You Think You Know Someone

by J B Holman

  ‘In about twelve months’ time. She could buy a new lease on it, but that would cost, I dunno, £600,000, maybe more in that area. It’s quite a stockbroker belt. I bet that’s way beyond her means.’

  ‘Well, let’s take a look.’ In lieu of his trip to the loo, Foxx had snooped around and got enough banking information to hack into her account.

  ‘He gives her nothing and I’ve gone back three years. She earns irregular amounts, but is pretty close to broke from what I can see.’

  ‘Broke; and homeless next year,’ added Julie. ‘She has to be bitter, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, touching, but nothing to do with us. There’s my train. I’ll see you back at the hotel later.’

  ‘OK, I’m going to . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Be back by ten and sober!’

  The DPM read the seven pages and signed.

  He felt bad signing, though he didn’t know why. It had been the same with progressing the ‘new fairer’ Housing Bill, not to mention getting the Minimum Wage Revisions through the House and into legislation. That had been a nightmare, but he’d pushed it and he’d won - it just didn’t feel like it. Something about it felt not quite right; a hollow victory. He stared down at the seven-page synopsis about Military and Security spending and felt the same deep-seated uncertainty.

  But the PM supported the document, it had been worked on by the cumbersome machine of the British Civil Service and had been presented to him by his friend and ally Nick Tenby. It was fine, just an administrative readjustment that would save enough taxpayer’s money to get him elected next time round. It had to be a good idea, didn’t it?

  He signed it and gave it back to the messenger.

  Lesley smiled, perhaps a little too much, and the world became one step closer to darkness.

  20

  Narnia

  Foxx was in his element. He sprinted across the fields, melded into woodland, padding through the trees like a wolf. Brekkenfield lived in an old farmhouse; like him, it had seen better days. The back door creaked as Foxx eased it open. He froze, paused, listened. He heard nothing, slipped through the crack of the half-opened door into the stone-floored scullery.

  Foxx moved into the kitchen. Brekkenfield was in bed. The creak of the door was barely audible upstairs, but Brekkenfield sat up, put on his dressing-gown, grabbed his pistol and made his way down. He peered cautiously into the kitchen - it was cold, bare and empty. Foxx had gone, silently slipping into the lounge.

  Brekkenfield made a hot drink and shuffled uneasily into the lounge, walking within feet of Foxx and sitting in gloom and pain on the sofa. Foxx stood; a frozen statue, motionless, melting unseen and unnoticed into the bookcase, less than ten feet away from the man supping his Ovaltine. Foxx watched Brekkenfield, then drifted like a phantom into the study.

  Brekkenfield stood. He’d heard a noise again. He walked into the hall. It had come from the study; a creak of floorboards. The old house had creaked often, especially when his wife had shuffled around late at night. But now she was gone, the sounds he heard were wishful thinking. Her noises had irritated him; now he missed them. He turned, mounted the stairs and made his way back to bed.

  Foxx sat back in the large leather study chair and read: employment contract, house deeds, insurance certificates dating back to the last century, MOT certificates for cars no longer owned. It was a sea of life’s administration. But the answer had already floated to the surface. It was on the desk: divorce papers.

  Each sheet was headed with the name of his lawyers: Black and Gold. Brekkenfield had come out of hospital to get divorced - to sign the papers. It all fitted. The house had evidence of an absent wife, a lack of her things, holes where there used to be completion, emptiness where it used to be whole. And Brekkenfield was broken; he was not a man on a mission. In hospital, his life had almost left him and now he was home, the life he had known had gone forever. He was tired, fragile and disengaged.

  Foxx replaced the papers meticulously and, as a silent apparition, left even more quietly than he’d arrived.

  Charlie had buzzed the gate. By the time she had opened the front door, Julie was pulling up at the front of the house.

  ‘Hello,’ said Charlie with genuine enthusiasm. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  Julie approached, gifts in hand. ‘I’ve brought your skirt back and these are for you.’ She presented Charlie with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

  ‘How kind. Thank you.’ They entered the house. ‘I think that makes us friends,’ said the blonde teenager of thirty-two. She took Julie by the hand and scampered them both up the stairs and along the corridor and through the second door. It was a bedroom, a palatial bedroom, designed by a woman for a woman. It was a fairy world of pink and style; expensive and co-ordinated - light, bright and instantly appealing. The door closed behind them. ‘This is my room,’ said Charlie. ‘Now, undress.’

  Julie, who didn’t object in principle to the proposal, was beginning to think that most people she met nowadays only wanted to see her naked. But she wasn’t threatened by Charlie’s teenage enthusiasm, just a little surprised.

  ‘What kind of friends do you think we are, exactly?’ she asked kindly.

  ‘The kind that give each other things: you brought my skirt back, which you needn’t have done, and I have a present for you.’ She handed Julie an elegant be-ribboned box about eighteen inches square and four inches deep. ‘This is for you.’

  Julie was taken aback. She hadn’t really expected to be invited in, let alone be given a gift. She pulled the ribbon. It fell away. Charlie was holding the box on her two upraised palms. Julie carefully opened the lid. As she prised it up, her eyes opened with wide amazement.

  ‘I don’t believe it. Is this . . . are they . . .? Oh my god, my trousers! Risen from the dead!’

  ‘Not so much a repair, more of a rebuild,’ chipped in Charlie. ‘I had them remade to the exact same pattern. They are your original trousers, except for the seat and the legs and the side panel. But the waistband and the zip are original, and they’re the bits you touch when you put them on, so I kept them the same.’

  The material was pure luxury, the cut was perfect. These were her trousers, but better; handmade and beautifully finished.

  Julie couldn’t curtail her smile, wider than she had smiled for years.

  She took off her dress and slipped on the trousers. The fit was perfect, just like it had always been. Her trousers were back. She admired herself, looked at the front, turned, looked at the back and felt Duncan returned all around her, tight, snug and safe. A tiny tear tickled the corner of her eye. ‘And I also got you this,’ Charlie produced a top; a highly tailored, exclusively designed, white silk blouse to go with the trousers. Julie put it on.

  ‘I love it. It’s gorgeous, but I really can’t accept it. I mean, it’s not right. How could I ever repay you?’

  ‘Well, that’s the point of presents,’ said Charlie, like a ten year old explaining how life works. ‘You don’t have to repay them. Did you repay your boyfriend when he bought them for you?’ Their eyes met, their minds worked in unison and they both burst out laughing.

  ‘Yes, I probably did, now you mention it.’

  ‘Yeah, me too, with my husband,’ chirped Charlie, between her giggles. ‘And have you seen how many dresses I’ve got? Exhausting!’ The laughter continued. It was good being with Charlie. She made Julie feel young again. It’d been too long. The laughter continued, the conversation became easy and relaxed. Being with Charlie was natural and her offer was easy to accept.

  ‘Will you stay and chat for a while? I’ve got champagne.’

  Two minutes later they were both sitting on the bed, a glass of champagne in hand and reassuringly gentle companionship by their side.

  They talked clothes, fashion and bottoms that were too big for one’s trousers. Charlie assured Julie that her form was perfect and she would trade figures any day of the week. And Charlie never lied. They talked about hair styles. Charlie h
ad only dyed half her hair blonde, the rest was honey brown. When she let it hang lose and forwards she was blonde; when she swept it back and clipped it down she was honey. They played with Julie’s hair, she looked instantly cuter. They talked about the champagne, the bedroom and chocolate, before covering a hundred other topics. Then they stopped, took a drink and let a moment’s silence take hold.

  Charlie picked her moment.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘that you opened up to me last time you were here, so that I’d open up to you. I felt bad, because I had nothing to open up about. Nicki’s a good husband for me and I have a nice life. What’s to say?’

  ‘Is he actually legally your husband?’ asked Julie, diving in.

  ‘He’s my husband in every way, except legally. We got married on a beach in Thailand. It was beautiful. He made vows and we shared commitment, but no, in this country we’re not legally married. He’s already married. Her name’s Elizabeth. She’s a right Miss Marple, all genteel and kind, then bites you in the ass when you’re not looking.’

  ‘So you know her then?’

  ‘Oh yes. I see her every couple of months. Nicki won’t see her anymore, not since she worked for him, so meeting me is the only way she can get any information about him. She’s so nosey. I tell her a lot of nothing and give her my beauty-queen speech about everyone in the world working together in peace. Then she patronises me and I pay for tea.’

  ‘Why do you do it?’

  ‘Misplaced sympathy.’

  ‘No, I mean let people patronise you. I think you’re very astute, cleverer than you let on.’

  ‘Thank you, but Nicki likes me being dumb. About six weeks into our relationship, I had an intelligent conversation with him. Well, I thought it was intelligent . . . y’know about politics and the way of the world. It turned him cold, like I had just grown a beard and my tits had fallen off. It was like a cold shower. I’d lost my sex appeal - in fact all my appeal - so I said something dumb, he laughed and we were all good again.’ Julie smiled, but didn’t feel she had fully made her point.

  ‘Are you reading this?’ she asked, picking up a first edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the bedside table.

  ‘Kind of. I like the main man in it. He always tries to help people and see the good in them. That’s me; I like to do that. Except, he’s a smart lawyer.’ They both took a synchronised sip of champagne.

  ‘Anyway I don’t mind people thinking I’m dumb. They expect less of me. The only one who winds me up is Lesley, Nicki’s PA. I don’t mind her talking down to me. I know her personality needs to do that to make herself feel good; but she is so rude. And selfish. But I always try to be nice to her. I bought her some jazz records, original vinyls from the fifties and sixties, one of them was signed by Charlie Parker. It cost me a fortune and took me ages to find. She didn’t even say thank you.’

  ‘You should call her out on it next time you see her,’ said Julie. Charlie just laughed. ‘What’s funny?’ asked Julie, feeling that she’d been the one to say something stupid.

  ‘You said call her out. That’s such a northern expression. It’s funny to hear you say it. It took me back to my childhood days. But I will. I will say something next time I see her.’ They talked a while about what a super bitch Lesley was and Julie slowly moved the conversation back to Nickolas.

  ‘What’s he like? Is he into his job or is it just an amusement to pass the time?’

  ‘No, he’s very ambitious. I mean really ambitious. He would sell his own mother to get ahead. I think he’s trying to pimp me out to the DPM at the moment! I like to help, but I do draw the line at that.’ She laughed.

  ‘But he is clever. People don’t realise that. You know the coup in Zalekistan? Well I shouldn’t tell you this, but that was Nicki. He planned it. He got others to do it, of course; he always does. That’s what makes him so clever. Apparently, it was a great success. He was so happy after it. He gave me a Porsche and bought himself a boat; it’s enormous. He likes it, but we hardly ever use it.’ She prattled on about the boat and the parties they had had on it when he first got it and spoke lavishly about her husband’s cleverness.

  Julie sat enjoying the champagne, as Charlie enjoyed talking about her husband’s prowess.

  ‘He’s a real negotiator. You know Field Marshall Grafton?’ Julie felt like the ignorant one, as a blank expression crossed her face. ‘Well, he heads up the whole of the army now, since two months ago. And Admiral Stubbings, he runs the whole Navy, but he’s only been doing it for six months. Nicki bet me a . . . well it doesn’t matter what he bet me, but he said they would get those jobs; like, he could see the future. That was over a year ago, when they came to dinner. They hopscotched up three layers to get the job. Is it hopscotched?’

  ‘Leapfrogged?’

  ‘Yes that’s it. You see, my Nicki can spot a winner a mile off. That’s why he’s so keen on making friends with the DPM before he becomes Prime Minister. The DPM is nice, but no match for Nicki. Nicki will wrap him round his little finger in no time. I guess in a way I’m part of that. Should I feel a bit bad about it?’

  It was a question Julie declined to answer. Instead, she asked,

  ‘Who else came to dinner?’

  ‘Dozens of people. An RAF buddy of Nicki’s came, but he doesn’t run the RAF, he’s only Second-in-Command, but he is real handsome. He said he’d take me up in a helicopter and a fast jet and he did. I nearly came in my pants!’ She laughed in recollection of the excitement. ‘It’s funny how Nicki mixes with military people: the most action he ever saw was when he had tonsillitis and was off work for six weeks. I had to hand-feed him with ice cream. He’s such a baby. He also invites people from erect committees.’

  Julie spluttered on her champagne and couldn’t help laughing. ‘I think you mean select committees.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But when I first heard it, I thought Nicki said erect committees and I couldn’t wait!’ She laughed at her own stupidity. ‘But they certainly were a group of stiffs; so boring. But apparently me smiling at them helps them pass the right laws. I don’t get it myself, but if it helps Nicki, then I do it.’

  ‘But he doesn’t get involved in politics, does he? He’s just in security,’ remarked Julie, trying to pitch another interrogatory question in a light-hearted voice.

  ‘He never used to, but now he’s into everything: housing benefit, the Census, National Health, everything. I think his main job is too easy, so he finds other things to get involved with. Sometimes I think he works so hard and is away so often, he’ll work himself to death.’

  ‘And then his wife, his first wife, would get all his money,’ said Julie, using tact levels she had learned from Foxx.

  ‘She can have it. I don’t care about that. I don’t need his money. But I would lose my little Michael O’Velly.’ Julie resisted the temptation to correct her to Machiavelli. ‘Then what would I do?’

  Somehow, as it does with girls and champagne, the answer to that last question involved batteries, sex, men and personal preferences.

  Julie was careful not to drink more than a glass or two because she was driving - or maybe three - and didn’t want to give away any more than she had already. A second bottle appeared. Charlie confided about Nicki’s macho tendencies in the bedroom, which prompted Julie to ask,

  ‘Do you have separate bedrooms? This surely isn’t his bedroom?’ she asked, looking round the pink and feminine room.

  ‘Gosh no, not when he’s here. His bedroom is the first door at the top of the stairs. That’s where you’ll find me when he’s home, but when he’s away, I like my own space. I once tiptoed back here when he was asleep. He gave me such a spanking! He’s the lightest sleeper ever. If I flutter my eyelashes too loudly, he wakes up!’

  Julie looked at her watch. Hours had rushed by. She wasn’t going to be back by ten o’clock or sober.

  ‘Oh my god, look at the time. I have to go. I have to meet Eduard.’

  ‘He is lovely,’ said Charlie, ‘but a
bit odd. Did you . . .? ’ She looked at Julie’s face. ‘Oh my god! You did, you little minx.’ It took another ten minutes to talk about stamina, testosterone and tantalising. Julie had to leave. She folded her dress back into the ribboned box and they wandered downstairs, still talking.

  When they were finally heading for the front door, Charlie picked up a book off the table and said, ‘This is for Eduard. I’ll be honest with you, I’m not really into puzzle books, but I know he is. So will you give him this?’ She handed Julie an advanced level Join the Dots puzzle book. ‘I bet he can’t do the Million Dollar puzzle on page sixty-four. It’s for true professionals,’ continued Charlie.

  Julie didn’t voice her concern that there might not be a profession of dot joiners, but instead said she was sure Eduard would love it and gave Charlie a big kiss.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Charlie. ‘Goodbye.’

  It felt inexplicably final. A little jolt inside Julie said it would be the last time they would meet. She ignored her irrationality, kissed her again and left. As she walked to the car, she asked over her shoulder,

  ‘Does my arse really look good in this?’

  Charlie smiled, blew a kiss and shouted, ‘Perfect.’

  And Charlie never lies.

  Julie walked just a little wobbly into their hotel room. Foxx got off the bed and answered her question her with a long hug. ‘Did you miss me?’ she had said, with big eyes looking up at him.

  ‘No,’ he said, as he gave her another kiss that betrayed his real affection.

  ‘Me neither,’ she replied, as she kissed him back. ‘Now, what about Brekkenfield?’

  ‘He’s innocent. He was out of hospital to get divorce papers signed. Black and Gold is not code, it’s the name of his lawyer. What about Tenby?’

  ‘Guilty. I don’t know what of yet, but I’m sure he is. Charlie blurted out all kinds of stuff. I just have to make sense of it all.’ Her speech was as blurred as her thoughts.