions. He apologizedprofusely, saying he didn’tquite know where thatbehaviour had come from.Followingwhich,Iwonderedwhat exactly I’d becomesaddledwith.
Was Scott a psychopath?Was he a lonely, rich guywho couldn’t stand any kindofrejection?Apparently,hewasneither.How did I know this?
BecauseIaskedhim.Hebrokedown,expressing
mortification at what he’djust done, saying he’d neveronce hurt a woman, nevereven come close. He couldonly conclude that my earlytermination of our
arrangement had hit himharder than he could haveanticipated and he’d beentaken over by some kind ofprimitive compulsion.Something he’d neverexperiencedbefore.The patient now lifted his
head.Hesaid, ‘Doyou thinkswimmingwillhelp?’‘Do you like to swim?’ I
asked.‘Not really. I’m not very
good.’
I’m not sure why, but allnew patients ask aboutswimming. It may havesomething to do with takingthe weight off the joints, orbecause they’ve seenthoroughbreds in thehydrotherapy pool ontelevision and consider theirinjury to warrant similartreatment.Truth was, this guy had a
bad back because he had abig belly, and swimming
wouldmakenodifference. Itwas pulling his weightforward,puttingstrainon thejoints of the lower back, andthe pain in his buttock wastheresultofthis.‘I could do with getting a
bit of weight off,’ he said,moretohimselfthantome.I didn’t respond. I never
did. They didn’t come tometofeelbadabouttheirweight,and my thoughts were stillstuck on Scott. About how I
mightavoidencounteringhimagaininthenearfuture.Petramight be a problem. I’d justhave to have some goodexcuses at the ready in caseshe organized another get-together.‘Do you think I need to
lose some?’ the patientpressed.‘It can help,’ I said
vaguely.Scott’s cash was in my
handbag. This time, I wasn’t
going to deposit it in thebank, so I needed to keep itwell hidden. Problem was,my landlordhadakey to thehouse, and it didn’t exactlyhave great security. So itwouldn’t be wise to leave itin one of my usual hidingplaces: the bread bin; insidethe cheese drawer of thefridge.And now I would need
someofittofixmycar.Returning to work, after
the meeting with Scott, Iheard an ominous, metallicclunking coming frombeneath that didn’t soundgood. One of those noisesyou ignore at your peril.Well, I had ignored it, untilTerry the ferry attendantstopped and stared as I’dboarded,tappingmywindow,saying there was somethinghanging down from theexhaust. Then I had noalternative but to
acknowledge there was aproblem and made a note tobook the car into the garage.It would be expensive.Driving over that branchwould turn out to be anexpensive decision. It waslike Newton’s fourth law orsomething.I demonstrated a few back
extensions to the solicitor,since the jointsofhis lumbarspinewere locked in forwardflexion, and hemade like he
was interested, asking howmanyheshoulddo,whattimeofdaywasbest.He wouldn’t do the
exercise. His wife had mostlikelymade this appointmentjusttostophimcomplaining.‘Scott Elias said youwere
very good,’ he remarked ashe knotted his tie in front ofthemirror,andIdidadoubletake.‘You’re friends?’ I asked
cautiously,tryingnottoshow
thathe’dunsettledme.‘Wegowayback.’He perched on the
treatment couch, lifting upalternatekneestotiehisshoelaces.Whenhestood,hesaid,‘Do you know what, for thelast tenyearsmyback’shurtevery time I’ve got up fromsitting.Andnowthepainhasgone.’I smiled at him. ‘Glad it’s
feelingbetter.’Iwasawareoftheclock.I
neededaquicktriptotheloobefore the next patient and Iwanted to get rid of this onequick.‘Thewifereckonsacopper
bracelet helps withrheumatism. What are yourthoughts?’‘You’ve not got
rheumatism.’‘ButsupposeIdid.’‘Then I’d say do anything
thathelps.’‘Youthinkit’stwaddle,’he
said.Imade a face like I didn’t
reallywanttocommit.‘What about magnets,
crystals?’ he asked. ‘She’sintoallthatstuff.’‘Like I said, whatever
works.’‘Do I make another
appointment?’heasked,andItoldhimtofollowmethroughto reception, where I’d sorthim outwith something nextweek.
When I opened the door,DSAspinallwaswaiting.Sheplaced the magazine she’dbeen reading down on thetable in front of her beforelifting her hand in a gestureofhello.Her facewasblank,unreadable.I took the solicitor’s debit
cardandaskedhimtokey inhisPIN.‘WillIseeyouattheparty?’heasked.Imust have had a look of
puzzlement on my face,
becausehe added, ‘Scott andNadine’s weddinganniversary?’I shrugged. ‘Must be for
close friends and familyonly,’Isaid.He was embarrassed, and
apologized,sayinghethoughtfrom the way Scott spoke ofme that we knew each otherwell.‘Not that well,’ I said a
little stiffly, and he gathereduphiswallet.
Oncehe’dleftthebuildingDS Aspinall approached thedesk.‘We’ve found something,’
shesaid.
32
‘ABODY?’Irepeated.DSAspinallnodded.‘Adeadbody?’Iasked.‘We are waiting for a
formal identification, but atthis stageweare assuming itisthebodyofMrGeddes.’
I sat down heavily on theoffice chair behind me.‘Wayne’sdead?’Iwhispered.‘Ican’tbelieveit.’I stared at my hands.
Christ, it didn’t seempossible. I looked to DSAspinall, who at firstremained silent, allowingmeto process the news. It wasonlywhen she asked, ‘Can Igetyouanything?Adrinkofwater? Tea?’ that I realizedshe was staying a while and
hadn’t come here merely toinformmeofthedeath.‘Doeshismotherknow?’I
asked.‘She’s been informed. His
cousinhasagreedtoviewthebodyonceit’s…’Shepausedat this point, stopped herselffrom speaking further. ‘I’llneed to ask you and yourcolleagues a few questions,’DS Aspinall said, ‘once youfeel ready. I understand thismust be difficult for you to
makesenseof.’But incaseIwas inanydoubt, sheadded,‘Iwill need to question eachof you now, though, MrsToovey.Today.’I lifted my head. ‘Where
washefound?’‘Athishome.’I put my hand to my
mouth.‘How long has he been
dead?’Iasked.‘We can’t be sure at this
stage.’
Wayne, what have youdone?I knew he was depressed
when I left him. I knew hewas confused – ashamed,even– atwhathadoccurred,butdead?Really?‘Howdidhedoit?’Iasked
quietly.‘Sorry?’‘Howdidhekillhimself?’‘Oh, Mrs Toovey, I’m so
sorry, you misunderstood.Wayne Geddes didn’t kill
himself.’Ifrowned.‘He was found inside the
freezer in the outhouse,’ shesaid.My eyes widened.
‘Someoneputhiminthere?’‘Webelieveso,yes.’A stupid question, I
realized.Waynewouldhardlyclimb in himself. If DSAspinall thought she wasspeaking to an idiot, shedidn’tshowit. ‘Apologies,’ I
said, ‘I can’t seem to thinkstraight.’‘At the moment we don’t
haveanexactcauseofdeath,butasyoucanimaginewe’reeager to get going on this asquicklyaspossible.Nowthatit’s a murder inquiry, I havetoaskyou,MrsToovey,wereyou ever present at theproperty?’‘At Wayne’s house?’ I
askedshakily.Shenodded.
Iswallowed. ‘Idon’t thinkso.’Shetiltedherhead.‘Ineed
adefiniteyesorno.’‘No,then.’‘Okay, good. What we’re
hoping to do in the firstinstance,aftertheinitialdoor-to-door,istotakefingerprintsfromanyoneMrGeddeswasin contact with. Friends,colleagues, and so on. Thatwaywecanquicklyeliminatethemfromthecase.Iwonder
if you would be able tosupply us with a list ofnames,MrsToovey?’‘Names.’‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Namesof
colleagues, patients he mayhave had a disagreementwith,thatsortofthing.Tobehonest, we just need a placetostart.Thereisverylittletogoonasthingsstand.’I could feel the pulse
throbbing in my temporalartery. I wondered if it was
visible.My fingerprints were all
over that house. All overWayne.DS Aspinall went to hand
me another card with herdetails on it, but beforereleasing it from her graspshepaused.She regardedmeforamoment,tiltingherheadto the sideas though lookingfrom a different angle mightpresentananswer.Then she smiled. ‘The
sooner the better with thatlist, Mrs Toovey,’ she said,and I told her I would getstartedonit.Thelist:RozToovey.RozToovey.RozToovey.Later, after she’d gone, I
sat with my head in myhands, trying to remember,desperately; trying torecollect anything about thatnight atWayne’s.Where did
Iputmyprints?MyDNA?‘So you never went there,
Mrs Toovey?’ DS Aspinallwould inevitably ask. ‘Younever once entered MrGeddes’house?Explainthen,if you will, the presence ofyour pubic hair in the diningroom. Explain the line offingerprints on thewindowsill.’I should handmyself in. I
shouldgoafterherrightnowandcomeclean. Iwent there
tohavesexwithWayne,butIdidn’t murder him. It wasconsensual sex.Agreed uponbeforehand. I went therespecifically to have sex withWayne Geddes, even thoughitdidn’tactuallyhappen.ExceptthiswasWayne.Who in their right mind
would believe that? No onewouldbelievethat.So I should tell DS
Aspinall that I went there tohavesexwithWaynebecause
he was blackmailing meaboutthestolenmoney.MoneyI’dledDSAspinall
to believe was taken byWayne.Iwouldbeprosecuted.My
namewouldbeinthepapers.I could say goodbye to myjob, to running my ownpracticeagain.Noonewouldtrustme.Fuck.What if I told her I was
being blackmailed byWayne
because I’d been acceptingpayments for sex from ScottElias?Then I would be popped
righttothetopoftheirlistofsuspects because not onlywas I at the property, I alsohadamotiveforkillinghim.Killinghim.Someone had killed
Wayne. Poor, poor, patheticWayne.Who would do such a
thing?Andwhatiftheywere
at the house when I wasthere?Whatiftheysawwhathappenedbetweenus?
33
NEXT,TWOTHINGShappened.Two phone calls that in
themselves were innocuousenough but together wouldmake for a devastatingoutcome.I drove home thinking
about Wayne’s body,thinking about my situation,understanding for the firsttime what real fear was. BythetimeIgottotheferrythefearwas so strongyoucouldsmell it on me. Thecombination of coffee andadrenalin poured in a ranksweat frommy armpits. I satwith my hands gripped tightto thewheel,my face inchesfromthewindscreen.Terry was away, so a
cocksurekid inhis late teenshad the job of ticketattendant.He rappedhardonmy window, startling me,swathing me in pickled-onion-crisp breath as Ilowered the glass. His upperrowofteethwascloggedwithfood.Reaching into the glove
compartment, I retrieved thebook of tickets, handing oneover,justasmymobilerang.UNKNOWNNUMBER.
‘Roz?’I sighed out a long,weary
breath.‘Winston,’Isaid.‘Roz, you’ll never guess
what’shappened—’‘You’ve been stranded in
Newquay.’‘Howdidyouknow?’‘Luckyguess.’‘Yeah, well, I’ve lost my
lift home, and I can’t scrapethe money together for thetrain fare. Iwon’tbeback intime to pick George up
tomorrow. Any chance youcould do this weekend, andI’lldothenexttwo?’‘What happened to the
girl?’‘The girl?’ he said
innocently.‘Your mother said you’d
gone to Newquay with theblondefromthecampsite.’‘Oh her. Yeah, that didn’t
really work out. She kind ofhookedupwithsomeoneelse,aslimybastardwhocouldget
reallystrongskunk.Anyway,listen,ifIcan’tgetthemoneyin thenext fewdays, I’ll justthumbitback,okay?’‘Okay.’‘Sureyoudon’tmind?’‘Idon’tmind.’‘You sound weird, Roz.
You’re not doing that thingwhen you act all fine aboutsomething and then throw itback inmy face lateron, areyou?’‘I’mnotdoingthat.’
‘Great. That’s a relief. Icannevertell.SeeyouwhenIgethomethen.’‘Sure,Winston.When you
gethome.’WeendedthecallandIsat
back in my seat. Took abreath.The uncomplicated life of
WinstonToovey.No money to get back to
see his son? Hey, things’llwork out. And with me andhis mother to pick up after
him,theyusuallydid.Theferrydocked,groaning
more than usual. Touristsscurried back to their cars,engines were started, visorslowered, as we would all beheadingwest,directlyintothesun.Thewomaninfrontmusthavelefthercaringear,asitjolted forward when sheturned the ignition. Shetouchedherhairrepeatedlyinembarrassment.WaynewasmurderedandI
wasthelastpersontoseehimalive. I just couldn’t get myhead around anyone wantingtokillWayneandbundlehisbody into thefreezer.House-to-house inquiries, DSAspinall had said. Wouldanyone remember a blackJeep creeping towardsWayne’s house that night?Leaving again later, tearingup the turf at theedgeof thegarden, because I was in somuchofahurrytoescape?
Thefarmcottagewasonitsown at the end of a shortstretch of track. But therewere one or two houses thathad a view of it from acrossthe fields. Someone couldhave been watching fromtheir bedroom window.Someone could remembersomething.What if they matched the
tyretreads?Icouldonlyhopethe rain had washed themawaybynow.
I wound my way overClaifeHeights,behindatruckwith two collies in the rear,alongwithafewbalesofhay.The days of shepherdstending to one flock werelonggone.Theseguys flittedfromplacetoplace,droppingfoodsuppliesout thebackoftheir Mitsubishis, moreFedExthanfarmers.Iaminnocent,Irepeatedas
I descended into the valley.The storm of earlier had
cleared and the valley wasnow awash with honey-coloured light. So pretty itmadeyourheartstop.Icouldnot be charged with killingWayne Geddes, because Ididn’t do it. I’m innocent, Isaidagain.Hopingsomething– anything – would emergefromDSAspinall’s inquiriesthatwouldproveit.
George was sitting on hisown when I arrived at after-
schoolclub.Hewas holding a piece of
paper steady with his lefthand and looked to betracing. I was just about toapproach when Iona caughtmyeye.‘A word?’ she mouthed,
beckoningmeover.I sensed danger so asked,
‘How’stheknee?’brightandbreezy, as though I wasn’taware of something nasty tocome.
Instinctively, Iona liftedherleg,flexingandextendingit at the joint. ‘So muchbetter.That tapeyouputon?Itworkedatreat.Youshouldpatentit.’‘I keep meaning to. All
okay?’ I asked, with respecttoGeorge,andherexpressionturned at once grave andformal.‘I’vebeentoldtogiveyou
this.’She handed me an
envelope. ‘Mr and MrsToovey’ was printed acrossthe front. Followed by‘Confidential’.‘DoIreaditnow?’Iasked.‘That’suptoyou.’Iunfoldeditandread.The
school requested myattendance at a meetingscheduled for MondaymorningtodiscussGeorge.Arepresentative fromtheLocalEducation Authority wouldbepresent.
I looked up at Iona. ‘Doyouknowwhatthisisabout?’Sheleanedin,loweringher
voice. ‘Sorry, Roz, it’s notreallymyplace,notbeinghisteacher,butI thinkhe’sbeenstealingagain.’I slipped the letter back
inside the envelope andpushedithardintothepocketofmytunic.‘I’m sure it’s something
and nothing,’ Iona said,tryingtosmile,brushingitoff
as though it were a minorinconvenience.But itwasn’t.If the LEA was involved, itwasn’t.Inodded,thankingIonafor
her discretion, and toldGeorge to collect his things,quicklyashecould.Hedidn’tmakeeyecontactwithmethewholetime,didn’tsayawordeither. It wasn’t until I gothim inside the car and wasturning the ignition that hesaid,‘Itwasn’tme.’
I cut the engine. ‘What doyoumean,itwasn’tyou?’He threw me a look that
said I knew you wouldn’tbelieve me, and stared hardthroughthewindscreen.The sun broke through
frombehindacloud,blindingus both. ‘George, reach intomy handbag,’ I said to him,‘andgetmysunglasses.Theymightbeinthesidepocket.’He lifted thebagon tohis
lap and pulled at the zip. It
was in the habit of jammingand so he tugged hard acoupleoftimesbeforeitflewopen, releasing a cloud oftwenty-pound notes, whichflutteredaroundus.Georgelookedatmeagog.
Shit,themoney.I’dforgottenallaboutit.‘Gather it up!’ I cried out.
‘Quick, gather it up beforesomebodysees.’George did as he was
asked, scrabbling around in
the footwell. When we’dretrievedthelastofthem,wesatthereinsilence.‘Are we rich now?’ he
askedcarefully.‘No.’‘Not even with all that
money?’‘Not even with all that
money,’ I said. ‘It will onlycover three months’ rent,sweetheart.So,no,we’renotrich. Tell mewhat happenedatschool.’
‘Idon’twantto.’‘Unfortunately, there’s no
choice.’A look of anger flashed
across his face. ‘I didn’t doit,’ he said. ‘I told them Ididn’tdoit.ItoldyouIdidn’tdoit.Butnoonewillbelieveme.’‘Whatwasstolen?’‘Pokémonfigures.’My heart sank. ‘Which
onesexactly?’‘I don’t know. Leif says
three were taken out of hisbag, and the teachers foundtheminmybag.’‘So how did they get into
yourbag?’He glared at me again. ‘I
don’tknow.’‘Jesus, George, if they
foundtheminyourbag–ifateacher found them in yourbag – thenwho else could itbe?’‘ButIdidn’ttakethem.’‘Could you not help it
because you really wantedLeif’s figures and you didn’tthink he would noticebecausehehassomany?’Georgesighed impatiently,
saying, ‘You never forgetwhichonesyouhave.’‘So who took them?’ I
asked.‘Idon’tknow.’‘And why would they put
theminyourbag?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘Have you had an
argument? Have you beenmean?Wouldanotherkiddothistogetyouintotrouble?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘George! For God’s sake,
I’mtryingtohelpyou!Don’tyou see, once you’ve stolenstuff, people don’t carewhetheritwasyouwhodiditthe next time or not? You’llbeblamedregardless!’‘But I didn’t do it. And
that’snotfair!’‘I know it’s not fair, but
it’showitis!’Why did this have to
happentoday?Whytoday,ofalldays?I looked atGeorge and he
wascrying.Iwastooangrytoreachout tohim.Angrywithhim.AngrywithWinstonfornot being here again. Forleavingmebroke.Angrywithmyselfforbeingsuchafuck-up.I rubbed at my face with
my hands. ‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Okay, let’s start again. Ididn’tmeantoshout.’He nodded, tears
meandering down his dirtycheeks.‘I’m all you’ve got right
now,’ I said softly. ‘I’m theonly person, except for yourfather, and surprise surprise,he’s not here. Do youunderstandthat?’‘Yes,’hewhimpered.‘ChristknowsIdon’tneed
this today, George. I really
don’t.ButIamonyourside,and I will back you upbecauseyouaremyson.Andwhether you’ve done it ornot, I don’t really care,becauseyou’reallIhaveandIloveyou.Butformetofindaway through this you needto stop being somad at me,because I didn’t cause this. Ididn’t make anyone stealanything.Whoeveritwas.’I was still breathing hard,
and my head was shaking. I
worked to stifle a sob thatwasthreateningtobuild.‘I’msorry,’saidGeorge.‘It’s okay.Noone likes to
be accused. I understandthat.’I turned the ignition and
headed out on to the road.We’d gone about twentyyards when I became awareofGeorgegrippinghishandstogether so hard that hisknuckles were blanchedwhite.
‘Mum,’hesaid.‘Whatisit?’‘Ididn’ttakethem.’‘I know you didn’t, baby.
It’sokay.Let’sgohome.’
34
THE SECOND PHONE call camefromNadine.I’d barely got inside the
housewhen I could hear hervoice echoing through fromthe dining room.George hadseen the answer machine
flashing and pressed play,thinking itwould be his dad.‘So the upshot of all this isthat Henry will be callingaroundwithaninvitationthisevening. I’m so sorry aboutthis,Roz,butyouknowwhatthey say: If you wantsomething doing, ask a busywoman. Idohopeyou’ll joinus. I’m terribly embarrassed.Poor Petra didn’t knowwhether to say anything ornot. I’ve given Scott a real
earbashing.Hewassupposedtogiveyouyour inviteathislast physio session. Anyway,hopefully no harm done andwe’llseeyoutomorrow.’I stood looking at the
machine. ‘No you won’t,’ Isaid, and went into thekitchentofindsomealcohol.A garden party, or
afternoon tea, whatever youlike to call it. This is whatNadine said. It was tocelebrate their twenty-fifth
weddinganniversaryandwasbeing held at a nearby hoteltomorrow. Friday. Nadineplayed it down on the phone– low key, nothing fancy –but this hotel was not lowkey.EsthwaiteManorwastheplace movie stars stayedwhen visiting the Lakes. Noone I knew had eaten there,because it cost an arm and aleg, and non-residents of thehotelwerenotencouraged.Anyway,ofcourseIwasn’t
going. And not that it madeany difference to mydecision, but Scott didn’twant me to be there – thatwas made clear by the facthe’d neglected to hand overmy invitation. It slipped hismind, apparently. And thenhemislaid it. NadinewantedmethereasHenry’sguest;ofcoursetherehadalwaysbeenaninvitationforme,shesaid.The reason she’d plumped
for afternoon tea and not a
full evening celebration?They were flying to theGalápagos Islands, viaAtlanta, then Ecuador, onSaturday. And Scott knewnothing about it. It wassomething he’d talked aboutforyears.Thegianttortoises,andsoon,andNadinesaidifthey didn’t do it now they’dneverdoit.Soaboozynightwas out of the question ifthey were flying long haul adaylater.
She’d ended the call bysaying,‘Notawordaboutthetrip, Roz.’ And then, ‘Can’twaittoseeyou!’Shewassobloodynice.I used to smoke. Right at
that moment I missed it likenever before. It was the firstthingIusedtodowhenfacedwith a problem, a situation Ifound difficult. Light up,stand outside the back door,take a few deep inhalations,and the problem didn’t seem
quitesoinsurmountable.If I still smoked, I would
smokeoneafter anothernowuntilmylungswereonfire.Ineeded a vacation from myproblems; from my ownbrain, in fact. The party, Icould dealwith. I’dmake anexcuse for not attending andwish them well. The list forDSAspinall,Icouldn’tavoid.I had to face it. Along withthe meeting with the LEA.And I needed time to think
about these things. I neededspacetoworkoutwhatIwasgoing to do. I did not needHenry turning up,wonderingwhatthehellwaswrongwithme.I’d get out of the house.
That was the answer. Avoid,avoid,avoid.‘George!’ I yelled. ‘Wash
yourface,we’regoingout.’‘Where?’ he shouted back
fromthegarden.‘I don’t know.Wash your
face,changeyourT-shirt,putoncleansocks.’‘Idon’twanttogoout.’‘Doit!’He ran past, flying up the
stairs, treading heavily,making as much noise aspossible, in the way kids dowhen they’re unhappy withwhat’s been requested ofthem.I’dhaveto tidymyselfup as well. I threw theremainder of the wine downthe sink and went to change
outofmyuniform.Five minutes later, in a
white shirt and jeans, Igrabbed my bag. The frontdoor was ajar. I could hearDennissoftlymurmuringandGeorge chattering away tohim. George said once thatthereasonhelikedDennissomuch (aside from him beingtheownerof adog)was thathe didn’t pretend to beinterested in him. Unlikeotheradults.
Dennis either talked or hedidn’t. He spoke when hewanted to know somethingbutdidn’tfeeltheneedtofillthesilencewithwordsjustforthe sake of it. Celia didenough of that for both ofthem.I’d asked George if he
thought I pretended to beinterested in him and he’dchewed itover foramomentbefore answering, ‘No.You’ve got to ask me that
stuff because you’re mymum.’Iwentthroughtoclosethe
back door and, when Ireturned to the lounge, myhandbag was lying on thesofa.Icouldn’tleavewithallthatmoneystuffedinsideit.Iglanced out of the windowandsawGeorge squattingonhis haunches, minus oneshoe, now over on Celia’sside of the fence, ticklingFoxy’s belly. Dennis held
George’sremovedshoeinhishand and appeared to bepicking at the sole with asmallknife.NosignofHenry.Iunzippedthesofacushion
andbeganstuffingthemoneyfrom my handbag deepinside. George had crumpledmany of the notes, but Ididn’t have time to startironingthemoutsoIjusthidthemthebestwayIcould—‘Anyonehome?’
Shit.‘Hey,’Henrysaid.I turned slowly. He had
pushedthedooropenandwasstanding in the gap, smilingwarmly.‘Givemeaminute?’Isaid
helplessly.‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Can I
comein?’‘No!’Iyelled,andhestood
where he was, stock still.‘No,’ I said againimmediately,milderthistime.
‘Sorry,justgivemeaminuteand I’ll be straight out.There’s something I need todo.’‘Ok–ay,’ he said slowly,
perturbed but trying not toshow it. He backed out,saying, ‘I’ll wait rightoutside.’‘Shut the door, would
you?’A moment later, money
hidden, I came out to findCelia had joined them and
wasfiringquestionsatHenry.‘I’m not sure what we’re
having,’Henrywassaying,asCelia inquired about thefollowing day’s celebration.Her friend Joyce from bookclub had eaten at EsthwaiteManor when it first openedand raved about the lemondessert:it‘justslippeddown’,apparently.Celiawasveryexcited.‘Roz, open your invitation
soIcanseeit.Dennis,goand
fetchmyreadingglasses.’‘It’snot fromBuckingham
Palace,Celia,’Isaid.‘Iknowthat,’shesnapped.Henry turned to me. ‘Are
youokay?’hewhispered,andInoddedquickly,notmeetinghis gaze, hopinghewouldn’tpursueit.Before opening the
envelope, I said, ‘I won’t beabletogotothis,I’mafraid,’and Celia did a double take,hermouthdroppingopen.
‘Whatdoyoumean,you’renot going? Of course you’regoing,’shesaid.Henry liftedhiseyebrows.‘Winston isn’t back,’ I
explained. ‘He’s stuck inCornwall.’‘Bring George along with
you,’suggestedHenry.‘Thanks,buttobehonestI
don’t really think it’s a kidskind of place, especiallywhen—’‘Youhavegottogotothis,
Roz,’ Celia said, as thoughmy lifedependedon it. ‘Youcannot pass over thisinvitation. It’s simply too’ –shepaused, tryingtofindtheright word – ‘it’s tooimportant,’ and she glared atmebeforeflickingherheadatHenry. As though hewouldn’tnotice.Henry said, ‘I’d really like
you to come if you can. Nopressure, but it’s going to bedeadly dull. Scott will give
one of his haven’t I donewell?Speeches, and itwouldbe so much easier to take ifyouwerethere.’‘IreallywishIcould.’‘And he’ll have all of his
croniesthereaskingwhatlineofbusinessI’min,andifI’veever thought of joiningRotary.’Apause.‘We’ll take care of
George,’ Celia declaredloudly.‘Won’twe,Dennis?’
Dennis was making hisway back across the garden,holding out Celia’s glasses.Heagreedthatitwouldbenotrouble, smiling coyly atGeorge,sayinghecouldhelpoutwithwalkingFoxy.Iwasbeingrailroaded.Iprotestedagain,butCelia
was having none of it. Shetold me to stop beingridiculous, that she andDennis were more thancapable,thatitwasbordering
oninsulting,infact,thewayIwaswavering over this.Andthen she toldme to pass hertheinvitation.A peculiar look of
melancholy came over Celiathen.Shemouthed thewordsas she read. I watched,realizing in thatmoment thatshewascomingtotermswiththe fact that she wouldprobably never be invited toaneventatEsthwaiteManor.That ship had sailed.
Observing her, you couldalmostseeher lettinggoofadream.She gathered herself.
Shook off the moment ofsadnessandgotbacktobeingCelia. She askedHenry if hewould like a glass of cava –‘Wedon’tdochampagneonaweeknight!’–andhowaboutsome of Dennis’sstrawberriestogowithit?Henry said that he would,
as I tried unsuccessfully to
appear happy and gratefulwiththearrangements.Inside, I was fighting the
urgetorunaway.IwantedtograbholdofGeorge, flee thescene,nevertocomeback.Which was exactly what I
shouldhavedone.
35
‘WHATDOYOUbuythecouplewhohaseverything?’IaskedHenry.‘I’llgetagiftandputyour
nameonit,’hereplied.‘I can’t turn up empty-
handed.’
‘You won’t be empty-handed,you’llbewithme.’‘Okay, so what will you
buy the couple who haseverything?’‘I’llthinkofsomething.’As it happened, he didn’t
think of something, and wedid as I’d feared: turned upwithout a present. When Ibecame twitchy about this inthe car on the way there,Henry reassured me that noone would notice, and he
wasn’twastingmoneyonthatwanker; he would takeNadine out for a nice lunchwhen they returned from thePacific.‘She’dpreferthat,’hesaid. ‘She’s alwayscomplaining she doesn’t gettospendenoughtimewithmeand never knows what’sgoingoninmylife.Honestly,Roz,it’sfine.’I wore my wedding-party
staple: thechiffondressfromCoastwiththetearosesonit,
and a tense expression. Thekind of look you see on awoman who feels fat in heroutfit and no amount ofcajoling can snap her out ofit.Iwasscared.Scaredofthe
afternoon ahead, scared ofseeing Scott in a publicsetting. Scared of giving myprintstothepolice.I’d had a rethink with
regards to the list that DSAspinall had requested and
rather than dilly-dally oversending it, I’d gone to townon it. Put down every Tom,DickandHarryIcould thinkoftokeepthewomanbusy.Ipositionedmyself three fromthebottomofalistofaroundahundredpeople,hopingthatbythetimeshegotaroundtofingerprinting me, somethingwould have turned up toexonerateme.Alongshot.Butitwasthe
bestIcoulddo.
Henrytoldmetoremaininthecarwhilsthejumpedout,appearing on my side,openingthedoorandofferinghis arm. He wore a two-button tailored suit in bluesharkskin and he lookeddivine.Beforewemoved offin the direction of theentrancehestopped.Turning to face me, he
said, ‘Answer me this, wereyou reluctant to come heretoday because you’d rather
not be with me, or becauseyou’drathernotcomeatall?’Ihesitated.Hesaid,‘Thetruth,please,
Roz.’‘The latter,’ I said,
dropping my gaze. ‘It’s notyou,Henry.’‘Okay then,’ he said, and
he lifted my chin with hisfinger, placing a soft kissabovemybrow.His lips barely brushed
against my skin but I found
myself gasping at the feel ofhis touch. Embarrassed, Ipulledaway.‘Wait,’ he said, looking at
meintently.I was aware of a car pass
beside us. Aware of thebreeze picking up and myhaircomingloose.With his eyes never
leaving mine, Henry reachedout and tucked the few straystrands behind my ear. Thenhekissedme.
The smell of him, the softpushofhis tongue insidemymouth,andmylegsbegan tobuckle.‘Promise we’ll get away
fromhereassoonaswecan,’he whispered as he led metowardsthehotelentrance.He slipped his arm around
my waist, and it feltwonderful. I’d been turningup alone to these things –functions, birthdays,christenings–forso,solong.
HenrypulledmeincloselikeI belonged to him. And foroneshort,wonderfulmomentI felt like I did. I wanted tobelong tohim.Hisbodywaslean and tight beneath hissuit. He smelled good. Hewasn’tadickhead.‘What time did you tell
your neighbours you’d beback to pick up George?’Henryasked.‘Aroundeight.’He checked his watch.
‘We’ve got just under threehours. I reckonwe show ourfaces,makepleasantrieswiththe happy couple and sneakoffthefirstchanceweget.’At that moment I felt a
kind of dopey sensationdrawing me towards Henry.And if he told me to followhimanywhere at all, Iwoulddoit.
Esthwaite Manor was builtentirelyfromLakelandStone.
It had aGothic feel, with itsthree turrets, the steep pitchofitsroof.Whenwereachedthe doorsHenry said, ‘Braceyourself.’It had been immaculately
renovated. Itwas the type ofplace where you foundyourselfwalkingon theballsof your feet so your heelsdidn’tdamagetheflooring.Aprettygirlinagoodsuit
who was manning theentrancetoldusthattheElias
partywasoutside.Ifwemadeourway through thedrawingroom, she said, we’d findthem easily enough. Henrytookmyhandandsqueezeditbeforewe continued. ‘I’m soglad you came,’ hewhispered, and we weresweptalongbya tipsygroupin their late fifties; peoplewho populated the societypages of Cumbria Lifemagazine, attending charityevents and whatnot. Their
laughter was raucous, theaccents broad, and I washappy to disappear amongstthem as we moved towardsthepatio.Outside, beneath a quaint,
ivory-painted, wrought-irongazebo, a string quartetplayed cover versions ofpopular songs. Sting’s‘Englishman in New York’wasjustendingaswearrived,andHenrysaidquietly,‘Howlong, I wonder, before
“EleanorRigby”?’Notlong,asithappened.It
wasnext.Therewasanuninterrupted
view across the lake.Esthwaite Water is a smalllake, less than a mile inlength, so it’s really onlypopular with fishermen. Arowing boat was visiblebobbing over at the westernshore,onelonefigureinside.I must have had a wistful
look on my face because a
voice to my left said, ‘Wishyoucouldchangeplaceswiththatguy?’Scott.Itriedtosmile.‘Notatall,’
Isaid.‘Andcongratulations.’He kissed my cheek,
whispering he was sorry hehad neglected to pass onmyinvitation, and when Iintimated that itwas sensiblenot to want me here, that Ishouldn’t be here, he lookedsurprised.
‘Of course I want youhere,’ he said tersely, thoughquietly, out of earshot ofHenry, who was makingconversationwithawaiter tohisright.‘Itslippedmymindonaccountofyougivingmemymarchingorderswhenwelastmet. That’swhy I didn’tmentionit,’hesaid,andthenheturnedtoHenry.Henry congratulated Scott,
shaking his hand, and Scottsaid, ‘Twenty-fiveyears,’ his
voice booming now, full ofgood cheer. ‘What is it theysayagain?’‘Youget less formurder?’
suppliedHenry.‘I was going to say the
latter years are the best,’repliedScott.I needed to get away.
Having the two of them insuchcloseproximitywas toomuch. Henry was smiling atScott in a way I’d not seenbefore; it was a smile that
conveyed amused disdain.His eyes danced as heregardedScott,and theresultwaschilling.NotthatScottcared.He already knew what
Henry thought of him. Scottglanced atme and I saw thebeginnings of a smile. Getthis guy, his smirk said. Ifonly he knew who’d beenscrewing his nice, newgirlfriend.‘Excuse me,’ I said, and
slippedaway.Myheadthrobbing,Icuta
line across thepatiowith thevague notion of spendingsome time in the Ladies. Ontheway,Petracaughtmyeye.She was wavingmadly fromover by the musicians. Backin a sec? I gestured, andpointedinside.ShewavedmeoffandresumedchattingtoawomanIdidn’tknow.The Ladies had a number
of chrome art-deco vanity
units, each with a lamp andanindividualhairdryer.Itwaslike apowder room from thethirties:charming,andtotallyagainstthecurrenttrend.Twooftheseatswereoccupiedbywell-dressed women whowere chattering aboutswitching to Bulgarianhousekeepers, because theinitial enthusiasmon thepartofthePoleswasbeginningtowane.‘AslazyastheEnglishnow,’onesaidtotheother.
I took a seat and playedwithmyhairabit,stallingfortime. When I emerged fromthe bathroom Iwas aware ofa pause in the music andheaded outside to see whatwasgoingon.The party was gathered in
one spot, a kind of roughsemicircle, on the grass justbeneaththepatio.Therewerearound a hundred people.Nadine was standing on thesteps addressing the party,
along with Scott, and theyhad their backs to me.Quickly, I joined the group,mingled in with Petra andVince. I complimented Petraon her outfit, and she linkedmy arm. She lifted her chin,hangingontoNadine’severyword.Nadine was stunning in a
beautifully cut, oyster-coloured trouser suit. Shelooked slim and lovely, herskin radiant. Scott stood
beside her, smiling at hiswife.‘Of course, what Scott
doesn’tknowabout,andwhatwe’veallgone togreatpainsto keep secret,’ Nadine wassaying,‘isthetrip.’She turned to Scott and
took his hands in hers asthough renewing her vows.Scott said, ‘Trip?’, perhapsnowalittlenervous.I caught sight of Henry,
whowasatthefarendofthe
semicircle. He smiled shylyinmydirection.Nadine said, ‘Thank you
for a wonderful twenty-fiveyears, Scott. It’s been awildride and I wouldn’t havemissed it for the world.Tomorrow, we leave for theGalápagos.’ Scott’s eyeswidenedand,beforehecouldspeak, Nadine said, ‘And Iknow what you’re thinking.You’re thinking you can’ttaketimeoffwork.Well, it’s
arranged.Andyou’recomingwhetheryoulikeitornot.’There was a small cheer,
followed by chants of‘Speech! Speech!’ before thenoise quietened and Scottblusteredoutafewwords.Hewasoverwhelmed tohaveallhis friends in one place, hesaid,andwentontosayhowwonderful it was to have hischildrenhome.He’dbesorryto have only one night withthem, now that they were
flying off the following day,but…andhepaused.He paused as though his
words were caught in histhroatand theemotionof theoccasion was all a bit toomuch.Then he looked straight at
me.His silence continued, but
everyone was still smiling,unaware.Thenitbegantogetpainful and, gradually, facesstartedtofall.Alowmurmur
spread throughout thegathering.Whatwaswrong?‘Scott, mate, are you
okay?’ someone asked, andhedidn’thaveananswer.Nadine turned to him, the
beginnings of panic forminginhereyes.Scottcontinuedtolookmy
way and I became aware ofothers, following his gaze,watchingmealso.‘What’swrongwith him?’
I could hear from a womanbehind me. ‘Does he need adoctor?’And then the worst thing
happened.Heclosedhiseyes,puthis
hand to his mouth. ‘I’m sosorry,’hecried.‘I’msosorry,butIcan’tdothis.’‘Scott?’Nadinesaid.‘I can’t do this anymore,’
hesaid.My breath caught in my
throat.
‘Can’t do what? You’rescaringme,Scott.Whatisit?’Nadinesaid.Herubbedhisfacewithhis
hands and I was aware ofPetra whispering, ‘Oh, no,’quietlybesideme.‘I’m in love with another
person,’ he said firmly, andtherewasacollectivegaspofhorror. ‘I’m in love withanother person,’ he saidagain, ‘and I believe – no,that’s not quite right, I know
for sure – that this person isinlovewithme.’He looked at me and
waited.Icouldn’tmove.Petra loosenedherholdon
my elbow and turned aroundto see who was behind us.Theremustnothavebeenanobvious candidate for Scott’saffectionsbecause she turnedstraight back, saying in myear, ‘What the hell is goingon?’
‘Roz?’ Scott prompted.Andwhen I didn’t speak, hesaid, ‘I think it’s only right,don’t you? We have to tellthem. We owe them thatmuch.’My throat closed.
Something like a fist claspedtight around my heart andpulled it down through mybelly.Petra unlinked her arm.
‘JesusChrist,’shewhispered.‘It wasn’t,’ I stammered.
‘It’snot…’Nadinewept.Scott said, ‘I’m so sorry. I
didn’t want it to happen likethis.God,I’msorry,Nadine,’and all around there wassilence. I stood rooted to thespot as a space formedbetweenmeand theothers. Iwas vaguely aware of Vincepulling Petra towards him,pullingherawayfromme.I looked for Henry. I
caught one glimpse of his
astonished, stunnedexpression before the crowdclosedaroundhim.Ifoundmyvoice.‘Idonot
love Scott,’ I said helplessly.It came out weak andpathetic.‘That’s hardly important!’
cried Petra now, fighting toget free of Vince. ‘Look!’She pointed towards thesteps.Nadinewas inaheap.Her
body lay crumpled on the
patio. People rushed forwardtoattendtoher.Petra advanced on me,
clutchingholdofmydressattheneck.Herfacewasinchesfrommine.‘It’snotwhatyouthink,’I
said.‘Haveyousleptwithhim?’
shehissed.Ididn’tanswer.‘Have you been sleeping
with Scott Elias?’ sherepeated.‘Roz,tellme!’
Inodded.‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but, Petra,
it’s not what you think. Youhavetolisten—’But she was already
walkingaway.
There was no music. Nomusic,novoices,nolaughter–nosoundatall,saveforthehushed whispers of thewomensurroundingNadine.I stood alone around
twenty feet from Scott. We
looked at each other for anextended moment and Imouthedoneword.Why?Iwasdazed.Bewilderedby
what had just occurred. Sowhen he tilted his head,frowned, laughing once tohimself,Ijustdidn’tgetit.I walked towards him. ‘I
don’t understand,’ I saidquietly. ‘I don’t understandwhat you’re doing.’ I lookedaround. Everyone was still
staring. ‘Whyhaveyoudonethis?’‘You gave me no other
choice,’hesaidsimply.‘But look around. You’ve
losteverything.’‘Idon’twantit,’hereplied.
‘Idon’twantanyofit.’‘But your wife,’ I said.
‘Your kids. Look what theythinkofyou.’Hetookasteptowardsme.
‘I don’t carewhat they thinkof me. I don’t care what
Nadine thinks. I thought Imade that quite clear to youtheotherday.’‘Didyouplanthis?’Heshrugged.I was wordless. The look
on Nadine’s face when hemade his announcement wasdesperate.‘But I don’t love you,’ I
said.‘Whywouldyouchance—’‘Youdon’tlovemeyet,’he
said.
Iglaredathim,appalled.‘Iwon’teverloveyou.’He took a breath. ‘Maybe
you don’t need to love me.MaybeIloveyouenoughforthebothof—’‘You’ve lost yourmind,’ I
snapped,andIstartedtoturnaway. ‘We’re humiliatingyour wife. I’m humiliatingmyself. Let’s not do thishere.’He grabbed my arm.
‘Don’tyougetit?’
‘Don’tyougetit?’Isaid.‘Idon’twant you. I don’t needyou,Scott.’I was aware of some
activityoverScott’sshoulder.Nadinehadbeenliftedtoherfeet,andanumberofwomenwere pulling her back,restraining her, almost. Sheforced herself apart fromthemastheypleadedwithhernottodowhatitwasshewasabouttodo.‘How long?’ she shouted,
directingthequestionatme.‘Nadine—’‘How fucking long?’ she
yelled.‘Threeweeks,’Ianswered.‘Do you love him?’ she
asked.‘No.Idon’tlovehim.’And her face collapsed.
‘Then why?’ she cried out,her hand to her throat. ‘Whywould you do such a thing?Marriage may mean nothingtoyou,butthatdoesnotmean
you can go around screwingotherpeople’shusbands.’I turned to Scott. ‘Perhaps
you could explain to yourwifewhatactuallyhappened.’Scottlookedblank.‘Idon’t
know what you mean,’ hesaid.‘Nadine, I—’ but then
Petra returned. Marchingacross the patio to tellme togo.‘Justgo,’shesaid.Nadine shook her head.
‘No,Petra,Iwanttohearthis.
Iwant to know how she hasbeenabletocomeheretoday.Iwant to know how she hasbeen able to hold aconversation with me, whenallalongshewasdoingthis.’Ihungmyhead.Whatwas
there to say? There wasnothingtosay.Vince was a few feet
behindPetra, and I expected,aswashisusualway,totrytocalmher.Buthespokeup.‘Ithink Nadine deserves an
answer, Roz,’ he saidreasonably.I shook my head. ‘No,’ I
whispered.‘No?’ Nadine shot back.
‘No? That’s it? That’s allyou’vegottosay?Youwreckmy marriage, my life, andyou don’t even have areason?’Shewaspleading.Itwasso
awful. I said, ‘You need toaskScott.’‘I’maskingyou.’
Eventually, my voicebarely audible, I said, ‘Iwaspaid.’‘He paid you to keep
quiet?’ askedPetra, confusedand stupefied by such athought.I looked at her straight.
‘No, Petra. He paid me tosleepwithhim.’Nobodyspoke.Thesmallgroupexchanged
nervousglances.Whatdidshejustsay?She
didn’t say what I think shesaid,didshe?‘How much did he pay
you?’ asked Nadine, hervoice shaking, her eyes nowonScott.‘Enoughtomakemeagree
to do it. I’m sorry, Nadine,butIwasbrokeanditseemedliketheanswer.’‘The answer to what?’
interruptedPetra.‘Debt,Petra.Iwasindebt.
It’s not like you weren’t
awareofthat.’Andthensheslappedme.‘You weren’t starving!’
Petra shouted. ‘You weren’tbloody homeless! Youweren’tsopenniless that thatwastheonlyoptionyouhad!Good God. What sort ofwoman do you have to beto…’ She couldn’t even sayit.‘DoIknowyou?’shesaid.‘DoIevenknowwhoyouareanymore?’I turned to Scott. He
watched themattackme,andhedidnotsayoneword.JustworeawrykindofsmileasItooktheabuse.Later, in the taxi on the
way home, I would wonderwhy no one attacked him.WhynotslapScott?Whynotinsulthimforpayingforsex?For cheating on his wife?Humiliating his family infrontofeveryonetheyknew?Buttheydidn’t.Forwhateverreason, they chose not to. It
may have come later, but Inevergottoask.Scottstoodonthesidelines
and watched, his mannerunmoved and detached as Istammeredoutmyreasoning,myconfession. Itwasalmostas ifhewasenjoying it.Andthen I realized. I realized inthat moment, amidst all thecraziness, and all the crying,thatyes,Scotthadplannedit.Hehadwantedittocomeoutinthewaythatitdid.Hehad
beensincerewhenhesaidhedidn’t care if he losteverything.As long as I did,too.As far as he was
concerned, if he couldn’thaveme,noonecould.Andhestoodtheresmiling.
He smiled as though nothinghadhappened.
36
‘NICE AFTERNOON?’ THE taxidriver asked. A woman taxidriver.She wore a loose orange
vestwithout a bra and had abattered, well-thumbedRegency romance shoved
beneaththehandbrake.‘Not exactly,’ I replied,
climbingintothefrontseat.‘Awedding?God,I’msick
of weddings.’ She rambledon. ‘If I have to go to onemorebloodywedding—’‘Look, I don’t feel like
talking. Do you mind if wedon’t?’She did. She raised her
eyebrows as though to say,Whothehelldoyouthinkyouare,lady?
‘Bad afternoon,’ I said.‘Nooffence.’Henry had taken off. At
around the time Nadine hadwanted answers. When Ifinallygotaway,therewasanempty space in the car parkwherehisPeugeothadbeen.Ididn’t call him to find outwhy.Hehadn’t stuck aroundto check on his sister, so themessagewasclear.I’d gazed at the empty
space andbeen struckby the
urge to explain. Henry hadgone away thinking I’d hadan affair with Scott, and Ineededhim toknow itwasalong way off from that. Thething I’d hadwith Scott wasabsurd.‘Henry?’Iimaginedsaying
tohim. ‘You see, you’vegotitallwrong.Scottpaidmetohavesexwithhim.’‘Oh, well why didn’t you
sayso?Becausethatchangeseverything.’
No,Roz,Henrywouldnotwanttohearyourreasons.Henry hated Scott. He
lovedhis sister.Hehadbeengrowingtolikeme,andIhadbetrayedeveryone.As the taxiwound itsway
towardsHawkshead,Irelivedthe scene I’d left behind.Each time I ran through it, Iwould dwell on a differentaspect. So many peopleaffected. So many points ofview. I would have to leave
the area. Petra would nevertalktomeagain,sotherewasno reason to stay. And eventhough I could probablyhandle being the object ofridicule, and gossip, for theduration,Icouldnotbear thethought of George findingout.‘Youheardaboutthatbody
inthefreezer?’thetaxidriverasked.‘Iheard.’‘Poor sod,’ she said.
‘Looks like he upset thewrongperson.’‘It’sallverysad.’‘He was pilfering money,
you know,’ she said, matter-of-fact.‘Is that what people are
saying?’ I asked, and shenoddedgrimly.I toldher topull ina little
furtheralongontheright,justinfrontofmyhouse.AsIwaitedformychange
she gestured to the Jeep,
saying, ‘That your car?’, andItoldheritwas.‘You’vegotsomething hanging downfrom the chassis,’ she said.‘Bestgetitlookedat.’Around a hundred yards
along the road I could makeout a small boy with a dog.My small boy. My heartswelledat thesightofhim. Iwaved,buthedidn’t seeme.He was lost in his ownthoughts, walking with hiseyes firmly on Foxy. Celia
was right. Foxy walkedparticularly well for George.Proud almost. Usually, shewouldbestrainingattheleadbythispoint.Desperatetogetback,anawful raspingsoundcoming from her throat. Asthey got closer, I could seeher liftingher frontpawsup,high, like a miniaturedressage horse. Georgechattered away to her,obliviousIwasthere.Afterwards, Iwould say it
happenedsofast.Afterwards, Iwould say it
was instantaneous, but itwasn’treally.I was aware of something
evenbeforeIwasawareofit,if that makes sense. I wasused to the sounds of thevillage. Used to the flow ofcars past the house.And justas when you might hear adistant siren and beginmentally locating yourrelatives, figuring out if it
wasatallpossibleforthemtobeinvolved,whenIheardtheengine gunning from thesouth-east, and I saw whereGeorge was, I knew withoutdoubtitwaspossible.And this was when time
stopped.Iwastoofarawaytoreach
him. The sound of theapproachingenginetoldmeitwas going too fast, and thedistance between us was toogreat.
StillIran.Isetoffscreaming,waving
my arms, because I knewwhat was coming. I knew itbefore I saw it. TheOverfinch. The black RangeRover. Three tons of metalhurtling through the village,its driver demented withgrief.Thecauseofthatgrief:me.‘Get back!’ I screamed
helplessly. ‘George, getback!’
He was too young, ofcourse. He didn’t yet know.He didn’t know thatpavements were dangerousplaces. That sometimes carsmountedpavementswhenthedriverwas drunk.Or old.Orhaving a stroke. Or youngand stupid and reckless. Orheartbrokenandattemptingtodrivethroughthetears.He didn’t know that, and
so he remained unaware oftheRangeRoveruntil it flew
past me and I was closeenough to see his face justbegintoflickerwithworry.Asmall frown appeared as helooked from his motherrunning to the approachingcar.If I’d been next to him, I
would have thrown him outofharm’sway.But Iwasn’t.And as the small Fiatreversed out of the drivewaydiagonallyopposite,itsdriverblissfully unaware – loud
music audible through thesunroof, the jaunty uke ofGeorge Formby – the RangeRoverhadtoswervetoavoidhisbumper.There was the thin sound
of brakes, tyres skidding andcrunchingmetal.And glass. There was so
muchglass.Then silence. No sound at
all. Just me, alone, in thesilence.
37
HEREISANoddfact:Therearemore road deaths in ruralareasthanoncitystreets.Thereason?Thegreaterdistancesfromthenearesthospital.Itcan takeoveranhour to
get to the nearest A&E
department fromHawkshead,and that’s not including thetime it takes for theemergency services to reachthecasualtyinthefirstplace.Which is why we rely on
the charity-funded airambulance.Andwhy, at thatmoment, my son was beingtransported, along with thedriver that hit him, in theGreat North Air Ambulance,asIfollowedinthecar.Later, I would remember
nothing of that journey toFurness General Hospital.Which route I took, whetherthe Friday-afternoon trafficwas abysmal, if I bought aticketatthehospitalcarpark.Later, I would have troublerecollecting anything of thatday.Snippetswouldreturninthe coming months, fleetingmemories that Iwould try tograspholdof,butmostly,allIrememberthinkingwas:IfonlyI’drunfasteralong
the street. If only I’d left thehotel a moment earlier. IfonlyI’dneveragreedtoScottElias’s proposal in the firstplace.Thisiswhatthebraindoes.
It looks for away out ratherthan face the appalling truth.It searchesout rabbitholes itmayhavemissed.Findsweakspots in reality. It goes backover events as though theyare happening for the firsttime, as though it may
actually alter the course ofthoseevents.Your conscious mind tells
it tostop.This ispointless, itsays.Butit’sunstoppable.If only I’d transferred
money for Winston’s trainfare, he would have made itback in time. George wouldhavebeenwithhim,safelyinOutgate,insteadofwithCeliaandDennis.Ifonlywehadn’tsplit up in the first place,George would still have his
own dog and he wouldn’thave been walking Foxy. Ifonly I’d married someonemorereliable.Ifonly…‘MrsToovey?’Istood.‘Comewithme,’ thenurse
said.Shewas in ICUwhites,a tiny-framed woman youcouldbetcould lift twiceherown body weight. They’relikethatinICU.‘Ishealive?’Iasked.‘Come with me, we can
talk through here. You’re aphysio,right?’‘Is he alive?’ I repeated,
rootedtothespot.‘He’salive.’‘Conscious?’Shedroppedhergaze.‘Not
yet. He’s just beingtransferred from Emergencythroughtotheunit.’‘What else? What other
injuries?’Iasked.I barkedmywords at her,
but shewas unoffended. She
held my gaze and ticked offGeorge’s problems on herfingers.‘Double pneumothorax,’
she said. ‘Fractured tib andfib on the right – those arecompound fractures.Irrigation and debridementalready done, and thefractures have beenstabilized. Skin loss; he’llprobably need a graft. Wemay need to CT his tummylater, but we had to get the
drainsintohislungsfirst.Nosign of an abdominal bleed,though. BP’s okay for now.Distal pulses all okay belowthelegfracture.’‘The loss of
consciousness? A headinjury?’‘We don’t know. No
evidence of trauma to thehead, but we don’t know.You know how it is at thisstage. Is there anyone withyou? Anyone you’d like to
accompanyyou?’‘My sister’s on her way.
His father is stuck inCornwall. I can’t get hold ofhim.My parents are coming,butitwilltakethemacoupleofhourstogethere.’She nodded and asked for
my sister’s name. Said she’dleave word at Admissionsthat she should beaccompanied through to ICUon arrival. Petra was out ofhermind.Shecouldn’tspeak,
let alone drive. And Vincehadbeendrinking,so…The nurse said, ‘The lady
whowasbroughtinwithhimin the air ambulance? Thedriver?Isshe—’‘We’re not related,’ I said
coldly.‘Oh.’‘Isshealive?’Iasked.‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She’s
conscious. I got theimpression she knew yourson.’
‘Shedroveovermyson,’Isaid.She nodded. ‘She’s very
upset.’‘Isupposeshewouldbe,’I
said.‘CanIseehimnow?’She turned, and I followed
her. Her steps were quickacrossthefloorandwhenwereachedICUshepunchedinasix-digit codeon thekeypad.Nothing happened, and shesighed. ‘I keep using the oldcode,’ she explained. She
tried again and, before weentered, she turned to me.‘Do I need to tell you hewon’t look like he usuallydoes?’Ishookmyhead.‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s
go.’
There were six beds. Threewere occupied. Nadine inone, George in the next onealong and another patientopposite.Hewasayoungguy
with a tracheotomy tube inhisthroat,meaninghe’dbeenhere awhile. Iwas later toldhe’d developed Guillain-Barré syndrome, hisbreathing muscles wereparalysedandhehadbeen inthe ICU for five weeks. Hismotherwouldvisit andweepgently for an hour beforeleaving.The nurse explained that
Georgemaybetransferredtoa paediatric ICU at another
hospital, as long as he wasstable enough to move. Fornow, though, he would stayhere.WithNadine.Ididn’tlookather.Ihadto
walk past her bed. I wasaware of movement, an armbeingraised,agurglingnoise.She gave a low, agonizingkindofgroan, likeananimaltrappedinasnare.Ikeptmyeyesinfrontand
wenttoGeorge.Ikneltbythesideofhisbedandkissedhis
hand. He was stripped downto his underpants. His tiny,broken body was smearedwith bits of dried blood, andthe two chest drains weremonstrous, snaking frombetween his ribs. ‘I’m here,baby,’Iwhispered.Instinctively,Icheckedthe
monitors. His oxygensaturation was a little low. Irepositioned the pulse ox onhis index finger and exhaledas the numbers climbed
steadily.There was a tent over his
right leg. A compoundfracture is an open fracture,meaning the skin had beentorn off. An external fixatorwasfittedaroundhis leg,butcouple that with skin graftsandwewerelookingataboutayearforrecovery.ItwistedaroundtoNadine.
Hereyeswentwidewhenshesaw my face, and she beganshaking her head, trying to
convey something importantto me. Her expression wasurgentanddesperate.Iturnedaway.I got tomy feet and drew
thecurtainacross,cuttingheroff.Iwasawareofhercryingwithoutsound.She had come looking for
me. She had driven throughHawkshead looking for myhouse. And now we werehere.I kissed George’s hand
again and whispered that Iloved him. Over and over, Itoldhimhewasokay,thathewould wake up soon and hewouldbeokay.Itoldhimnotto be scared. I was here. Iwouldn’tleavehimalone.He was so beautiful. His
skin so smooth. Therewas alittle dried blood around hisear. I asked if I could dab itaway,andanursebroughtmea wad of cotton wool and ametal kidney dish half filled
with tepid water. Georgedidn’t stir. The intubationtubewas tied inplacewithalength of fabric and it pulleddownwards on his mouth,making him appear togrimace. I asked if theywould adjust it slightly, andthey did. The nursing stafftended to him like he wastheir own child. And it wasthis, watching the tendernessandcare theybestoweduponhim, that would causeme to
unravel.I’d held it together okay
untilthen.
38
NADINEREMAINEDINintensivecare for twenty-four hoursbefore being moved to theHigh-dependency Unit. Shehadachestinjury.Inthetimeshewas in ICU, Scott didn’tvisit. Her children did, and I
heard their hushed voicesbehind the curtain. By then,wordhadspreadamongstthestaffoftheunitandtheywereawareof‘oursituation’.Theydealt with us in a detached,professional way, grantingmyrequestthatthebarrierbekept between us – which Iknew from my time intraining on ICU was notstrictly allowed. It wasn’tuntil Nadine had movedwards that a gossipy, camp
male nurse by the name ofKyle made reference to thecurtain, saying, ‘I think wecandoawaywiththeWallofJerichonow.Don’tyou?’Myparentscameandwent.
Winston came and went. Hecame back with provisionsandstayed.Thepolicearrived,andthat
wasallquite straightforward.There were witnesses to sayNadinehadlostcontrolwhentheoldguyoppositereversed
into her path. Her bloodalcohol level was tested onadmissionandshewasfoundto be under the limit –although she had beendrinking; she admitted that.She also told them she hadjust found out that herhusband had been having anaffair, so her responses mayhave been affected. She toldthemshewasverysorry.Wewereallverysorry.Petra came, and stayed.
And cried. And cried somemore. She sat sniffling atGeorge’s side for three fulldays, begging him to wakeup, wringing her hands.Occasionally, she wouldshootmea lookand Iwouldseethemusclesoneithersideofherthroatgrowtaut.‘Say it,’ I said eventually,
afterafewmorehoursofthis.‘Saywhat?’sheasked.‘Saywhatitisyouwantto
say.’
She went back tosmoothingthehairawayfromGeorge’s forehead. ‘I havenothingtosay.’‘YouthinkIcausedthis.’And she turned to me
sharply. ‘I would never saythat.’‘Youdon’thaveto,Petra.’She put her hand to her
mouthtostiflethebeginningsof another sob. Then shescrewedhereyesuptightandtook one deep inhalation,
before grabbing hold of themetal frame of the bed forstability. ‘I am not blamingyou,’ she said. Her wordswere measured, steady, butlikevinegarinhermouth.‘I’m blaming me,’ I told
her, and I looked at herstraight.‘Icausedthis.There.It’ssaid.Nowyoudon’thaveto.’‘Don’t be so flippant,’ she
flared.‘I’mnotbeingflippant.Of
course this is my fault! Ofcourseitis!Iknowthat.ButIdon’t want you here with allthatanxiety,allthatrepressedbloody condemnation insideof you. Not while you’rehovering above myunconsciousson,anyhow.’‘Your son,’ she said
tonelessly.‘Yes,myson.Forbetteror
worse,Petra,Iamhismother.Now you either say all thatshit youwant to say, or else
you let itgo.BecauseIcan’tstanditlikethis.’She stepped away from
George. She walked to theend of the bed and gesturedwith her finger for me tofollow.Her face was hard. ‘You
are a stupid, recklesswomanwhoIamashamedtoknow,’shesaid.‘WhoIamashamedto be associated with, nevermindrelatedto.’‘Goon.’
‘Again, you proved thatyou take the easy way out.Alwaystheeasywayoutwithyou. You never think whatyoudowillhurtotherpeople.You never think of theconsequences.’She was holding back
somewhat. Her choice ofwords was almost business-like, I supposeoutof respectforoursurroundings.She shookherheadas she
spoke. ‘I can’t believe you
were sleeping with him. Ican’t believe you had anaffair—’‘Itwasn’tanaffair.’‘Ican’tbelieveyouhadan
affair with my friend’shusband. Of all the things.’Hereyesbrimmedwithtears.She batted the air in front ofherasthoughthismightsendthem back. ‘You are adisgrace, Roz, and you haveembarrassed me deeply. Idon’t know that I’ll ever be
ableto—’Georgeopenedhiseyes.Hewas looking at uswith
apuzzledexpression.Hetriedto say something, andcouldn’t understand why thewordswerenotcomingoutastheyshould.Trying to lift his hand to
his mouth, he was awarethere was something alienthere. He frowned when hemade contact with theintubationtube.
Irushedtohim.‘Don’t tryto talk, sweetheart,’ I said.‘Are you okay?’ and henodded.He wasn’t scared. He just
looked pleased to seeme, ashe would when waking as ababy.Hewouldopenhiseyestoseemestandingnexttothecotandgiveabig,contented,sleepy smile. As though tosay, You’ve been here thewholetime?‘George, do know where
you are?’ Petra demanded,her voice shaking. ‘Do yourememberanything?’ I rolledmyeyesatherandtoldhertogive him aminute to get hisbearings.Herfacefell.George blinked, and you
couldseehimtryingtofigureout what was going on. Heglanced down and tilted hishead upon seeing the fixatoraroundhisleg.Iwhispered to Petra, ‘Tell
thenursingstaffhe’sawake,’
and she nodded, beforescurryingoff.I crouched by his side
George. ‘You’re in hospital.Thattubeinyourmouthistohelpyoubreathe.See?’AndIfollowed the tube with myfinger, slowly, to where itwasattachedtotheventilator.‘This thing breathes for you.Can you hear it?’ Georgesmiled, and I said, ‘I know.Cool, eh?’ Hewatched for amomentandthenreturnedhis
gaze to me. ‘You’ve hurtyour leg pretty bad. That’swhat all thatmetal is. It’s toholdthebreaktogether.Doesithurt?’He stared at his leg, as
though trying to figureout ifitwaspainfulornot.Thenhelooked back at me andcommunicated it didn’t.‘They’vegivenyoumedicineforthat,’Isaid,‘totakeawaythesoreness.’I told him I was glad he
was awake. Told him I’dbeen a bit lonely withoutbeing able to chat to him. Itold him his dad would bealonglaterbuthadhadtoniphometofetchsomemorebitsandpiecesIneeded.‘He’llbeback soon,’ I said. Georgewasprettydopedandpassive,and I hoped he’d stay thatway.‘Well,hellothere!’camea
voicefrommyleft.Kyle, thenurse,stoodat theendof the
bed, all smiles, and toldGeorge he was way morehandsomenowthathehadhiseyes open. George wentsheepish.‘Can he come off the
ventilator?’Iasked,andKylesaid yes, now that he wasconscious, though it waslikelyhe’dbeonoxygenuntilthe chest drains came out. Itousled his hair and toldGeorge again I was glad hewas back, and that’s when I
sawhisfacechange.‘Youokay?’Iasked.Hestaredatme,wild-eyed
andfearful,beforemakinganattempttomove.‘What is it?’ I said.
‘George, you’ve got to staystill. What is it? Are youhurtingsomewhere?’Petra was trying to pacify
him, saying, ‘It’s okay, it’sokay,’ over and over butGeorgewentrigidinthebed.Myfirstthoughtwasthehead
injury.Hisbrainwasswellingand we were seeing thebeginningsofafit.Iturnedtothenurse,buthedidn’t seemunduly worried. ‘Are yourememberingwhathappened,George?’ he said softly, andGeorge nodded repeatedly,growing more and moreafraidbythesecond.I moved in closer. ‘You
hadanaccident,’Isaid.Noresponse.‘George, you were injured
byacar.’And he shook his head as
thoughhecouldn’trememberthat.Heseemedinequalpartsfrustratedandterrified.Thenhetriedtospeak.Foxy.
39
I HAD SIX missed calls fromDSAspinall, alongwith twotext messages asking me tomakecontactwithherassoonas possible. I don’t usevoicemail. Don’t know how.You may as well write your
message on a scrap of paperandthrowitinthelake.Winston had returned to
the hospital, and I had lefthim and Petra alone withGeorge, while I stood in thecorridor and called Celia tofindoutthelatestonFoxy.As far as I knew, the dog
wasfine.Icouldn’trememberseeinghercrushedor injuredimmediately after theaccident, but then, I couldn’trememberseeingheratall.
PacifyingGeorgewith thiswas not enough.He couldn’tsettle, quickly becomingdistressed and tearful, to theextent that the registrarpointed out thatmight it justbe easier to ‘Call the dog’sowner? Check the dog isactuallyokay?’The corridor was busy.
Two young male medicswalked towards me, fresh -aced and full of enthusiasm.There is an unwritten rule
inside the hospital wherebymedics wear theirstethoscopes around theirnecks, on display, buteveryoneelsewho requiresastethoscope–respiratory-carephysiotherapists, nurses, andso on – must keep theirsinside their pockets. Just soeveryone is clear where theystandinthewholeschemeofthings. The medics stoppedconversing as they passed,smiled gravely, an
acknowledgement of mypositionrightnexttotheICU.Which was considerate, Ithought.Celia picked up on the
thirdring.‘Celia?’‘Roz!What are you doing
calling?How is he? Is he allright?PleaseGod, lethimbeallright.Howishisleg?Didtheymanagetosavehisleg?’‘You were there?’ I asked
her,alittlestunned.Icouldn’t
remember.‘Yes, wewere there. How
ishe?How isGeorge?GoodLord,Roz,tellme.’‘He’sokay.Thelegwillbe
okay, we hope. It’s prettysmashed up. He’s just comeroundand…Celia?…Well,he’saskingaboutFoxy.’‘Oh,she’sfine.’‘Isshereally?’‘She tore her cruciate
ligament in her knee whilstfranticallytryingtorunhome
fasterthanshe’sruninyears,but don’t tell George that.He’ll onlyworry. She’s fine,Roz.Honestly.’Iexhaled.IbroughtCeliauptospeed
andwasabouttogetintouchwith the detective and lay itonreally thickaboutGeorge,as it was apparent from hermessages that she didn’tknowabouttheaccident–dothe police not talk to oneanother?–whenIsawHenry
Peachey coming from theother direction. He had abunchofflowersinonehandand a thick paperback in theother.Hemust have been onhiswaytovisitNadine.Atthispointhehadn’tseen
me.Hisheadwasdown,andIwondered briefly whether Ishould duck inside ICU toavoid confrontation. But bythe time I had pressed thebuzzer and waited for aresponse,hewouldseeme.
It wasn’t that I wanted toavoidhim.Iwasdesperatetotalk to him, to apologize, totrytobegintomakeamends.But something in thewayhewalkedmademewanttoflee.His ordinarily erect posturewas absent; the confident,sure-footed way he movednot there. And, for the firsttimesinceNadinehaddrivenhercarintomychild,Ifeltanintense rush of guilt oversomethingotherthanGeorge.
My child was still here,andHenry’swasnot.I turned to face him and,
when he caught sight ofme,he stopped in his tracks. Ioffered an ineffectual, wankind of smile andwaited forhimtocomenearer.For a moment he didn’t.
He stayedwhere hewas andregarded me in the way youmight a rotting creature,blocking your path.Something tobe sidestepped,
avoided.A porter pulling a
wheelchair backwards alongthe corridor asked Henry tomove over slightly so hecould pass. This seemed tostartle him, and he resumedwalkingmyway.‘Hey,’Isaid.‘Hey,’ he said back, not
meetingmygaze.‘Howareyou?’He dodged that question
and answered with, ‘I heard
George was in a bad way.Howishedoing?’‘Just come around. He
wanted to know how Foxywas so …’ I let my wordshang, holding up the mobiletoindicateI’dcalledCelia tofindout.He nodded, and tried to
smile as though to say, Yes,that sounds like somethingGeorgewoulddo,buthisfacecouldn’t really work in thatway today. He kicked at the
floorwiththetoeofhisboot.‘So—’ I began, but he cut
meoff.‘Ireallyneedtogeton.’‘Henry, wait. There’s
somethingIneedtotellyou.’He sighed and looked
beyondmealongthecorridor.In amomentof foolishness Ireached for him, but hemoved away quickly, asthough he’d been stung.‘Apologies,’Isaid.Apologies–thatwasamistake.
‘It’s a bit late for all this,Roz,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’mreally sorry about whathappenedtoGeorge.AndI’msogladhe’sonthemend.ButI’m really not interested inlistening towhatyouhave tosay. You’ve wreckedNadine’s life. You made melook a complete fool. I’drather not be around you, ifthat’sokay.’‘Henry, listen. I appreciate
you don’t want to see me
right now, but I need to tellyouthis. Iwasnothavinganaffair with Scott. It simplyisn’ttrue.Thatthinghedidattheparty?Well,Idon’tknowwhat that was all about. Butwewerenot ina relationshipandwewere certainlynot inlove.’He didn’t respond.After a
minuteof silencehe said, ‘Isthat it? That’s what youwantedtosay?’‘I really liked being with
you,Henry.’He lifted his eyes to the
ceiling.‘No,’ I said. ‘Really. I
wasn’tstringingyoualong—’‘So you’re saying you
weren’t sleeping with Scott,isthatit?’I lowered my voice. ‘We
hadanarrangement,’Isaid.‘An arrangement,’ he
mirrored,flatly.‘WherebyScottwouldpay
me. This is not an excuse in
any way, but I need you toknow that I was not doingwhatIdidwillingly.’‘You’re saying he forced
you?’‘No,’ I stammered,
misunderstood. ‘Iwas forcedthrough circumstance. YouleftthepartybeforeIhadthechancetoexplainanyofthis.And,ifyourecall,Ididtrytobackoutofourdates,becauseIdidn’twantyouto—’‘What? Find out? You
werewithhimthattimeIsawyou at the hotel nearLancaster,weren’tyou?’I nodded. ‘That was the
first time,’ I admitted.‘Listen, I didn’twant to hurtyou. I never expected to feelanything for you. I thoughtwecouldgooutonce,pacifyNadine, and then call an endto it.’ I paused. ‘I didn’texpectyou tobeyou,Henry.Ididn’texpecttolikeyouasIdid.’
I thought I saw his jawrelax a little at this, so Igestured to the paperback,saying, ‘What’s that you’rereading?’tryingtodiffusethesituationalittle.‘AnnaKarenina.’‘Anygood?’‘I’ve read it before. Far
less adultery and a lot morefarmingthanIremember.’I smiled. ‘Henry, listen, I
know you’re hurt. I knowyou’re deeply hurt and
humiliated.ButIneedyoutoknow that the arrangementwith Scott started before Imetyou.And Idid it for themoney.Pureandsimple.Yousaid yourself that one coulddo practically anything formoney if itwasonly for twodays a week. I’m notexcusingwhatIdid.Butoncemy money problems startedto ease I called a halt to it.And I was desperate. I wasbeing evicted. I wouldn’t
havedoneitotherwise.’Therewasa tensemoment
of quietwhenHenry seemedtobeweighingmywordsandI thought he may havesoftenedtowardsme.Finally he said, ‘That’s
whathesaidyou’dsay.’‘What?’‘Scott,’ he explained.
‘That’s what he said you’dsay.’‘Henry, I don’t understand
whatyoumean.’
‘Scott came to see mebeforeheleft—’‘Beforeheleftforwhere?’Henry shrugged. ‘No idea.
TheGalápagos,forallIcare.Nadinecertainlydoesn’twanthim around. He took offyesterday.’‘Whatdidhesay,Henry?’‘He said this story you
were peddling, about himpaying you for sex, wasexactlythat.Astory.Hesaidyou had instigated the affair
during the first treatmentsessionforhiselbow.Hesaidhe’d gone along with itbecause he found youattractive and couldn’t sayno.’Mymouthdroppedopen.‘Scott said you were a
gold-digger,’hewenton.‘Hesaid you pestered him forgifts–earringsand jewelleryand suchlike, and perhapssawhimasawayoutofyourfinancial mess. He said you
askedhimforaloan.’‘Andyoubelievedhim?’‘Why shouldn’t I believe
him? It’s been lie after liewith you, Roz. And itcertainly makes more sensethan you being some sort ofescort.Sorry,but I justdon’tbuythat.’Istoodthere,gaping.‘Look,’ he said, ‘no hard
feelings.ButI’vehadenoughshit happen tome in the lastfewyears,andifit’sokayby
you I’d rather avoid anymore.’‘Wait,’Isaid.‘Pleasewait,
Henry. I know you wish itcould have been anyone butScott, anyone but him that Igotinvolvedwith—’Andhestoppedme.‘No,Roz,’hesaidsoftly.‘I
don’t care what Scott does.Neverhave.It’syou.Ididn’twantyoutogetinvolvedwithanother person. Anyone butyou. I was falling for you,
andnow Ineed to stayawayif I’ve got any chance ofgettingmyheadtogether.’Hetook off. And I was leftstaring at his back as hebecame smaller and smallerthefurtherheadvancedalongthe corridor, beforedisappearingfromview.
40
THE FOLLOWING DAY Georgewas off the ventilator, hischest drains were removedandhewas transferred to thepaediatric ward, where hewould stay for the remainderof his time at Furness
General. He would need aseries of operations on thecrush injury to his leg, toclose the wound, to alter theexternal fixator,butas thingsstood right now, he was inbetter shape than we couldhave predicted. The fracturesitewasinfectionfreeandhislungswere fully inflated.Hewas in good spirits. Again, Imarvelled at the resilienceshown by children. Youlooked around the ward and
you saw fear, worry,exhaustion displayed on theface of every parent.But thekids? They all looked prettychilled,asthoughitwastheirlatest adventure. Georgemade a friend called Lucas,whowas also rather keen onPokémon, and I was able toleave him in the hands ofWinston for a few hourswhile I made an appearanceat Kendal police station togive prints and a swab. This
was voluntary, youunderstand, but the emphasiswasthatifIfailedtoprovidesamples then I wouldautomaticallybeconsideredasuspect.The results of the post-
mortemwereback,anditwasnow known that Wayne hadbeenstrangled.Ifeltsickatthethoughtof
his last moments, but I nolongerfeltfrightened.Almostlosingyourchildwilldo that
toyou.Instead,Ifeltnumb.Irelinquished my DNA, mydemeanour calm andunruffled, because the worsthadalreadyhappened.IfIgothauled back to the stationwhentheymatchedtheprints,foundevidenceofmealloverWayne,sobeit.Does thatsound likeIwas
trivializing? I suppose Iwas,to an extent. Perhaps I wasburying my head, but it didfeelasthoughWayne’sdeath
was at the bottom of a verylonglistofthingsthatneededmy attention. So I did asrequested, again keeping tomystoryofneversettingfootinhishouse,andwishedthemwell with their inquiry. Toldthe detectives I hoped theyfoundhiskillerandgotsomejustice for Wayne. If theycame back with evidence ofmy lying, I would hit themwiththetruth.Butnotbefore.The hours of interrogation I
would have to face were notpossible,notwithGeorgestillbedbound and in thecondition he was in. Heneeded me. I needed to bewithhim.Ididnotneedtobearrested.Lie after lie, Henry had
said.Yes. That just about
covered it. Scott had alsocommented once that I liedeasily.It’snoteasytolookatyour
lifeandknowthatyouare ineverywayatfaultforthewayit turned out. All thoseuntruths were no doubtresponsible for what putNadine behind the wheel,what put George in front ofNadine’s car, what madeHenry head off before I wasable to screw up his life anyfurther.And,now,noonebelieved
anything I had to say. Youcouldhardlyblamethem.
Two days later and Georgewas doingwell. Hewas stillin a substantial amount ofpain but was bravelymanaging without complaint.On receiving a ‘Get WellSoon’ card from hisclassmates, he declared thatheno longerwanted to leavehis school and relocate. Hemissedhisbuddiesandsowearranged foracouple tovisithim in the hospital thefollowingday.
Along with the card fromhisclassmates,therewasalsoa letter of apology from theschool, saying that they hadmistakenlyaccusedGeorgeoftakingthePokémonfigures.Apparently, after George’s
accident,adistressedboyhadcome forward and owned upto planting them insideGeorge’s rucksack. This wasinrevengeforGeorgehavingdeclared his lunchboxbabyish and the matter had
nowbeendropped.WinstonandIdecidedthat
George was well enough tobeleftaloneovernight,sowereturned to Hawkshead,where I booked my car intothemechanic’s.Winston andI would travel to Barrow inhisvaneachdayforhoweverlongitwouldtakeforminetobe fixed. And since HQ hadgrantedmeatwo-weekleaveof absence from work, Ididn’t need a vehicle for
anything other than visitingGeorge.On the second day I
received a call. Theywantedme to call into the garage todiscuss something. ‘Soundsexpensive,’ I said, and therewas a stony silence at theotherend.Brian, the owner of the
garage, was an oldschoolfriendofmydad’s.Hehadfourboys,threeofwhomworked with him. The other
hadbeenhitbyadrugged-updriverfifteenyearsagoontheA590 whilst changing apregnantwoman’styre.Briannow drank surreptitiouslythroughout the day from anold hip flask he kept insidethe pocket of his navyoveralls,andthoughstillseento be safe enough to tinkerwith engines, he was neverallowedbehindthewheelofacar. His sons would be seenferrying him about, from
place to place, dropping himwhereverheneededtobe.‘How’s your dad doing
these days?’ Brian askedwhen Iwalked in.Theofficewas strewn with paperwork,bulldog clips and emptymugs. A Cliff RichardcalendarhungonthewallandhadbeendefacedtogiveCliffan Amish-style beard, thetypewithoutamoustache.‘He’sokay,’Ianswered.Brian knew about the
moneyI’dlostandthereasonmyparentsmovedaway.Butifhehadanopinion,hedidn’tairit.‘Notseenhiminagoodwhile,’hesaid.‘I heard you got another
grandchild,Brian.A girl thistime?’He went pink with pride,
put his hands in his pocketsand sat back on his heels.‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Tiny littlething.Gotagoodstronggriponher,though.’
‘That’s good,’ I said.‘Whatdidtheycallher?’He frowned. ‘Summat
foreign. I can’t bring it tomindrightnow.’Heshookhishead,smiling
either at his inability toremember, or else at hisdaughter-in-law, who wasmaking his life morecomplicatedthanitneededtobe.‘So what’s the damage,
Brian?’Iasked.
He riffled through someinvoices, held up the paperand squinted. ‘Two-eighty-seven,includingVAT.’I winced. ‘What did I do
exactly?’He shot me an amused
look. ‘You reallywantme toexplain?’‘Notreally.’‘Just damaged the mid-
section of the exhaust. Butthat’snotwhyIhauledyouinhere.’
‘Oh?’He nodded and was silent
for a secondwhilst gesturingto a mud-splattered thingabout the size of a pocketcalculator.Itwasrestingonagreasyragonhisdesk.‘Whatisit?’Iasked.‘Youtellme,’hesaid.‘I’venoidea.’‘Howlongyouhadthatcar
now,Roz?’heasked.‘Fourorfiveyears,why?’‘When did we last service
it?’‘You changed the timing
chain around three monthsago.Andyou fitted twonewtyres.‘We’d have spotted it if it
wastherethen,’hesaid.‘I’mcertainofit.’‘Brian, you’re worrying
me.What’sgoingon?’‘It’satracker.’I frowned, confused. ‘As
in?’Brian shrugged. ‘As in a
tracker.Can’tthinkwhatelsetocallit.Ittellssomeonewhowants to know yourwhereabouts yourwhereabouts.’‘Isitlegal?’‘Do you know what?’ he
said. ‘I don’t know theanswer to that, but my bestguess says not. You hadsomeone following youaround?’‘NotthatI’mawareof.’‘Well,thatthing’sworking
and sending out a signal,so…’ His words trailed off.He watched my face as Iprocessedwhatitwashewastellingme.‘Youmight dowell to tell
thepoliceaboutthis,’hesaideventually.
I drove to the lakeshore toconsider my options. It wasstill early, so I could parkeasily enough.Thereweren’tmanypeoplearound,savefor
a few dog walkers and pale-looking mums with toddlerson reins, pushing prams,carrying bags of duck food.Their facesweredrawn fromlackofsleepandappearedtoborder on tearfulness at theprospect of filling anotherwhole twelve hours. As Iwatched, I was transportedback to the time in my ownlife when I would be alonefordaysonendwithGeorge,Winston having disappeared
offsomewhere.We had entered a
destructivecyclebythenthatwe couldn’t seem to get outof. I would nag at thefrequencyanddurationofhisabsences, which Winstonwould deal with by notcoming home at all, whichcausedmetonagsomemore,and then suddenly, almostovernight, I’d been replacedby a woman I never thoughtI’dbe.
But I digress, because Iknowwhatyou’rethinking.You’re thinking: how
couldshenothaveknown?Until I saw that tracker, I
knewofonlyone instanceofScottfollowingme:George’sswimminglessonatthehotel.Thinking about it now, IrealizedthatScotttrackedmethere with the aid of thedevice.Of course, I was
speculating. But it had to be
Scott. Who else would dosomethinglikethat?I glanced down at my
hands on the wheel and sawtheyweretrembling.What kind of weirdo
followswomenaround?Whatkind of weirdo tracks theirevery move, watching fromtheirhomecomputer?My stomach folded in on
itself.Ifwhat I thoughtwas true
was true, Scott was capable
offarmorethanIcouldhaveimagined. I was in danger,andIneededtodosomething.I withdrew my mobile
from my pocket. Scrolledthrough the list of callers,took a steadying breath andpressedthedialkey.When thecallconnected, I
said,‘Wereallyneedtotalk.’
41
‘MRSTOOVEY,WOULDyouliketocomethisway?’I stood and followed the
youngman.‘Lovelymorning,again,’hesaid,andIreplied,yes, it was. ‘We’ve been solucky with the weather this
year, haven’t we?’ he said,andagain,Iagreed.He stopped a little further
along and asked me to waitinside the last office on theright. ‘Can I get youanything?’ he asked. ‘Tea?Somewater?’‘Water,thankyou.’‘Right you are,’ he said,
and he did an about-turn onthe spot, making me wonderifhewasonceinthecadets.I was forced to wait for
over an hour. The minutesticked by and the roombecame stuffy. My palmsgrew greasy, my scalp hotand itchy, and my generaldemeanour became that of askittish cat. I was just abouttoexit,leavingmyexcusesatthefrontdesk,whenthedooropenedand inwalkedaverycollected DS Aspinall. Shewas accompanied by anotherplain-clothes officer whom Ihad not met, who was
introduced as DetectiveConstableHannahGidley.DC Gidley was late
twenties, red-haired, milky-skinned but with patches ofhigh colour on her cheeks,earlobes and the tip of hernose.Therewasasoftnesstoher flesh, a kindness in hereyes. She was more nurserynursethanCID,andwhenshesmiledmywayIimmediatelyfeltlessjumpy.‘You’re here to make a
statement,’ began DSAspinall.‘That’sright,’Ireplied.‘MindifIask,whynow?’‘Something came up,’ I
said. ‘Something that … it’sprobably easier if I just givethestatement.’DS Aspinall nodded
accordingly. If I had piquedher interest at all, she hid it.She exchanged a few quietwords with the otherdetective and made like she
was ready for me to start.When I hesitated, she said,‘I’mallears,MrsToovey,’inthe manner of someone whowas jaded, world-weary, andI wondered if they’d hadmany timewasters in here.Perhaps I was just one in alonglineofmany.‘Iexpectedyoumighthave
beenintouchbynow,’Isaid,lookingatDSAspinall.‘Because…?’‘Because of the
fingerprints? And DNAswab?’Shelookedatmeblankly.‘Mrs Toovey,’ she said,
‘wedon’tcontactapersontosay they’ve been eliminatedfromaninvestigation.’Eliminated?‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘You’re
saying you did not find myfingerprintsatWayne’shouseatall?’‘That’s right,’ she said
slowly, extending the words,
a lookofpuzzlementcomingover her. ‘Should we have,MrsToovey?’Idroppedmyhead.What the hell was going
on? My prints wereeverywhereinthatroom.Thefish tank. The table. Thewindowsill.DSAspinallwaitedforme
torespondand,whenIdidn’t,she relaxed her shoulders,letting her full weight fallbackwards against the chair
as though she thought wecould be here for quite awhile.‘Whydon’twestartatthebeginning?’shesaid.So I did. Right at the
beginning.I explained about losing
my original practice, aboutWinston running up debts,aboutbeingonceagainonthebrink of financial collapse. Iexplained about the generalstate of my affairs in theweeksleadinguptoWayne’s
disappearance.I told DS Aspinall about
my first meeting with ScottEliasandhowhe’darrivedatmy treatment room a fewdayslaterwithaproposalformetoconsider.Ioutlinedtheway he expected thearrangement might work andwatchedasbothDSAspinalland DC Gidley exchangedsurreptitious glances, clearlyamusedatwhathadhappenedbut at the same timekeeping
up an air of professionalism.Theydidnotcommentonthispart other than DC GidleyaskingmetospelloutScott’ssurname.I told them how much
money changed hands andhow at first I was paid incash, but then how thatchanged as time progressed.And I told themhowWaynewantedinonthedealandwasblackmailingme.At this, they both sat up
straighterintheirseats.‘Wayne Geddes wanted
money from you?’ DSAspinallasked.Ishookmyhead.‘Hewantedsex,’Isaid.‘Formoney?’shesaid.‘For free,’ I said. ‘Wayne
told me if I didn’t do as heasked, he would reveal whathad been going on betweenScott and me and I wouldlosemyjob.Ididn’thavetheluxuryofcallinghisbluff,so
Iagreedtoit.’Ididn’ttellthemaboutthe
other part. The part aboutWayne saying he would tellthe police that I had beenrippingthecompanyoff.‘Where did this meeting
take place?’ DS Aspinallasked.‘Wayne’shouse.’There was a flicker of
distasteevidentinherface.‘Howmany times did this
occur?’sheasked.
‘Once. On the Saturdaynight. Ultimately, though,Waynehadabitofaproblemand couldn’t actually gothroughwith it. And then hepanicked and knocked meout, and I ended up stayingthereforaroundtwohours.’‘Were you injured?’ she
asked.‘Abadbangtothehead.’‘Okay, but according to
your original statement, yousaid you last sawWayne on
theFriday,afterwork.Isthatcorrect?’‘I did say that, but I lied.
You would have wanted toknowwhyIwaswithWayne,and Ididn’twant to tellyou.But remember, Ididn’tknowat that point hewasmissing.Thathewasdead.SoIdidn’tthinkitwasterriblyimportanttomisleadyoubyaday.’Shenodded.‘Allright,’shesaid.‘So,to
return tomyearlierquestion,
whynow?Whathaschangedthatyoufelttheneedtocomeforwardnow?’‘Two things,’ I said. ‘The
secretarrangementIhadwithScott Elias is no longer asecret.’DS Aspinall frowned,
unable to see at that pointwhat my sleeping with Scottfor money had to do withWayne.‘And then there’s this,’ I
said.
I removed from myhandbag the tracking device,which was wrapped in aplastic bag, and pushed itacrossthedesk.‘Itwasfoundstuckbeneath
my car. Someone has beentracking my movements.Someone knew I was atWayne’shousethatnightandprobablyfollowedmethere.’DSAspinall turned it over
inherhandandreadtheserialnumber. ‘We should be able
to find out where this waspurchasedeasilyenough,’shetoldDCGidley.‘I think Scott Elias
manufactured it,’ I said. ‘Hehas an electronics firm. Ibelieve they produce deviceslikethis.’‘You’resayingyouthinkit
was Scott Elias who placedthistrackerandfollowedyouthere?’‘That’s what I believe,
yes.’
‘Dowe have his prints onfile?’ she said to hercolleague.‘I’dneedtocheck,’replied
DSGidley.DS Aspinall was silent
then,againturningthetrackerover in her hands, thinkingthrough, I assumed, possiblescenarios. I resisted the urgeto tell her I thought Scottcould be responsible forWayne’s death, because itwas pretty clear from her
manner that DS Aspinalldealtonlyinfacts.‘A curious thing,’ she said
absently,asiftoherself.‘I’venever actually seen one ofthese before. Of course, wecan’t say for sure that itwasplaced under your car beforeMr Geddes’ death, and Iwonder, why would ScottElias feel the need to trackyou in particular, MrsToovey?’I shrugged. ‘I can only
guessastotheanswertothat.He did become ratherpossessive.’‘Violentatall?’‘Ibelievehecamecloseto
it a few times. Grabbing meharder than necessary andsuchlike. And he did try toforcehimselfonmesexuallyonce. Ultimately, though, hedidn’tgothroughwithit.’‘Did he make any threats
towardsyouoryourfamily?’I shook my head. ‘Not
really.Nodirectthreats.’‘Doeshehaveahistoryof
domestic abuse that youknowof?’‘His wife’s brother
mentioned he had a darktemper.’‘Did his wife ever discuss
thiswithyou?’‘No.’‘So when you say
“possessiveness”, whatbehaviourareyoureferringtoexactly?’sheasked.
My face must havehardened somewhat becauseshe leaned forward a little,saying, ‘I’m not doubtingyou,MrsToovey,butI’djustlike to know what preciselywe’redealingwith.’Iexhaled.‘Iknowhowthis
looks,’Isaid.‘YouthinkI’mparanoid.YouthinkI’vebeensleeping with some rich guywhohasbeenmonitoringmymovements, and nowsuddenly I’ve gone
unreasonable, crazy, thinkinghe’s responsible for everycrimeinthearea.’‘We don’t think that, Mrs
Toovey.’‘Yes,well,Iwouldinyour
situation. I have no evidenceat all that Scott Elias isinvolved in Wayne’s death.None.Iwasatthathouseandmy prints were not found. Ican’texplainhowthatcanbethecase.WhatI’mheretodois to tell you the truth as I
know it. It’s up to you todecide whether to follow uponit.Idon’twanttotellyouhowtodoyourjobs.’DS Aspinall smiled.
‘Appreciatethat,’shesaid.‘When I tried to halt the
arrangementwithScott,whenI was becoming close to amanImet,Scott tried to talkmeoutofit.’DSAspinallwaitedforme
tocontinue.‘When I refused, he
revealed our arrangement tohiswife and children, sayinghewaspreparedtolosethemso I would stay with him.Still,Irefused,andhewarnedthat if he couldn’t have me,noelsecouldeither.’‘Which now leads you to
think that he may have gotwind of you andWayne andputastoptothataswell.’‘Precisely,’Isaid.DS Aspinall blew out her
breath. ‘Certainly an
interestingstory,’shesaid.‘You think it’s far-
fetched.’‘I didn’t say that,’ she
replied evenly. ‘But what Iwill promise you, MrsToovey, is that we willcertainlyfollowuponit.AndI’llletyouknowassoonasIhearofanydevelopments.’‘Thankyou,’ I replied,but
IcouldseeI’dlosther.‘Thereisonemorething,’I
said. ‘But before I raise this
nextpoint,Iwouldjustliketosay that I have a child in thehospitalatthemomentandheis—’‘We know about your
son’s accident,’ she repliedgently.‘Well, if you could bear
that in mind when decidingwhetherto…’I paused, wondering how
besttophrasethenextpart.‘Arrest you for
prostitution?’sheoffered.
Inodded.She glanced at her
colleague, giving what musthave been some kind ofimperceptible signal, becauseDCHannahGidleyrestedherpen down by the side of hernotes.‘It’s not illegal, Mrs
Toovey,’shesaid.‘It’s not?’ I asked,
astonished.‘Not the kind of
prostitution you were
engaged in. But, please,remind me again, just howdid Scott Elias pay for theseencounters?’‘Firstly, I was paid in
cash,’ I said. ‘And onsubsequent encounters, Iprovided an invoice andbilledhisfirmdirectly.’‘So his business covered
the cost of your timetogether?’‘That’sright.’‘Interesting,’ she said
again.
42
TWO WEEKS PASSED, andnothing. No phone call fromthe police. No arrest. Not awhisper that Scott had evenbeenquestioned.Ihadbeensoconfident,so
absolutely certain that
somethingwouldcomeofmystatement.Butno.And to make matters
worse, according to Petra,Scott was back inside thefamilyhomeafterpersuadingNadine that what we’d hadtogether was nomore than apointless fling – a fling thathe nowbitterly regretted.Hewas deeply ashamed of hisbehaviourandput itdown toa moment of madness in thepresence of a predatory
female,hesaid.It was politician’s talk to
appease themasses. And theremarkable thing was itseemedtohaveworked.Scottapologized to all concerned.He’dbeenabadboy,hesaid,and everyone went aroundwith the opinion that Hell,even the best of us makemistakes sometimes.Nobody’sperfect.Eventually, when I could
takenomorewaiting,Icalled
DS Aspinall. She wasevasive, informing me thatshecouldn’t commenton theongoing investigation intoWayne Geddes’ death,assuring me that, as soon asany arrests were made, Iwouldbetold.‘So you found nothing
linking Scott Elias toWayne’s death? Nothing?’ Icried down the phone to her.Scott had been practicallystalking me and she was
behaving as though I wasbeingsillyandirrational.‘We’re still pursuing all
lines of inquiry, MrsToovey,’shetoldme.‘You need to actually do
something!’‘Iassureyou,weare.’It was fruitless. It was as
though she had disregardedmy statement as soon as I’dleft the station, possibly noteven gone to the trouble oftalkingtoScottatall.
I should have gone toanother detective. I shouldhave given my statement tosomeonewhowould takemeseriously. I regretted thatnow.‘Let it go,’ Petra advised,
whenIcomplainedtoherthatnothingwasbeingdone.‘Ican’tletitgo.’By now, I had told Petra
the full story about Wayne.Timetostopthecycleoflies,I’ddecided.ButPetrahadthe
opinionthatwhateverhadledWaynetoendupdeadinthatfreezer was most likely theresult of his own deeds. Shedidn’t thinkforonesecondithadanythingtodowithScott.‘That’s laughable,’ she saidwhen I told her my theory.‘Scott’s not capable ofanythinglikethat.’It was now Wednesday
evening. We were in Petra’skitchen, and though she wasstill frosty towards me, we
were at least on speakingterms.Petrawasworkingherway through the stages ofgrief at the loss of herfriendship with Scott andNadine. She would get toacceptance and, just when Ithought shewasdonewith itall,shewouldquicklydoubleback to denial again. Shewantedme togo through theinsandoutsof‘theaffair’,asshe insisted on calling it,much as you might when
interrogating your spouseabout an old flame. Youshouldn’twantthedetails,butyou just can’t help yourself.Likepickingat thesidesofascab.Orpokingatsomethingdeadwithastick.‘And would you say you
enjoyed it?’ she was asking,as she crimped the pastryedges of a steak-and-kidneypie.‘Wouldyousaythatyouactuallyenjoyedit?’‘It was sex, Petra. You
knowhowitgoes.’‘He told Nadine you only
did it once. And Nadine’stelling people that yourfancifulstoryaboutbeinghismistress for money wasmerely the mad claims of adesperatehysteric.’‘Is she?’ I said flatly,
becauseIhadgivenuprisingtoitbynow.She bit her lip. ‘Did he
shock you, wanting weirdthings done to him? Did he
wantyouto…youknow.’‘Youknow…?’Irepeated,
liftingmyeyebrows,becauseIdidn’t.‘Ican’tbringmyselftosay
it,’shesaid.Andsoitwenton.George was with Winston
for the next three days. I’dtoldWinston to keep an eyeout for Scott’s RangeRover,just in case, and thoughWinstonclearlythoughtIwasparanoid, he assured me he
wouldn’tletGeorgeoutofhissight–whichwasn’tdifficult,because George couldn’t getfar,veryfast.Hewasmovingabout prettywellwith elbowcrutchesnow,andwasn’tduebackatthehospitaluntilnextweek, when they planned toadjust the external fixator. Ihad returned to work, and anew manager had beenemployed in my absencenamed Andrea. She wassmart, efficient and was
already on to Gary, makinghim demonstrate his efficacyasaclinicianandaccountforthe number of treatments ittook him to cure a simpleinjury. ‘Patients will notcome here if you can’t getthem better quickly, Gary,’I’d overheard her saying tohim, and he’d nodded,replying, ‘Absolutely,absolutely.’LaterIfoundhimcircling NHS jobopportunities in the latest
copy of Frontline, scowlingatthetext.Plans to return to running
my own clinic had beenshelved. After George’saccident, itbecameclear thatI’d been delusional inthinkingIcouldeverworkformyself again. Self-employment basically meansyou can never be ill, which,for some reason, your bodywill agree to. The problemarises when you have
children: they cannot betalked out of illness. Or caraccidents.Thingshappenand,withmenothavinganyonetolean on, the practice wouldsuffer and patients would goelsewhere.Reluctantly,I’dletKeith Hollinghurst know Iwould be unable to take himup on his offer of the rentedpremises.I’d had to let go of my
dreams all over again. I feltlike I’d failed all over again.
AndeventhoughIhadpeoplearound me – Petra, for one,who could witter on happilyabout anything, nothing,filling up a room with noiseandconversation–Ifeltmoreacutely alone in the fewweeks following the crashthanIhaddoneinyears.I thought of poor Wayne
being forced into the freezer,no one really bothered byhowhe’dgotinthere.Anditseemed as though I was the
onlypersonhalf interested inwhether his killer was foundornot.Andyes,thiswasguilttalking,becauseifIwasrighthe was put in there onaccountofme.Iresolvedthatiftherewere
no new developments withinthe next twenty-four hours, Iwould return to the policestation and demand anexplanation. Iwould findoutexactlywhatitwastheyweredoingwiththeir time.Wayne
deserved that from me atleast.
Two nights later I returnedhome, the twilight turning todarkness. Still, DS Aspinallhadremainedsteadfastatourmeeting the previous day,revealingnothingwhileatthesame time notifying me thateverythingthatcouldbedonewas being done. And, Forheaven’s sakes, Mrs Toovey,couldn’tIjustletthemgeton
withtheirjobsnow?The figure at the dining-
room tablewasnotvisibleatfirst,thehousebeinginsemi-darkness.And so it was only as I
went through to the kitchenandflickedonthelightthatIstopped mid-stride, turningaroundtostare.I stood very still. There
wasaringinginmyears.Animmediate feeling of terrorgrippedmybody.
‘Hello, Roz,’ he said.‘Longtimenosee.’‘What are you doing here,
Scott?’‘Icame to talk. I think it’s
abouttime,don’tyou?’‘Didyoubreakin?’‘Thebackdoorwasopen.’Itwasn’t.Iknewitwasn’t.Iwalkedintothekitchento
check.Therewasglassonthefloor. I thought aboutgrabbing something from thedrawer,aknife,anything,but
Scott was already in thedoorway behind me. I froze.Scared to breathe. Scared tomove.‘I’ve missed you,’ he said
tiredly. ‘Come and sit down.Let’stalk.’I did as requested,moving
back to the dining room,watchinghimcarefully.We sat opposite one
another. ‘How is your son?’he asked. ‘George, isn’t it?’hewenton,as if thiswasall
very normal. As if he’d notbrokenintomyhouse.‘Better,’Isaid.‘Excellent. Good to hear.
Excellent.’My hands were trembling.
Scottglanceddown,observedmeasIclaspedthemtogethertightly,andhecastmealookof wounded bewilderment.As if I was completelyoverreactingtohispresence.‘Isawhiminthehospital,’
hesaid.‘He’sverylikeyou.’
‘You didwhat?When didyou see him? How did yougetinthere?’‘Itwasjustforamoment.I
wanted to check for myselfthathewasokay.Don’t lookso worried, Roz. We had anice chat. He didn’t mentionittoyou?’Finebeadsofsweatsprung
up along my upper lip as Ithought about what he haddone.Visiting George. Without
myknowledge.Christ.‘Scott,’ Iwhispered. ‘Why
areyouhere?’‘You know, Nadine feels
terrible about it,’ he said,ignoringthequestion.‘Ikeeptellingheritwasanaccident.Thatifshehadn’tbeeninthatstate of mind then shewouldn’t have been drivingso recklessly. I keep tellingher that she was no moreculpable than we were,wouldn’tyousay?’
I didn’t answer, and hefrowned,waiting.‘Scott, you’re scaring me.
Have you come here to hurtme?’Andhegaveahalf-hearted
laughandshookhishead.‘Ofcourse not,’ he replied. ‘I’dneverhurtyou.WhywouldIhurt you?’ He seemedgenuinely astonished at thesuggestion. ‘I just want totalk.’‘About?’
His jaw tightened. Hehesitatedbeforespeaking.‘You’vebeen to thepolice
again,’hesaid.‘You’re watching me?
You’re still watching me?Why?Whyareyoufollowingme?’Heshrugged.‘I’m here to ask that you
leave it alone,’ he continued.‘I’d really rather you didn’tpursue whatever it is youthink you’re pursuing It
won’t end well, Roz. And itwould be so much better ifyoustayedoutofit.’‘Have the police
interviewedyou?’‘Theyhave.’‘Oh,’Isaid.‘Yousoundsurprised.’‘Ithoughtthat—’‘Youassumedthatassoon
as you gave them my nameandtheymatchedmyDNAtothe crime scene that therewould be an arrest? Won’t
happen,’hesaidfirmly.Apause.‘Why did you kill him,
Scott?’ I asked carefully.‘Wasitreally—’He held up his palm to
silenceme.‘Wayne’sdeathisregrettable,’ he said mildly,‘butIdidn’t intendtodoit.Ididn’tgotheretodoit.Whatsortofanimaldoyou think Iam?’‘Idon’tknow!’Icriedout.‘Ididitforyou.’
‘Forme?’‘Ihadtodoit.’‘No,youdidn’t,Scott.And
I’d really likeyou to leave. Ineedyoutoleaverightnow.’I went to push my chair
awayfromthetable tostand,buthereachedoutandcaughtholdofmywrist.‘Stay there,’ he
commanded.Fearwashed throughme. I
feltsick.‘You’rehurtingme,’Isaid,
andeventually,reluctantly,heloosenedhisgrip.‘Look,’ he said. ‘I didn’t
come here to scare you. Icametoaskforyourhelp.I’dlike you to drop yourinvestigation, or whatever itis, and let us all get onwithour lives. There’s nothing tobegainedbymyadmittingtowhathappenedtoWayne.’I stared at him. I was
breathinghard.‘What?’ he said
defensively.‘Whatexactlydoyou want me to do? Say Itracked your car, followedyou there,waited until I sawyou leaveand thenkilled theguy? That’s what you want?What good will that doanybody,Roz?’Visibly quaking now, I
dropped my gaze. I shiftedawkwardly in my seat andmade like I was readjustingmytrousers.Scottrolledhiseyesatme.
‘Pass me your phone,’ hesaidwearily.‘Mywhat?‘Your phone, Roz. You’re
not recording this. Pass itover.’Ididasrequested.‘Let’sstartagain,’hesaid,
oncehe’dturneditoff.Iwas trapped. Iwas alone
with this killer and no oneknewhewashere.‘Iwillnotgoto…I’llnot
go to the police,’ I told him,
stumbling onmywords. ‘I’lldowhateveritisyouwantmetodo.Butplease,Scott,Ijustwantyoutogo.’‘No problem. That’s all I
wanted you to say. As Imentioned,thereisabsolutelynothing to be gained, and Ithink we’ve all sufferedenough,don’tyou?’Inoddednumbly.‘And, honestly, you’d be
wasting your time,’ hecontinued. ‘There’s nothing
tyingme to thatcrimescene.I made sure of it.’ And thenhe said, ‘It wasn’t exactly amessybusiness.Hedidn’tputup much of a fight. And itwasn’t hard to clean up aftermyself…ortocleanupafteryoueither,Roz.’‘Me?’He looked at me,
perplexed. ‘You didn’t thinkI’d let you take the hit forWayne’s death, did you?Bloody hell, Roz, Imeant it
when I toldyou I lovedyou.I’m not playing at this.Wayne explained how he’dpanicked and knocked yououtwiththefireextinguisher.Tell me: what would youhavedoneinmyshoes?Whatwould you have done if theperson you cared about hadgone through that? Anydecentmanwouldhavedonethesame.WhenIheardwhathe’d done to you I justcouldn’tbearit.’
‘Youdidn’tneedtomurderhim.’‘Itwasmoreofanaccident
really. And these wereextenuating circumstances.Theguytellsmehefucksyou—’‘Hedidn’tfuckme.’‘Hedidn’t?’Ishookmyhead.‘Oh, so he was telling the
truth about that, then. Well,disregarding that, he tellsmehe hurts you. And then he
tellsmehemadeyougotherebecause he has evidence ofyou stealing from thecompany.’‘Hetoldyou?’Isaid.‘Well,’ he paused, smiling
coldly, ‘I may have forcedthat out of him. I just didn’tgetwhy you’d even considerdoingwhatyoudidwithsuchalowlife.Itwasinsulting.Hedidn’t want to talk at first.That’s why I ended up withmyhandsaroundhisthroat.I
just wanted to scare him alittle. But then when he toldmewhathe’dmadeyoudo,Ineededtostophimfromeverbreathing again. It wasnecessary.’Istaredathim.‘I removed the fire
extinguisher,’ he said. ‘It’scoveredinyourblood,bytheway. It’s evidence you werethereand that therewasa…problem. I was hardly goingto leave it behind and
incriminateyou.’‘Doyoustillhaveit?’‘Ido.’‘Why?Whykeepit?’‘I could make it reappear.
And I’mmore than happy totalk to the police again. Tellthem Wayne wasblackmailing you about themoney. I think they’d berather interested. It certainlygivesyouamotiveforkillinghim.’‘I’mnot suremybloodon
it proves motive foranything.’‘Well, that’s a chance
you’ll have to take,’ he said.‘Who knowswhat the policewill make of it? I wouldn’tliketoguess.I’msurethey’dbe interested to know it wasyou who stole the moneyfrom the clinic, in any case.OrmaybeI’lljustdealwithitall another way. It shouldn’tbe too hard to find outGeorge’s whereabouts. And,
remember, we already knoweachother.’HewaitedwhileIdigested
thispieceofnews.Hehadmecornered.IfIdidasheaskedthere would be norepercussions.Ifnot—Hereachedacrossthetable
andtookholdofmyhands.‘Come back to me,’ he
whispered.I stared at him. Tried to
maskmyhorror.‘Why not?’ he said,
affrontedbymy response. ‘Itwasgood,wasn’tit?Wewerereallygoodtogether.’‘You were paying me,
Scott.’‘Oh yes,’ he said,
dismissing my reply. ‘That’sthe other thing I forgot tomention about our friendWayne.Hewouldhavemadeyoudoitagain.Andagain.’‘ItoldWayneIwoulddoit
once,andheagreedtothat.’Scottmadeagesturewitha
flick of his head as thoughwhatIhadsaidwasnonsense.‘With someone like that,’ hesaid, ‘you give them an inchandtheytakea—’‘Didhetellyouheplanned
todoitagain?’Isaid.‘Hedidn’tneedto.’Ipulledmyhandsfromhis.
‘Gohome,Scott.You’vesaidwhatyoucametosay.I’lldoas you ask. I’ll stay awayfrom the police, because Ihavenootherchoice,but it’s
timeforyoutogo.’Henodded.‘I miss you,’ he said,
slipping his arms into hisjacket.I tried to smile. Tried to
look as though, Yes, I missyou,too,psycho,whilstatthesame timeedgingaway fromhim. He was insane.Completelyisane.‘Don’t hate me,’ he
whispered.‘IonlydidwhatIdid tohelp. I’mnotaviolent
person. It’s just men likeWayne, they never give up.Hewould have hounded youfor ever. He would havemadeyour life amisery, andyoudon’tdeservethat,Roz.’‘No,’ I said quietly,
keeping my head low,pacifyinghiminthebestwayIcould.Coat on, he asked, ‘What
are your plans now?’ asthough we’d just had abusinessmeeting.
‘CarryonasIwas.’‘You’re not going it alone
in the physiotherapybusiness? That seems ashame.’‘It’snotreallydoableafter
all.’ I was hovering by thekitchen door. A few steps,andIcouldboltouttheback.‘I thought I could set upindependently,’Irambledon,‘but…well,youknowhowitis.’‘Letmehelp.’
‘It’sokay,Scott.’‘Myoffer still stands.You
don’t need to work at all. Ican look after you. Let melookafteryou.’Ididn’tanswer.‘Whywon’t you?’ he said,
angrily now. ‘I don’t see theproblem.Someoneoffersyoutheir help, wants to makeyour life a little easier, andyou throw it back in theirface.Why?’‘Because you can’t buy
people,Scott,’Isaid.‘It’snotnormal. It’s not what peopledo.Infact,it’sfuckingweird.Why did you choose meanyway?’‘Ididn’tchooseyou.’‘I feelas ifyoupickedme
outaspartof someelaborateplan. And now that I won’tconformtowhateverthatplanis, you’d rather destroy methanletmego.’‘Oh, Roz,’ he said,
spreading his hands wide.
‘Wedon’tget tochoosewhowe love. Love chooses us. Ihavenomorecontrolovertheway I feel for you than I dooverthetides,ortheweather.That’swhat happens. I don’twanttoloveyou.Idon’twantto put myself in thiscompromised position. It iswhatitis.’Love? He was out of his
mind. Who pays for sexexpecting that person to fallinlovewiththem?Whatkind
ofdeludedsickodoyouhavetobe?‘You made it all seem so
random at the beginning,’ Isaid.‘I repeat: I didn’t have a
choice.’‘Why not just come on to
me like a normal person?’ Iasked. ‘Why involvemoney?Whynotjuststartanaffair?’He gave a short, sarcastic
kindoflaugh.‘Ididcomeonto you, and you rejectedme,
remember? You were toohighly principled for anaffair. So I usedwhat I had.You were desperate formoney, and I had plenty. Itseemed like the most logicalthingtodo.’‘Youshouldgo.’He said, ‘Yes,’ but he
didn’tmove.‘Let’s not leave it like
this,’ he pressed. ‘I can’tstand to think of you hatingme.’
‘Idon’thateyou,’Ilied.‘Comehere,’hesaid.Istayedput.‘Roz, I’m not a monster,’
hesaid.HeadvancedmywayandI
tookastepbackwards.‘ForChrist’ssake,’hesaid.
‘What’s wrong with you?You’reactinglike…Doyouwantme to hurt you? Is thatit?Doyouneedmetoputmyhands around your throat, tojustifytoyourselfthatIama
monster?’Istayedsilent.Terrified.He strode across the floor
and took hold of my righthand. He squeezed it tightbetween his. I remainedmotionless, confused.‘You’re sure about this?You’re quite sure about this,Roz?’ he shouted, leveringmy thumb back as far as itwouldgo.‘Whatareyoudoing?’Pulling me towards the
kitchen, he held my thumbagainst the door jamb. Thenhe grabbed hold of the doorhandle with his other hand,threatening to slam it on myflesh.‘Isthiswhatyouwant?’he
yelledatme.‘Don’t,’Iwhimpered.‘Is thiswhat youwantme
to do? Put an end to yourshittylittlecareer?’‘No,’Isaid,cryingnow.My hands were my
instruments.My livelihood. Iwas next to useless withoutthem.‘IpaidyoubecauseIloved
you,’ he shouted. ‘I had noother choice. So don’t youdare look at me with suchdisgust!Don’tyoudare!’He increased his grip. I
could no longer feel myfingers.He said, ‘I could end you
right now if I wanted to. Icoulddestroyyourightnow.’
Suddenly,Iflaredathim.‘Well, do it then! Fucking
do it! I give up. If you’re sohead-fucked that this iswhatyouneedtodo,thendoit!’And his breathing became
hardandragged.He scanned my face for
clues, as if he didn’tunderstand.‘You need help, Scott.
You’re deranged. You arefucking deranged. Don’t yousee? Don’t you see what
you’ve become? You’re ananimal.’And he tried to speak but
couldn’t.Hewasamanlost.Aman
adrift. With no idea how hegothere.
TwoMonthsLater
43
IT WAS NOW late October.Almost three months hadgone by since George’saccident, the crash, and ourtime was filled with hospitalappointments, visits fromfriends, the general day-to-
daythingsthatIoncetookforgranted.Thatnight, thenightScottbrokeintomyhome,hedidn’t smash my thumbs topieces as I thoughthemight.Ashe thoughthemight.Andafter holding me hostage forwhat felt like hours,eventually,Scottletgoofmyhand.He regarded me with a
deep,deepsadness,andItoldhimitwasover.I told him I did not love
him.ThatIwouldneverlovehim. And nomatter what hedecided to throw at me, Iwould not change my mind.If hewanted to send himselfinsane by continuing topursue me, that was hischoice. But I could never bepersuadedtowanthim.SowhatdidIdonext?I kept my head down and
got back to normality. Scottstill hadme over a barrel sothere wasn’t really a lot of
choice.Maybeabetterpersonthan I, a stronger, moreresourceful person, someonewithmore grit, more stayingpower, could have found away to bring him to justicefor killing Wayne. But I’dreached my limit. I made achoice to put it behind meand move forward with mylife.GeorgeandI livedsimply.
After much balancing of thebooks and realistic
examinationofthehouseholdaccounts(andwithouttheolddebts hanging over me), Ifound I was able to cut myhoursspentatwork.Itoldtheclinic I could do twenty-sixhours maximum and theycouldtakeitorleaveit.Theytookit.Something of Henry
Peachey must have rubbedoff on me because I foundthat, with more timeavailable, I did in fact spend
less money. I was betterprepared, and instead of lifebeing one frantic whirlwind,meeting myself comingbackwards, throwing cash atthingsjusttogetthrough,mydaysweremoremanageable.Peaceful. There washappiness to be found indoingthesimplestuff.WinstonandIhada talk–
the Talk – which had beenmore than a long timecoming.Itoldhimhisperiod
ofplayingoutwasover.Thatif he couldn’t step up to hisresponsibilitiesasaparent inthe financial sense, then Iwould move to be near myparents,farenoughawaythathe would see far less ofGeorge. Ultimately, I toldhimIneededhelp.Icouldn’tdo it alone any more. AndWinston, being Winston,said, ‘Sure, Roz. Noproblem.’ Like if only I’dasked earlier, he would have
happilyobliged.And finally, after a great
dealofprocrastination, Ialsowroteanemail.It’s amazing the self-
deception that comes whenyouneedingtogetsomethingwritten down. Suddenly, itwas very important that thepile of ironing, which hadbeen sitting in the corner ofthe bedroom for months, bedealtwith.I sorted through my
kitchen cupboards, under thepretence of being organizedfor the approaching HarvestFestival, so that Georgedidn’t have to turn up toschoolwith someout-of-dateEnglishmustard,andapacketofcornflour.Imadedentalappointments
forhalf-term.Andthen,whenI couldn’t find another thingto put in the way of mybottombeinginthechairandstaying there until it was
finished, Idid it. I lookeduphis address and I wrote thething.
From:[email protected]:[email protected]:Us
DearHenry
I’ll try to keep this short and to thepoint, though there is much I want tosay.
I’mnot sure if I ever said sorry, soI’ll begin with that. Sorry. It’s notenough, I know, and I can picture youreading this, rolling your eyes, deeplyoffended,withastrongurgenottoread
anyfurther.Thetruthis,Imissyou.AndIcan’t
helpwondering ifwe’dmet at anothertime, under another set ofcircumstances,thingscouldhaveturnedoutdifferentlyforus.
Georgegetsbetter everydayand isveryclosetolosinghiscrutches.
And if you think I’ve mentionedGeorgetotrytomakeyousoftenalittletowardsme,thenyouwouldberight.
Thanks toyou,Iseemtobegettingmylifeinsomekindoforder.I’vebeenreadingbooksonhowtostaydebtfree,howtoworklessandspendless,howtoenjoy life without being a slave tocommerce.And ifyou think Imentionthis to flatter you, you would be rightaboutthat,too.
AssoonasImetyouItriedtobringthe arrangement with Scott to an end.Desperationledmetoacceptthatoffer,butmeetingyouhelpedmeseewhatanabsurd arrangement it really was, andthat therehad tobe an alternativewayofdoingthings.
I sayagain, Imissyou. Iam tryingnottowritenonsenselikeTherearesofewpeoplewefeelaconnectionwith.
ButthatiswhatIwanttosay.AndifIcouldfindabetterwayofsayingit,Iwould.
If you ever find yourself thinkingalong the same lines (even for amoment, even with the spectacularmessImadeofeverything),thenknowthatI’mhere,waitingforyou.
YoursRoz.
And while I waited for aresponsefromHenry,slowly,bitbybit,GeorgeandIwererebuilding ourselves. Thatnight, the night of Scott’svisit, had marked a strangekindofturningpoint.Sometimes,Ifoundmyself
wonderingaboutScott;aboutwhatmade him tick,why hedid as he did, andwhether it
was possible that he reallywasmotivatedbylove?What exactly pushedScott
over into that other realm –murder– the realmwhere sofewofusgo?Perhaps winning was the
same as love to Scott.Perhaps the two thingsevoked the same emotion inhimandhecouldn’ttellthemapart.Or perhaps he simply had
no fear and felt free todo as
hepleased.Andhewasfree.Thatwasthetragedy.Scott
had not been heldaccountable for Wayne’sdeath because he’d beensteadfast in his belief that hecould get away with it. Hehad no remorse, because, inhis mind, he had noalternativebut tokillWayne.Wayne, a disposable humanbeing.Someonewhowasjustgoing to get in the way of
what Scott wanted. And Icould do nothing about itbecause, if I did, Scott wasfully prepared to try and fitmeupforthemurderandtellthe police about the moneyI’d taken – or, worse, hewouldharmGeorge.Mywordagainsthis.If Iwent to thepolice and
toldthemhehadconfessedtokilling Wayne, he wouldsimply tell them I hadconfessed a similar crime to
him. Wayne wasblackmailing me, he wouldsay.So that’s where we were.
And that’s how I thoughtthingswouldremain.Until I got the call,
anyway.
George and I gazed throughthewindscreenof theJeepatthe barrier in front.Wewerethe first on the ferry thismorning; out particularly
early on account of theappointment which Georgewastryingtogetoutof.Ihadthe window lowered in anattempttorouseus.Thedayshad now shortened. Thedense, thick air of summerhad been replaced by afresher, rarefied, autumnalbandfromthenorth.High in the sky, and
followingthelineofthelake,aflockofgeeseheadedsouth.Theywerenoisy, jostling for
position, and I pointed themout to George, gesturing forhimtotakealook.He sighed out long and
hard.‘I wish I could fly south,’
he said, all melancholy. Iignored his comment. Hesighed again. ‘She’s just somean,’headded.‘Shehas to bemean to do
herjob,’Ireplied.‘You’renotmean.’‘I’m not trying to get you
towalkcorrectly.’George had lost over an
inch in leg length. Theconsultant orthopod wasconfident the discrepancycould be improvedwith timebut, for now, George hadbeenorderedtoweararaisedshoe to avoid problems withhis pelvis later. It was notgoing down well. And hedidn’tlikehisphysiotherapistonebit.She was a severe,
humourless woman, withneat, short hair, ugly shoesandabigbottomthatdimpledwhen she walked. She madeit quite clear that she had notime for physiotherapistswho’d moved over to theprivate sector. They’d ‘soldout’,asshephrasedit,onourfirst meeting. And I didn’tchallengeherbecause there’sjust no winning with awomanlikethat.George couldn’t
understand why I wasn’t hisclinician, since I’d alwaysmanaged to tidyuphisachesandpainsinthepast.Butgaitanalysis was not my strongpoint. And the treatment hadbeen ordered by hisconsultant and had to beundertaken at KendalHospital. So that’swherewefound ourselves, twomorningsaweek.I delivered George to the
department and saw his
physio’s face turn sour as heswung his bad leg out to theside rather than bending it atthe knee, as she hadinstructed. He was in for atough session, and it brokemy heart to watch. He wasstill so full of apprehension,frightened to weight-bearthrough his injured leg,scaredtoletgoofhiscrutch.But there was no otheroption. It had to be done, orhe’d limp for life. And, as
much as I disliked hisclinician, therewas no doubtshe knew what she wasdoing. And a certain amountof austerity was necessarywhen endeavouring tomobilizepatients.Theaffablephysiotherapist who iseverybody’s friend is notparticularly useful in thisinstance.I told George I needed a
coffee and would be backwithhiminfiveminutes.Not
strictly true: I didn’t needcoffee;itwasaployIusedtogetthesessionunderway.IfIremained in the department,as I had at the beginning,George would sense in memyownsufferingatwatchinghim in pain and would loseall confidence. So I wouldslip away. And so far it hadworked. By the time Ireturned,hewouldbefocusedon what was being asked ofhim,his feardissipatingwith
eachnewsteptaken.As the door closed behind
me,myphonevibratedinmypocket. I answered, and onhearingthevoiceat theotherend,Istoppedinmytracks.‘RozToovey?’‘Yes,’Isaid.‘DS Aspinall. Can we
meet? There’s something Ineedtodiscuss.’ItoldthedetectivewhereI
was, which turned out to bequitefortuitous,sinceshewas
basedinKendal,andshesaidshe would meet me in theoutpatients’departmentintenminutes’time.I grabbed two coffees,
found a quiet corner andwaited.Shewasthereinfive.
As she entered and spottedme, DS Joanne Aspinallsmiled. She was alone and,unlike thepreviousoccasionswe’d met, she seemed
harried. Her face was tiredand drawn. Her skin had thelacklustre appearance of apersonneeding a holiday.Oragoodnight’ssleep.‘Got you a coffee,’ I said
asshesatbesideme,andshethankedme,sayingitwasjustwhat she needed. Sheremoved the lid and gulpeddown half of it in threemouthfuls, not bothering toaskifitcontainedsugar.‘Are you okay?’ I asked,
and she nodded fast,fervently, to indicate, Ipresumed, she was short oftime.‘I can’t get to him,’ she
began.I must have frowned,
because she added, ‘ScottElias. With regards to themurder of Wayne Geddes,’she said. ‘It appears he’suntouchable.’I told her I hadn’t thought
shewas stillworkingon that
case and she gave a smalllaugh. ‘I work on nothingelse,’sheanswered.IlookedatDSAspinallfor
asignofwhereshewasgoingwiththis,butsheappearedtobewaitingformetospeak,soIsaid,‘I’mnotsurewhatitisyouwantmetosay.’‘You think he did it,’ she
replied bluntly. And then:‘Let me rephrase that … Iknow he did it, but I can’tprove it. Not enough to
secureaconvictionanyway.’‘I’mcurious,’Isaid.‘How
doyouknowhedidit?’‘His story doesn’t add up.
Then there was his generalself-assuranceandconfidencewhenquestioned.Alongwithyour statement. And thetracker.Experience,Isupposeyou could call it. I know hedid it, but I have nothing atalltoplacehimatthescene–and no real motive – and soI’ve come to ask for your
help.Willyouhelp?’Ihesitated.‘He visited George when
hewasinhospital. I thinkhemeant it as some sort ofwarning. And then hethreatenedme,’Isaid.‘Threatenedyouwith?’‘HehasevidencethatIwas
there that night with Wayneand that he assaulted me.Remember I told you thatWayne knocked me out?Well, it was with a fire
extinguisher, and it has myblood on it. Scott threatenedto—’‘Idon’tsupposeyouknow
where he keeps this fireextinguisher?’I shook my head. ‘I
imagineit’swellhidden.He’smeticulous. I can’t see himleavingitaroundforthelikesofyoutostumbleupon.’‘Okay, never mind,’ she
said quickly, letting it go.‘WhatifIweretoaskyouto
become part of a newinquiry?’‘Aninquiryintowhat?’‘His business affairs,’ she
said. ‘Something you oncesaidabouttaxevasionlodgedat the back ofmy brain. Forthepastcoupleofmonthsit’sbeen whittling away at me.Theupshot is thatwe’renowinvestigating his fraudulentactivities, andwe’ve reachedthe stage of interviewingwitnesses.’
‘Has he been hidingmoney?’Shenodded.‘Howmuch?’Iasked.‘More than I thought
possible,’shesaid.‘And how likely is he to
serve time for this …deception?’‘Very likely,’ she said. ‘I
can’t go into the list of thetax-avoidance offences withyou, naturally, but there arelots.’
‘What sort of prisonsentencewouldheget?’‘For these types of
offences, they’re usuallylookingat a termofbetweenfourandfiveyears.Butthereis the possibility of a longersentence in this case, asthere’s so much money isinvolved.’‘Doesn’t really seem
enough,’ I said. ‘Not whenyou consider what he did toWayne.’
‘No,’sheadmitted.‘Buthewouldloseeverything.Allhisassetswouldbeseized.AndIdon’t know about you, but Ithink there’s a certain poeticjusticetothat.Imethimonlybriefly, but fromwhat I sawI’d say he’s not the kind ofmanwhowouldcopetoowellwithlosinghisfortune.’
44
SCOTTPARKERELIASPARTONEOFRECORDED
INTERVIEWDate:14/11/2014
Location:KendalPoliceStation,BusherWalk,Kendal,LA94RJ
ConductedbyofficersfromCumbriaPolice:DSJoanneAspinall,DSRonaldQuigley.Alsopresent:defencelegaladviser,MrJeremyInglis,andHMRevenueand
CustomsInvestigator,MsJenniferMcCauley
DS Joanne Aspinall: Thepurposeofthisinterviewistocollect information to furtherthe investigation and/orevidenceoftheallegedfraud.
You understand, Mr Elias,why you’ve been detainedheretoday?
Scott Elias: I understandperfectly.
DSJA:Good.Justbeforeweproceed, I’ll read out thecautiontoyou…Youdonothave to say anything. But itmayharmyourdefenceifyoudo not mention whenquestioned about something
which you later rely on incourt. And anything you dosaymaybegiveninevidence.Whatthatmeans,basically,isyoudonothavetoanswermyquestions, not if you don’twantto.
SE: I know what it means.And I have nothing to hide,so I’mhappy to answeryourquestions,Detective.
DS JA:Excellent. I’d like to
startthen,ifImay,withyourrelationship with MrsRosalindToovey—
SE: I havenothing to sayonthatmatter.As stated, I havedonenothingwrong, so I amprepared to answer questionsabout my business affairs.Butnotaboutmyprivatelife.
DS JA: The two are linked,Mr Elias. I’m afraid thesequestions form part of the
investigation into the allegedfraud.
SE:Nocomment,then.
DS JA: How would youdescribe your relationshipwithMrsToovey?
SE:Nocomment.
DS JA: Was there arelationship?
SE:(Inaudible)
DSJA:MrElias?
SE:Therewasarelationship,yes.Ashortone.
DS JA: A sexualrelationship?
SE:We did have sex. That’scorrect.
DS JA: And was money
exchangedatanytime?
SE:Nocomment.
DS JA: Okay, we can comebacktothat.Let’smoveontoyourwife.NadineElias.
SE:Noneofthishasanythingtodowithmywife.
DS JA: A preliminaryexamination of the accountsfor your firm, SPE
Electronics,revealedthatMrsEliasislistedasanemployeeofthecompany.Canyoutellme in what capacity yourwifeisemployed?
SE:Sheisanadviser.
DS JA: An adviser on whatexactly?
SE:Abusinessadviser.
DS JA: And she’s paid
handsomely for this job, isshenot?HowmuchperyeardoesMrsElias receive as anadviserforyourcompany?
SE:That’s aquestion for theaccountsdepartment.
DSJA:I’llhelpyouout.Shereceives an annual wage ofone hundred and seventythousandpounds.Quitealot.
SE: You get what you pay
for.
DS JA: How many hours aweek would you say MrsElias spends at SPEElectronics?Ten?Fifty?
SE: I can’t be sure. Youwouldhavetoaskher.
DS JA: When questioned,yoursecretary,DebbieHarris,claims never to have seenMrs Elias in the offices.Not
once.
SE:Nadinedoesmostofherworkfromhome,Isuppose.
DSJA:Isee.CoulditbethatyouinventedthisroleforMrsElias? Could it be that shedoesnotactuallydoanyworkfor your company? That youare drawing a wage for MrsElias rather than pay tax onthecompany’sprofits?
SE:No.
DS JA: How about theseemployees then? GrahamFisher, listed as an electricalengineer;RobertWood,listedas a management consultant;Eileen Young, a financialadviser? We have not beenabletotracethesepeople,MrElias.
SE: (Interviewee does notanswer)
DSJA:Coulditbethatthesepeopledon’texistatall?Thatthey were invented by you,Mr Elias, and you pocketedtheir wages as extra incomeforyourself?
SE: That’s out of thequestion!
DSJA:Isit?
SE: If that were the case,there would be evidence of
that money in my bankaccount.
DSJA:Perhaps.Perhapsnot.There are a further eighteenemployees withoutrecognizable nationalinsurancenumbers. Includingagardenerpaidtothetuneoftwenty-one thousand a year,when,asfarasI’maware,theSPE site is surrounded byconcrete.
SE:Nocomment.
DSJA:Whydoyousupposeyour accountant hasdisappeared,MrElias?
SE:Ireallycouldn’tsay.
DSJA:Perhapsyou’dliketotry and offer an explanation.Because, as of 2 November,we’ve been unable to locatehim.
SE: He was having maritaldifficulties. He was seeinganother woman. Maybe he’sgoneoffwithher.
DS JA: How long had MrBennett been youraccountant?
SE:Aroundtwentyyears.
DS JA: Odd that he leftwithouttellingyou,don’tyouthink?
SE: People do the strangestthingsforlove,Detective.
DS JA: Don’t they just? …I’d likeyou to takea lookatthis invoice now, Mr Elias,and tell me if that is yourcompany’s VAT number atthetoprightofthepage.Theinvoice is for – forgive myignorance – a large order forsome kind of electricalcomponent. It’smadeout forthe sum of seventeen
thousand four hundredpounds.InclusiveofVAT.
SE: I wouldn’t know theVAT number off the top ofmyhead.Whowould?
DS JA:Okay,well I can tellyou that it’s not SPE’s VATnumber.Icantellyouthat,sofar, we have uncovered asubstantial number ofinvoicessuchasthis,allwithanalternativeVATnumber.
SE: Again, that would besomethingyouwouldneedtotalk over with the accountsdepartment.
DS JA: Not really. Becausethe VAT charged neverreached theRevenue. In fact,it was redirected to anaccount we believe to be inNigeria.
SE: I know nothing of suchanaccount.
DS JA: Even though it’s inyourwife’sname,MrElias?
SE: (Interviewee does notrespond)
DSJA:Let’smoveontoyourholiday home. The one inAntibes. According to thewebsite, it’s been bookedfairlyconsistently,generatingan income of around onehundred and forty thousand.Now, I appreciate these
earnings will not be taxableuntil next year, but I’mcurious to take a look at thebooking schedule forprevious years. HMRC haveinformed us that no earningson this property have everbeendeclared.
SE:Nocomment.
DSJA:Perhapsyou’dliketocomment on this, then. It’s acopy of your bank statement
fromJuly.There’sanamounthere … Three hundredthousand pounds, which wassent to a bank in SierraLeone.
SE:Nocomment.
DS JA: That’s okay, MrElias, I think we have morethanenoughtopassontotheDirector of CriminalInvestigations at HerMajesty’s Revenue and
Customs. I’m sure they’llwant toconduct fullsearchesof your home and businesspremises. And, who knows,they might even stumbleupon that fire extinguisher.The one which has RozToovey’sbloodonit.
SE:They’llneverfindthat.
DS JA: No, Mr Elias? HowoddthatyouevenknowwhatI’mreferringto.
45
THEDAYSCAMEshorter,colderand brighter as the gloom ofNovember passed, and theend of the year was almostuponus.Sadly, therewasnowordfromHenry,andthoughI tried to put him from my
thoughts Iwould findmyselfchecking emails each daywith a sense of anticipation.Thiswould soonbequashed,however, when, again, therewasnothingfromhim.Petra had mostly thawed
and we were back to beingsisters. I can’t say if ScottElias’sarrestandultimatefallfrom grace had any bearingonhowshefeltabout things,but she certainly was a lotfriendlier to me than she’d
beenoflate.IheardthatafterNadine was questioned byHMRC officers she left theLake District. Went south,though I didn’t knowwhere.The official version was thatshe found it unbearable tostay in the area after herhusband was detained onremand inCheshire,awaitingtrial. But the word in thevillage was that she couldn’taffordtostay.Withnomoneyof her own, and with all
assets seized, she’d had toflee. We didn’t yet know ifshe was to be charged withherinvolvementornot.Wayne’s death still
wouldn’t leavemealonebut,thanks to the tenacity andthoroughnessofDSAspinall,I did feel we got somethingclosetojusticeforhimintheend. Since Scott hadconfessed to me I’d feltterribly guilty and struggledwith the feelings of
responsibility for Wayne’sdeath.IairedthesefeelingstoDS Aspinall, who looked atmewithapuzzledexpression,before replying, ‘Waynewasa big boy, Roz. And he wasblackmailing you. There areoften unexpectedrepercussions when youdabble in a world you’reunfamiliarwith.’Which didn’t really make
mefeelawholelotbetter.So each morning I would
say a small prayer toWayneGeddes.Well,maybemoreofa general chit-chat aboutthings, rather than a prayer,which was an odd way tostart the day, granted. And Imade a few visits to hismother.Glenda was in sheltered
accommodation inUlverston,and she seemed to enjoy thetime I spent with her.Largely, Isuppose,becauseIhadnothingbutkindwordsto
sayaboutWayne–hewasanexcellentboss,generouswithhis staff, always willing tolistenifIhadaproblem.Lies,I know, but I didn’t see theharm in them. Last week Iturned up with a Christmascard, a feeble-lookingpoinsettiaandaboxofmincepies,andI thoughtshemightburstintotears.Which brings me to
George and the Christmasproblem – as we’d been
referring to it. Santa, beingunusually strapped for cashthisyear,wasunabletofulfilGeorge’s request for thegames console.Even though,yes,Georgehadbeenagoodboy. And yes, Santa hadtaken into account how hardhe’d been trying whenlearning to walk without hiscrutches. Sometimes, though,regrettably, even Santa mustbe careful not to overextendhimselfandspendmoneyhis
businessjustcan’tafford.George was stoic, though
disappointed, revisinghis listtoamerethreeitems,whichIassured him Santa wouldmost certainly be able toprovide.And then something
happened.I opened the door one
evening to find a veryworried-looking Dennis onmy step. My immediatethoughtwas:Celia.
‘Dennis,’ I said. ‘Hassomethinghappened?IsCeliaokay?’‘Notreally,’hesaid.‘Issheinjured?’At this he laughed softly
andshookhishead.‘IsGeorgehere?’heasked,
and I toldhimhewas. ‘Igothimsomething,’hesaid. ‘Anearlypresent,sotospeak.’On hearing his name,
George rose from the floor,where he’d been writing his
Christmascards,andcametothe door. Dennis didn’t sayanything, just gestured to hisleft, and George stuck hisheadouttotakealook.There, trembling, was a
tiny, sorry-looking animal,tied to the drainpipe. ‘She’scalled Tess,’ Dennis said,‘and she’s yours if youwanther.’Iwasabout tospeakwhen
Celia’s voice rang out. ‘He’slosthismind,Roz!Itoldhim,
“Dennis, you have lost yourmind,”’andshestrutteddownher path, out of her gate anduptowardsus.By this time George was
outside, trying to crouch(unable to on account of thelimited flexion in his knee),and Tess, the puppy, wasurinating with excitement.Shewasuponherhind legs,trying to scrabble intoGeorge’sarms.‘I thought he’d done so
well with his walking andall,’ Dennis whispered.‘Thoughtthismightpushhimthatextrabit.’‘Oh, Dennis,’ I said,
overcome. ‘That’s so lovelyof you, but I don’t think wecantakeher.Mylandlord—’‘This is his idiotic plan,
Roz,’ snapped Celia,silencing me. ‘You take thedog. It’s George’s dog onpaper. But we look after itwhen you’re atwork.And if
your landlord says anything,thenyoutellhimshe’sours.’Dennis squinted, saying,
‘Foxy’sgettingonabitnow,so it’dbenice tohave apupabouttheplace.’‘Foxywon’t thankyou for
it,’Itoldhim.‘Ah,she’llcomearound.’‘Idon’tknowwhattosay,’
Isaid.Georgenowhadthepupin
hisarms.Shewasthesizeofguinea pig,with café-au-lait-
coloured fur, and a pair ofblackdots for eyebrows.Shewore a tentative look asthough she, too, was waitingformetodecideherfate.‘Thankyou,Dennis,’Isaid
firmly, and he nodded justonce.‘You all right to take her
now?’ he asked, and I toldhim, glancing at George’srapturous expression, that Idoubted I would have anychoiceinthematter.
‘Right you are,’ he said,smiling,notmeetingmyeye.‘I’ll go and fetch her bowlandblankets.’Georgestoodrooted to the
spot. He held on to the tinypupasifhislifedependedonit. ‘Youcoming in?’ Iasked,andhenodded. I reachedoutand cupped the puppy’s chingently in my hand.‘Welcome,’ I said to her.‘Welcome,Tess.’And we all went inside to
getourselvesacquainted.
46
From:[email protected]:[email protected]:RE:Us
DearRoz
Just got your email. I’m doing theSantiago de Compostela pilgrimage inanattemptto‘findmyself’.
No sign ofme yet, so I’m heading
home.I realize running away was not the
answer. I’ve been unable to stopthinkingaboutyou.Let’spickupwhereweleftoff.
WillcallinassoonasI’mback.
Love,Henry.
Acknowledgements
Iwouldliketothank:James Long, Debbie
LeatherbarrowandZoeLea.And also: Jane Gregory,
Stephanie Glencross, ClaireMorris, and everyone atGregory&Company.Frankie
Gray, Sarah Adams, AlisonBarrow, Rachel Rayner,ClaireWard and everyone atTransworld. Corinna Barsanat Grove Atlantic. Thanks,too,toCathyRentzenbrink.Whilstwriting, I found the
bookHowtobeIdlebyTomHodgkinsonveryuseful.
AbouttheAuthor
PaulaDaly lives inCumbriawith her husband, threechildrenandwhippetSkippy.Beforebecomingawritershewas a freelancephysiotherapist.
AlsobyPaulaDaly
JustWhatKindofMotherAreYou?
KeepYourFriendsCloseNoRemorse
TRANSWORLDPUBLISHERS61–63UxbridgeRoad,LondonW5
5SAwww.transworldbooks.co.uk
TransworldispartofthePenguinRandomHousegroupofcompanieswhoseaddressescanbefoundatglobal.penguinrandomhouse.com
FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyBantamPress
animprintofTransworldPublishersCopyright©PaulaDaly2015
PaulaDalyhasassertedherrightundertheCopyright,
DesignsandPatentsAct1988tobeidentifiedastheauthorofthiswork.
Thisbookisaworkoffictionand,exceptinthecaseofhistoricalfact,anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingor
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Everyefforthasbeenmadetoobtainthenecessarypermissionswith
referencetocopyrightmaterial,bothillustrativeandquoted.Weapologizeforanyomissionsinthisrespectandwillbepleasedtomaketheappropriate
acknowledgementsinanyfutureedition.
ACIPcataloguerecordforthisbookisavailablefromtheBritishLibrary.
Version1.0EpubISBN9781473510159
ISBN9780593074497(cased)9780593074503(tpb)
Thisebookiscopyrightmaterialandmustnotbecopied,reproduced,
transferred,distributed,leased,licensedorpubliclyperformedorusedinanywayexceptasspecificallypermittedinwritingbythepublishers,asallowedunderthetermsandconditionsunderwhichitwaspurchasedorasstrictlypermittedbyapplicablecopyrightlaw.Anyunauthorizeddistributionoruseofthistextmaybeadirectinfringementof
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