In-Laws and Outlaws

by Kate Fulford

  “No,” I replied, “where?”

  “Con Con, that’s where.”

  “Con Con? What the hell is that?” I asked.

  “The Conspiracy Conference.” Sophie explained. “It is, and I’m reading from the website here, ‘a conference for those willing to explore the things they don’t want you to know’. It claims to be,” she went on, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “fun for all the family.”

  “He takes her to conferences on conspiracy theories, for fun?” I confirmed. “And he’s surprised she doesn’t want to see him?”

  “He claims that I’m poisoning her mind against him.” Sophie went on. “Conspiring, you might say.” At least Sophie could see the irony in the situation.

  “This is awful Sophie,” I said, “but I really don’t know what I can do about it, I really can’t get involved.” Appalled as I was by Dominic’s behaviour I didn’t want to play piggy in the middle.

  “But you have to Eve. You have to help me, or Dominic will take Pixie away from me.” Sophie begged, clearly on the verge of hysteria again.

  “I don’t want that any more than you do, but I don’t know what I can do to help.” I really didn’t.

  “But you must Eve, you’re the only one that can make things all right.” I couldn’t quite see where Sophie got that idea, but it was flattering nonetheless. “You always get what you want Eve. If you want Pixie to stay with me you can make it happen, I know you can.” Touched though I was by Sophie’s faith in me, I couldn’t see how I could help.

  “But I can’t Sophie. I’m sorry. I really am, but there’s nothing I can do.” With one final sob Sophie said goodbye and that was that. Unless . . . unless. I did have an idea, but right now I was keen to get back to Marjorie’s folder, so that’s what I did.

  I began by flicking through the photos, but they weren’t very instructive. There were several pictures, obviously from many years ago, of a man I didn’t recognise in the company of various other men, none of whom I recognised either. Putting these pictures aside, I moved onto the French documents. Unlike the mysterious photos these were crystal clear, and confirmed my suspicions about the nature of Marjorie’s hold over Helen.

  Finally I turned to the papers that related to me. After wading through four or five pages of print outs about my ancestors (presumably researched using Malcolm’s ancestry programs), I thought that perhaps Marjorie was clutching at straws. That I was descended from a long line inconsequential people (although one many times great grandmother did, according to Malcolm’s research, supply hat pins to Queen Victoria) would hardly be enough to derail my relationship with Gideon, although one many times great uncle was hung for stealing a sheep, which might hint to criminal proclivities in my genes I supposed.

  I was almost disappointed that my foe had proved to be so pathetic when I came to the spidery handwritten notes by the woman herself, of which there several pages. One was headed ‘Husbands’, another ‘Employment’, a third ‘Timeline’, and a fourth, rather ominously, ‘Criminal Activities’. While all the information was very sketchy and didn’t really amount to much, it was worrying. Where, I wondered, had she got this information? If she’d found out this much might she find out more?

  Suffice it to say it did not make pleasant reading. One saving grace was that the only thing on the memory stick was the ancestry stuff, so I felt fairly confident that Marjorie had no backup. I don’t suppose it had occurred to her that anyone would steal the folder from under her mattress, more fool her.

  What, I wondered, would she do now? It was a month until my next attempt to marry Gideon and I was confident that she would try to do something in that time to prevent it going ahead. So confident, in fact, that I had cancelled everything, without telling Gideon of course, so as not to waste any more money on non-refundable deposits. Now all I had to do was decide how to proceed armed with my new knowledge while waiting to see what Marjorie would do once she realised her folder was missing. That, I must say, made me rather nervous. I don’t like situations I can’t control, and I was far from in control of this one.

  CHAPTER 24

  “I’m a translator,” I said in response to Malcolm’s enquiry.

  “No you’re not,” he replied.

  “No,” I agreed, “I’m not. But I have done some translation work. I had a friend with a B&B in Croydon who thought she might have more luck within Croydon who thought she might have more luck with the French than she had with the English.”

  “I don’t suppose Croydon is a major holiday destination for the English.” Malcolm concurred.

  “Exactly,” I went on, “so I translated her website for her but unfortunately I thought that the French for mattress was matelot, which actually means sailor. Claiming that there was a big, clean, comfortable sailor on every bed didn’t, as she told me via her solicitor, get her the kind of clientele she was looking for.”

  “I don’t suppose it did,” said Malcolm, nodding sagely. “You and Gideon are very fortunate,” he went on, clearly done with me and my employment history. “All I ever wanted was a happy marriage, but I made some very poor decisions which precluded that possibility. I trust that you won’t do the same.” We were sitting in a cafe on the outskirts of Slough. I had not been surprised when Malcolm called asking to meet me, or that he had insisted on a venue where there was not the least chance Marjorie, or anyone that knew any of us, would see us. Which is why we were in a very horrid cafe in Slough.

  “What do you mean? Are you suggesting I’m a poor decision maker?” I enquired. I tried to lift my arm to brush some hair out my eyes and was alarmed to find that my sleeve had stuck to the table. Nice.

  “Not at all,” Malcolm replied. “But Marjorie does not take kindly to having her plans thwarted. It is not part of her plans,” he continued, “that you should marry Gideon.”

  “Me specifically, or anyone?” I asked.

  “Either, or both. Whichever.” Malcolm replied. “The point is that Marjorie has, so far, ensured that my son has never had a satisfactory relationship. Or that is the construction she has put on events. Whether that is the correct construction or not I couldn’t say.” Malcolm took a sip of his coffee and shuddered. It was horrible, but no worse than the muck he produced from his abominable machine, and it was ambrosia compared to the bacon sandwich out of which I had just taken a bite.

  “I know, I know,” he said, seeing that I had noted his reaction to the coffee. “I’ve been making awful coffee for years. Marjorie,” he almost spat out her name, “Marjorie believes herself to be a coffee connoisseur. She’s not.” Malcolm smiled at me ruefully. “I make the most abhorrent coffee I can manage,” he continued, “but nothing I produce can undermine her belief that coffee made in an extravagantly overpriced machine must be good.” It was very strange talking to Malcolm. This was partly because I had barely exchanged more than a few words with him up until now, and partly because I had never heard him speak in such an unguarded way before.

  “So why did you marry her?” I asked, while surreptitiously trying to remove bacon gristle from between my teeth with my tongue. “Were you happy to begin with?”

  “No, we were not. I married her because I was given no choice,” Malcolm replied. “Marjorie had obtained information about her sister Meg, with whom I was on very good terms, and threatened to use that information to harm Meg. This makes me sound very heroic and self-sacrificing, but that is not the entire story.”

  “Isn’t it?” I prompted as Malcolm had paused at the end of this sentence for such a very long time I was worried he’d never resume.

  “No,” he said, responding to my prompt, “it’s not. I was ensnared by my own ambition, I’m ashamed to say.” He paused again, but I kept my mouth shut this time. He seemed ready to break what I presumed was a silence of many years standing on the subject of his marriage and I didn’t think he either needed or wanted me to interject unnecessarily. “I have never spoken of this to anyone,” he finally said. “I’m not entirely sure why
I have chosen you as my confidante, as you are clearly not an entirely truthful person. Just as you are not, for example, a translator, nor is there any such thing as the National Statistical Office.” He looked at me through narrowed eyes, but he was smiling.

  “Isn’t there?” I asked disingenuously.

  “You fooled my sister, but she told me about the encounter, we are quite close despite my wife’s strenuous efforts to sow discord. But I already knew you were up to something even before I spoke to Cynthia.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, attempting to sound shocked.

  “You can drop the act with me, Eve,” he said, but kindly. “When you and Gideon came to discuss his misappropriated inheritance, you knew that I had been an executor of the will. Marjorie didn’t notice your slip, luckily for you. She was too busy trying to save her own skin.”

  “Oh,” I said, “that was a bit careless of me.”

  “When you tell as many lies as you do Eve, you’re bound to make the odd mistake.” This was true, but I still felt annoyed with myself. It had been a stupid mistake and I was lucky that it was Malcolm and not Marjorie who had noticed it.

  “It was only when I saw you with Marjorie’s folder,” Malcolm continued, “that I realised that you were someone to be reckoned with, but back to my pitiful story. I am the author of my own unhappiness. Marjorie, you see, told me that she could help advance my career if I were to marry her.”

  “Why,” I felt emboldened to ask (Malcolm had acknowledged that I was to be his confidante), “did she want to marry you?”

  “Not a very flattering question,” he actually laughed as he replied, “but a valid one. I believe there were two principal reasons. The first was that I was very fond of Meg and she of me and Marjorie wanted anything that was Meg’s. She always had to prove she was superior to Meg, and taking me away from Meg proved Marjorie’s superiority beyond doubt. The second was that she had the means to control me, bend me to her will. Had I had the slightest idea what a devious, unpleasant . . .” He seemed lost for words with which to describe Marjorie. I knew how he felt and I hadn’t endured nearly half a century of her company.

  “How did she help your career?” I asked. “Cynthia said that it took off when you married Marjorie.”

  “Marjorie used the same tactics she has always used, blackmail.” Malcolm continued. “She had obtained information . . . had gone to some considerable trouble to obtain information about her superior that, at the time, and remember this was over forty years ago, would have been immensely damaging to him.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “He was gay, wasn’t he?” All those photos of men I didn’t recognise in the folder suddenly made sense.

  “Yes, yes he was.” Malcolm confirmed. “And I profited from Marjorie’s actions, although in my defence I didn’t know until much later the nature of her hold over him.”

  “Would it have made a difference if you had?” I asked.

  “I wish I could say definitively that it would have, but I was a very ambitious young man. And I was probably as prejudiced as many others were in those days. I might have convinced myself that he shouldn’t have been behaving in such a way and therefore deserved all he got. It is amazing what we can convince ourselves is right if it suits our purposes.” Malcolm looked at me meaningfully.

  “Yes, it is.” I concurred, avoiding his gaze. “I have to ask,” I continued, “why tell me, and why now?”

  “Because I believe my son truly loves you, and I believe that, rather to your surprise, you feel the same way. I would like my son to have a happy marriage, and the pair of you have as good a chance as any two people of making each other happy, so long as you can stick to the truth from now.” Malcolm smiled at me and for the first time I realised that he was actually a nice man. A nice man who’d made a very big mistake and had paid dearly for it. “Do you think you can do that?” Malcolm looked at me intently.

  “No!” I yelped.

  “What!” exclaimed Malcolm, dropping the bacon sandwich he had been about to bite into.

  “I just meant don’t eat the sandwich, it’s awful. Full of gristle. As for the other thing, I can try.” I said. “I only lie when I have to, I don’t do it for fun.” I added. This wasn’t entirely true. I do sometimes lie for fun, but not about anything important, or at least I don’t lie about important things just for fun.

  “That may be true, but you don’t dislike doing it. Gideon,” Malcolm continued, “is a good man and he sees only the best in you, so that’s what he must have, the best possible version of you. And, in my opinion, the best of you would be much better than most men could hope for. You, Eve,” he said, fixing me with a steely gaze, “are funny, clever, kind, and extremely beautiful.” This was possibly the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. I must confess that it made me throat constrict a little, and my bottom lip might have quivered ever so slightly. I didn’t agree about the beautiful bit, but I’d happily take the funny, clever and kind.

  “It’s true,” Malcolm looked me directly in the eyes as he spoke, “and if only you believed it you might not feel that you had so much reason to be untruthful. So,” he said, clapping his hands together as if to dispel the emotions swirling around the table, “I am going to make a suggestion to you about how to remove his mother’s malignant influence from the situation. You may choose to do as I suggest, or you may not.”

  “OK. What should I do?” I waited with baited breath to hear Malcolm’s brilliant plan.

  “You need to tell Marjorie that it would be mad for you to be at loggerheads.” I must confess I had been hoping for something a little better than this.

  “Oh, well, that is one idea.” I said. “I suppose it is a bit crazy that . . .”

  “Not mad, M A D, it’s an acronym.” Malcolm interrupted me. “It stands for Mutually Assured Destruction. Marjorie has obtained some information regarding your past that you would rather Gideon did not know, but you are in possession of a folder that, if shown to Gideon, would most certainly make him see his mother in a rather different light.”

  “Interesting,” I mused. “So you’re saying that I just need to let Marjorie know that I know what she’s done, and she’ll back off. And you think this would stop her from holding the sword of Dan O’Cleese over my head?” Malcolm let out a snort of laughter.

  “Dan O’Cleese,” he repeated, still laughing. I have often heard people use this phrase and I’m pretty sure I was using it correctly. I really couldn’t see what was so funny.

  “Yes,” Malcolm confirmed, suppressing his laughter. “It would remove Dan’s sword from over your head.” He really did have an odd sense of humour.

  “One last thing,” I said, as we prepared to leave, “this kidney business. Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” Malcolm asked.

  “That Marjorie donated one of her kidneys to another family’s child.”

  “I was there, I’m afraid.” Malcolm said sadly.

  “While her kidney was being taken out?” I was aghast.

  “Not literally,” Malcolm explained. “I know that you want to believe that Marjorie is second only to Madame Mao in the league of the world’s most evil women, but I find it hard to believe that even she would be able to pull off a deception on that scale.”

  “Really?” This was disappointing. I had hoped that this would be the final nail in Marjorie’s coffin when I enacted what I had decided to call Operation Sword.

  “I think I might have noticed if she hadn’t genuinely had an operation, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so.” I reluctantly agreed.

  “Eve, you’ve got an enormous amount to work with here, there’s really no need to overcook anything.”

  “OK, I guess not.” I concurred.

  “And one last thing from me,” said Malcolm. “Neither you nor I will betray by the slightest look or comment that anything has passed between us. Do you understand?”

  “Are you really that scared of her?” I asked. Malcolm looked momentaril
y annoyed.

  “Just watch yourself Eve,” he said. “Marjorie really isn’t a woman to be trifled with.”

  No she isn’t, I thought, but then again, neither am I.

  CHAPTER 25

  The phone rang very early, at around seven. I was so deeply asleep that it was only when Gideon and I woke up over an hour later and listened to the message left on the answer machine that I realised that it had really rung at all. The caller had been Malcolm. “I have to talk to you urgently about your mother’s health,” said his message.

  “Your mother has cancer,” Malcolm said with no preamble when we phoned back. While it was possible that Marjorie had cancer, I was immediately suspicious.

  “She wants to talk to you,” Malcolm continued. He meant that she wanted to talk to Gideon as he didn’t know the phone was on loudspeaker. “I will pass you over.” I had been mulling over the best way to implement Operation Sword and had not yet decided how to proceed. Marjorie, it would seem, was about to add another element into the mix that would have to be factored into my planning.

  “Hello,” Marjorie murmured in a teary little voice. “Why didn’t you answer when your father called earlier?”

  “I was asleep.” Gideon responded.

  “Asleep?” Marjorie enquired, as if there was something suspicious about being asleep at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.

  “Yes, Mum, asleep. I’m awake now though.” Gideon raised his eyebrows at me. Even he found her a little hard to take sometimes.

  “It’s just that I really wanted to talk to you as soon as possible,” Marjorie simpered. Surely, I thought, she must have known that she had cancer the evening before (I couldn’t imagine that she’d been given the news that morning, before seven). If she had wanted to speak to Gideon as soon as possible, why wait until now to make the call? My suspicions that she was up to something grew.

  “Well, you’re talking to me now, aren’t you?” Gideon had the patience of a saint (if saints are particularly patient, I can see no reason why they should be) where his mother was concerned. “So,” he continued, “what can you tell me?” Gideon is a man who likes facts, unadorned by unnecessary emotion, from which solutions can be worked out.