The Rumour

by Lesley Kara

  18

  About half an hour after I get to work Michael sends me a text message asking if I’m still okay to meet him for lunch at one. He’s about to leave London.

  I check with Dave and he says he’ll be back in time.

  ‘I’m off to do a couple of valuations first,’ he says, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his iPad from his desk. ‘The office is all yours.’ He winks at me. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  When his hand is on the door handle he stops and turns around. ‘I meant to tell you,’ he says. ‘Susan Marchant dropped her keys off about five minutes before you got here. She actually smiled at me.’ He shakes his head. ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk, eh?’ And with that he is gone, striding off towards his car.

  I’ve taken several calls, chased two conveyancers who have been dragging their feet and commiserated with a client whose sale has just fallen through, when I get an email notification on my phone.

  It’s from Liz Blackthorne with ‘Apologies to All’ as the subject line.

  Dear Book Club Friends,

  I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to make our next meeting, or indeed the one after that. Is it possible that someone else could host this time? I will be in touch about future arrangements.

  Regards

  Liz x

  PS Enjoy your Frankenstein.

  That’s odd. Liz’s emails are usually much chattier. This sounds far too formal, and what does she mean, she’ll be in touch about future arrangements? It’s almost as if she’s preparing the ground for leaving the group altogether, but surely not.

  Everyone knows it’s Liz’s group. She’s always at pains to say we don’t need a leader, that ours is a collaborative book club, but Liz is our leader. If it weren’t for her keeping us all on track, it would turn into a free-for-all, with everyone going off on tangents and Barbara dominating every discussion, not to mention Maddie and her endless anecdotes, and Karen and her insatiable curiosity about everyone’s love life, or lack of one.

  I tap out a quick reply.

  Sorry to hear that, Liz. Hope everything’s okay? Maybe we can meet for a coffee soon?

  Love Jo xx

  Maybe I should give her a ring and see what’s up. I’ve been meaning to, ever since seeing her in the street the other day. She looked so distracted and, what with this email, now I’m wondering whether something bad has happened. A family emergency perhaps.

  But her phone rings out. Oh well, I don’t have time to worry about it right now. If she doesn’t respond to my email, I’ll pop round there later. See if she’s all right.

  Michael is already seated when I arrive. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that he suggested Leonard’s. It’s the latest addition to Flinstead’s culinary venues – one of those stylish hipster restaurants that’s more suited to Shoreditch or Hackney than a small seaside town past its best. He looks good against all the exposed brickwork and steel. Edgy and urban and impossibly attractive.

  There’s a bottle of fizz in a bucket on the table. He isn’t normally one for romantic gestures, although ‘Joanna the Brave and Beautiful’ was pretty cool. But then, ours isn’t your typical romance. At least it hasn’t been, till now.

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘A quick lunch, you said. I won’t be able to drink much of that. Some of us have to go to work, you know.’

  He leans forward to kiss me. This feels like a date and I’m awkward in a way I wouldn’t be normally, aware of the dark circles under my eyes and my bitten nails. I’ve been gnawing away at them even more since Sally Mac decided to follow me on Twitter. Which I have to tell him about. But not yet. He looks so happy and relaxed. I don’t want to spoil things.

  I tell myself his good mood is because of us. Because of me. That working on the Sally McGowan book is entirely coincidental.

  ‘You look tired,’ he says.

  Okay, so maybe he needs to work on the romance thing.

  ‘Still beautiful, though,’ he adds, and pours me half a glass of Prosecco.

  We chink glasses and Michael hooks his foot around my ankle, works it up my calf. If I didn’t have to go back to work this afternoon, I know exactly where this celebration would end. Is that why I’m so keen to agree to this latest plan of his? Because of something as basic and animal as sex? It says something that I know more about the geography of his face and body than I do about his mind, but then we’ve always skated around the edges of our inner lives. Letting each other in just as far as was needed and no further. Why is that? How have we let that happen?

  While we’re eating we discuss the practicalities of him moving in. What he’s going to do about his flat. How much stuff he’ll bring over. I can’t quite believe this is happening.

  ‘I thought I’d rent it out on Airbnb,’ he says. ‘That way, I only have to bring my clothes and personal bits and pieces. Leave all the bigger stuff there.’

  It’s a good idea, I know it is. It’ll be quicker than renting it out via an agency and there’s no room for any of Michael’s furniture in my cottage. But that annoying little voice has started up again. Because it’s also more temporary, isn’t it? Easier for him to move back in when he’s had enough of playing house with Alfie and me.

  I can’t hold the words in much longer.

  ‘You are sure this is what you want? That this isn’t just because of …’ I silently mouth the name: ‘Sally McGowan.’

  The effect is instantaneous, as I knew it would be. He puts down his fork and stares at me as if I’ve accused him of something monstrous.

  ‘What do you take me for, Joey?’

  His voice is a little louder than it needs to be. The buzz of chatter around us dims, or maybe I’m just imagining that, being overly self-conscious because this is a private conversation in a public place.

  My chest is tight with emotion. I should never have said it. But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. I have to let my worries out before it’s too late and arrangements have been made. I can’t let a romantic lunch cloud my vision. It’s too important. This is my future. Alfie’s future. He’ll be devastated if Michael moves in, only to move out again a few months later. He won’t understand.

  I’ll be devastated too. I know that now.

  ‘It just seems a bit … unexpected, that’s all. One minute we’re jogging along like we always have, then I tell you about that rumour and all of a sudden you want to move in.’

  ‘Look, I’ll admit it might seem that way,’ he says. He exhales slowly, pushes a piece of chicken around on his plate with his fork. ‘But, honestly, I’ve been wanting to ask you for months.’ He puts down his glass and looks directly into my eyes. ‘Years, if you must know.’

  Now it’s my turn to stare. ‘Years?’

  ‘You’ve always been so fiercely independent. I thought if I asked for more, you might … I don’t know, pull up the drawbridge completely.’

  I clasp my hands on my lap. Is he actually saying what I think he is? That he’s been too scared to tell me how he feels? That I’ve basically been pushing him away all this time?

  ‘I … I always assumed you …’ My voice breaks. Any second now I’m going to start crying over my pasta. I shut my eyes tight and focus on my breath. ‘I always assumed you wanted the freedom to just take off whenever you liked.’

  Michael reaches across the table and strokes my cheek with his finger. ‘What a couple of idiots we both are.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘What a couple of idiots we both are.’

  I laugh through my tears. ‘Shut up and finish your chicken before it gets cold.’

  ‘See?’ he says. ‘That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Joanna Critchley. Your kind, gentle manner.’

  When the waitress asks us if we want any dessert, Michael’s foot starts working its way up my calf again. There’s only one dessert we both want now, but that’s going to have to wait till tonight. We shake our heads and ask for the bill instead.

  As we leave the restaurant
and step out on to the street, we’re like one of those soppy couples in a romantic movie. The bit at the end where, after all the misunderstandings and confusion, all the tears and the heartache, they’ve finally found each other again and are about to live happily ever after.

  But then the shouting begins.

  19

  There’s some sort of altercation going on across the street. Voices raised in anger. A gathering crowd.

  ‘What’s happening over there?’ Michael says, already pulling away from me.

  I recognize Sonia Martins’ white complexion and dark hair from here, see the fury on her face.

  I tug at his arm. ‘I was going to tell you. Someone’s been sticking pictures of Sally McGowan on the window of the New Age shop and saying the woman who runs the shop is her.’

  Michael curses under his breath and, before I can stop him, he’s crossing the road. There’s no choice but to follow him. When we get there, two women are jabbing their fingers at her and flinging accusations. One of them is the woman with the greasy ponytail from the other day. She’s wearing the same grey tracksuit and she’s with a pasty-faced woman with a whingeing toddler in a pushchair. They’re calling Sonia Martins a child murderer. A filthy, dangerous monster who should be locked up for ever.

  Sonia snatches the bits of paper they’re thrusting under her nose and rips them into pieces. ‘How dare you spread these vicious lies!’ she shouts. ‘How dare you! Get away from here or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘You can’t tell us to go away. This is a public street.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got more right to be here than you have.’

  Suddenly, Michael’s taking control of the situation. Steering Sonia Martins into her shop, telling the crowd that the show’s over and that he’s known this lady for years and can categorically vouch for the fact that she is not Sally McGowan. The expression on Sonia Martins’ face is caught between gratitude and confusion, and she allows Michael, and now me – for what else can I do but tag along? – to accompany her into the shop.

  Sonia is shaking all over. She fumbles in her pocket and brings out the shop keys. Turns the key in the lock and flips the closed sign, sags against the glass.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says to Michael. ‘I should phone the police. It’s a crime what they’re doing, isn’t it? Making false accusations? This could ruin my business.’ She glances nervously out of the window. ‘If it hasn’t already.’

  A few people are still standing around, peering in at us, but most of them have moved on.

  ‘Can we make you a cup of tea or something?’ Michael says.

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. Thank you for what you said out there. That was kind, considering we’ve never even met.’

  Michael gives a little shake of his head, as if to say, It’s nothing. Her eyes dart towards me. ‘I’ve seen you before, though, haven’t I? You’re a customer.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘I saw you yesterday as well. I must admit, at the time I thought maybe you had something to do with …’ She spreads her hands in the air – a gesture of hopelessness. ‘… with all this.’

  Michael throws me a sharp look.

  ‘Me? No, absolutely not. I did see the picture stuck on the window that first time. I was going to take it down, but then the man from the shop next door came out and removed it.’

  ‘Chris, yes. He phoned me. I was hoping it would all go away, that it was just someone’s idea of a nasty joke.’

  ‘I can help you refute this rumour,’ Michael says.

  Ah, so that’s what he’s playing at. I should have known. Michael Lewis. Never one to miss the chance of firing off some copy. Anything to get a byline. Even in a two-bit local rag.

  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, takes out one of his business cards. ‘Michael Lewis. I’m a freelance journalist. The sooner you can get your side of things out there, the better. We can nip this thing in the bud, but we’ve got to act fast.’

  Sonia’s face has changed. She clenches her fists at her sides. ‘So that’s what all this is about. A story in a paper! Get out of here! Get out now!’

  She pushes past us and unlocks the shop door, stands there with it open. ‘Go on. Leave now before I call the police and have you for harassment.’

  ‘No,’ Michael says. ‘You don’t understand. This is just going to get worse. These things always do. We need to get something in the paper as soon as we can. It’s the only way you’re going to—’

  ‘Get out. Both of you. Now!’

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry about this, Sonia, I really am. Michael?’

  Michael puts his card on the counter and follows me out. ‘Ring me if you change your mind’ is the last thing he says to her as she shuts the door on us.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Michael. What’s wrong with you? You could see how upset she was.’

  He’s walking so fast I can barely keep up with him.

  ‘I really fucked that up, didn’t I? What was I thinking, pushing my card on her so soon?’ He slows his pace to let me catch up. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’ An accusing tone has crept into his voice. ‘I could have come up earlier and got chatting to her. She’s never going to give me an interview now.’

  He swerves to get out of the way of a group of giggling teenagers. This isn’t how the afternoon was meant to pan out. Our lovely, romantic lunch ruined, and all because of this stupid, stupid rumour.

  ‘How do you know for sure she isn’t McGowan?’

  ‘Because she hasn’t run away. And anyway, it doesn’t tie in with any of the information I’ve received.’

  ‘What do you think will happen now? Will they move McGowan again, even if the rumour’s attached itself to someone else?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but there’s a good chance they will. Just to be on the safe side. If I could just put that woman’s story across, do a piece about false accusations and what’s happened to other innocent people in similar cases, it might all blow over in a few days. But if she won’t even talk to me …’

  ‘Maybe she will talk to you once she’s calmed down.’

  Then I remember something Maddie said, the day she cornered me in the playground. Something about feeling bad about passing the information on because she knew Liz was friends with Sonia Martins.

  I slip my hand into Michael’s and give it a squeeze. ‘I know someone who’s friends with her. The woman who runs my book club. Perhaps I can ask her to put in a good word for you. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  He stops walking and draws me into his chest, wraps his arms round my shoulders and holds me close.

  ‘Sorry I snapped at you.’ His breath is warm on my neck. ‘It’s not the end of the world, what’s happened. I can still get a story out of the false-accusations thing. With or without Sonia Martins. But preferably with.’

  ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the pictures.’

  20

  As soon as I get home from work and put my key in the door, I’m aware that the house already smells different. It smells of Michael, and it’s a nice smell. Not so much a fragrance, although there is, perhaps, the tiniest hint of aftershave in the air. It’s more his own unique scent and possibly the fact that the house isn’t empty, like it usually is. An occupied space always smells different from an empty one.

  He’s hunched over his laptop in the back room, typing up notes, preparing the ground for a possible interview with Sonia Martins and checking facts about previous incidents of false accusations. Innocent people hounded out of their homes and jobs, driven to suicide in one tragic case, and all because of a rumour that’s taken hold.

  ‘Any luck with your friend?’ he says.

  ‘Her phone keeps going to voicemail, but I’ll pop round there later. I’ve got to pick Alfie up now from his after-school club. Are you coming?’

  He twists his mouth and I know that he’s torn. Torn between wanting to surprise Alfie and needing to carry on with h
is work. This is what it’s going to be like from now on. I have no illusions about that. Being a freelance journalist is tough, even for someone like Michael, who’s got tons of experience and contacts. Besides, chasing stories is in his blood. I’ve always known that.

  He snaps his laptop shut and stands up. ‘You haven’t told him anything yet, have you?’

  ‘No. I thought we’d tell him together.’

  ‘Good idea.’ He pulls me into his arms and hugs me for so long it’s me who draws back first.

  ‘Do you really think McGowan’s gone to ground?’

  He sighs. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. They’d only move her if they thought she was in real danger and, at the moment, she isn’t. Not if the finger’s pointing at someone else. I’m still going to try and put a pitch together for a book. Even if I don’t manage to find her, there are other angles I can use.’

  I bury my face in his neck. I still haven’t told him about the Twitter thing, and I should. I should tell him right now. Get it all out in the open. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. We’ve wasted enough time as it is. But after all the drama of this afternoon I don’t think I can take it if he reacts badly. And anyway, there haven’t been any more tweets. It’s just someone messing about. It has to be.

  Alfie can barely contain his excitement when he spots his dad standing next to me. He’s already thrilled that it’s the last day of school before half-term, but this is the icing on the cake. I’m aware of some of the other mums’ curious glances at Michael as he hoists Alfie on to his shoulders. It’s the first time they’ve seen him, although Michael tends to draw admiring glances wherever he is. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons he’s managed so well since going freelance. Out of all the other dads in the school playground, he’s definitely the best-looking, although of course I’m biased in that respect.

  Not that his good looks and boyish charm worked their magic with Sonia Martins. But maybe they will, given time. If I can just speak to Liz …