Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “Father figure?”

  “Long story. It’s turned into a sort of hobby anyway. Just the rarer stuff,” I said, trying to sound as heterosexual and un-geeky as I possibly could from within a fitted tee and beneath a cheap framed print of Christopher Reeve. “How are you feeling though? Anyone you want to call?”

  “I’ll use your bathroom I think,” she said and wobbled to her feet, hoisting her bag. I led her down the hall, through the narrow gallery of comic book covers and clip-framed movie stills and fetched her a towel.

  The police arrived while she cleaned herself up. Two huge guys – one young Manc constable and one old Scottish Sergeant – thudding up the stairs, waterproof jackets rustling. I sat them down and made more tea, leaving them to worry the cat and sniff at all my Clark Kents.

  Moments later, carrying a tea tray through, I met a fresh-faced Laura coming down the hall, zipping up her bag and coughing a lungful of acrid cosmetic tang.

  “Knocked off a bottle of something in your bathroom,” her voice said through the stinging cloud. “Bit of a stink I’m afraid.”

  I not-to-worry-ed, blinking back the stinging tears and gave her to Scot and Manc for their questions. The officers were clearly taken with her, that much was obvious, both talking at the same time, interrupting each other, trying the old ‘sexy cop – sexy cop’ routine.

  I meanwhile fussed with spoons and coasters like a Jewish mother, dropping enough eaves to pick up a bit of background. Laura was thirty-four years old. She worked in a sandwich bar on Old Compton Street in Soho. She lived alone. She’d been heading out to a party. Yes, it was her car. A Honda. Yes, it was insured. No, she didn’t get much of a look at her attackers. Yes she was shaken but not hurt. An ambulance wouldn’t be necessary. No, she’d never met me before and yes, black with no sugar would be fine.

  She took a mug from me and mouthed a silent thank you from her dark painted lips and I suddenly found myself momentarily joining the policemen in the gut-sucking-in.

  Hell, not that I want you to get the wrong idea about my marriage. Jane and I are –

  Were –

  Well Jane and I. It’s a happy marriage. Hand on heart. Other women, one-nighters, whatever. It’s never really been on my radar. I’m a family man. Have been since always. A beautiful wife and the cutest baby daughter. Enough woman for me.

  My gut-suck act was something else. A symptom. A defence. I’m a blusher, you see. A stutterer. With women. Talk too much, don’t talk enough. Hopeless, always have been.

  Luckily, Jane rescued me from a lifetime of bachelor bumbling by taking the lead at University. She brought me out of my sappy self one common-room afternoon, interrupting my reading with a drunken rant about how Batman wasn’t a proper superhero. Bashful or not, this was home turf so I wasn’t about to have that and we went toe-to-toe over strength vs powers for the better part of the evening. She knew her stuff and I knew mine and the rest sort of just fell into place.

  She still won’t have a picture of Batman in the house, so I have to keep my – numerous – Dark Knights in the shop office.

  Now you can get all Freudy on my ass if you wish. We can tire the moon with whether I’ve ended up surrounding myself with a houseful of macho superheroes in body-stockings and scarlet cod-pieces because I’m no good around women. Or we can go the other way and say that I’m no good around women due to spending all day selling comic and movie junk and developing no conversational skills beyond eBay and Kryptonite.

  I’ll take either of those bets, no problem. A bit of both I expect.

  What I do know is that if Jane hadn’t stepped up and thrown down a beer-fuelled Bat-Gauntlet and my best friend Andrew Benjamin hadn’t sat me down and given me a good talking to I’d be a lot worse than I am now. A woman like Laura would have had me snapping into a foetal position and dribbling. Fortunately for my gut, she didn’t stay much longer. The cops gave her a crime number and they left. She waived a lift home, which left her sitting on the edge of my £50 couch staring into an empty mug.

  “So,” I began, easing myself into the armchair opposite. “Old Compton Street, you said? Just round the corner from me. Brigstock Place. Heroes Incorporated?”

  Laura reached into her bag and started up another cigarette, her face glowing in the flickering match light.

  “Missed that one,” she said.

  “Most people do,” I sighed. “Not that it’ll be there much longer …”

  “No?”

  “It’s in a little trouble. A lot of trouble.” I glanced over at the desktop of paperwork, my stomach tumbling. “Sorry, you’ve been through enough. I don’t know why I’m –”

  “Because you helped me out. C’mon, fair’s fair.” I looked back at her. Laura had sat back and crossed her legs, arching a stockinged foot. “Go on, get it off your chest. Trouble?”

  My eyes lingered on her legs for an idle moment, before snapping back to my teacup.

  “Well, there’s a convention coming up next month. Earl’s Court?” I got up and fetched a slithery flyer from the desk and handed it to her. “Mostly trade. I’m meant to have a stall. Me and this other guy, Maurice. Posters, autographs …”

  Of course, Laura’s eyes began to glaze over, much like yours are now.

  Really, it’s fine. It’s not your problem and not that interesting. So I took the hint and took her cup and she got her coat. She gave me a thank-you kiss that, either accidentally or on purpose, landed a little too near my right ear.

  And then she left.

  I offered her a cab or a lift but she wasn’t interested. Said she’d stick out a thumb. I went to the window and cracked it open to clear the stale cigarette smoke. I watched her sashay down the steps into the October night, light a cigarette and walk away up the street, heels clicking to the metronome of her hips until the trees took her from view.

  I shut the curtains.

  “We’re baa-ack!” Jane called up half an hour later with a slam of the door. She began to thud up the stairs with bags and squeaky toys and, I presumed, our precious daughter somewhere about her person. “There’s glass all over the pavement out there.”

  “Tell me about it,” I called down, quickly creeping back to the lounge to shove letters into a box file, bury statements in my satchel and return silver frames on desks to the upright position. “What news from your dad?”

  “Ooh big,” she said. There was the static crackle as she peeled off her jacket and the tinkle of hangers in the hall cupboard. “You won’t believe what he’s done. Where are you?”

  “In here,” I said, heart thudding. I buckled my bag and slid it discreetly under the desk, stepping back quickly to view the crime scene.

  “Dad has an accountant at Chandler Dufford … God what’s that smell? Is that cigarettes? Has someone … ? Wait, and perfume?”

  “Daddy had a stinky drama while you two were out. Didn’t he? Didn’t he? Yes he did.”

  Jane and I kissed softly in a cloud of warm milk baby smell, Lana strapped to her chest, her wide blue eyes swimming in and out of focus, watching her parents. I held them both for a moment, my family, swallowing hard, trying to bury the nagging stir in my stomach. Jane’s soft blonde bob, shampooey and clean and familiar against my cheek made my head swim. A deep breath and I broke painfully away.

  “Drama?”

  I gave Jane the bullet points, following her like a puppy as she unpacked, unhooking Lana and unrolling the blankie out on the floor. Jane was in clumpy Timberland boots, her favourite faded Levis and my dark blue fleece. She rolled the sleeves revealing her smooth pale arms and I watched as she set our tiny daughter down, blowing raspberries on her soft tummy.

  “Upshot is, she broke a bottle of your perfume in the bathroom? A Chanel one I think?”

  “Didn’t know I had any Chanel,” Jane said, getting up and curling into an armchair. “But she got away all right? She wasn’t hurt? The police gave her a lift did they?

  “She said she was fine. I offered her a cab, but she just
left.”

  “You just let her leave?” Jane said. “She was probably in shock.”

  “What was I going to do? Restrain her? She wanted to go, I let her go.”

  Jane conceded with a shrug. I moved everything along and asked about her father’s news.

  “He wants to start a trust fund for Lana. For her education. I had lunch with Catherine and she said Jack’s father had done the same for them when they had little Oscar.” Jane’s eyes shone.

  “Trust – ?”

  “An investment. I don’t know the details. He wants to pay for her school. Someone from his accountants is going to come and see us to explain it all. What do you think?”

  The room went noticeably quiet. I waited for Jane to look up at me.

  “Pay for her school?” I said.

  “Oh Neil, let’s not –”

  “Why does it need paying for?”

  “Neil, I was a boarder from the age of eight,” Jane said. “I turned out all –”

  “This is another of his ways of saying I can’t provide for my family, of course.”

  “No, this is a gift. It’s what daddies do.”

  “It’s not what my daddy does.”

  “Well your …” Jane let that one trail off. The usual awkwardness descended for a moment. Jane pushed on to cover it. “Okay, it’s what daddies do where I came from,” she said. “And where I come from is part of who Lana is. Grampsy did it for me, great grampsy did it for mummy –”

  And off she went down the bloodline, from stately home to stately home like a hyperactive National Trust guide.

  Jane has the oddest relationship to her heritage. Most of the time she finds it hugely embarrassing and covers it all with dropped aitches, Doc Martens and faded Tank Girl t-shirts. But once in a while – which I rarely tire of teasing her about – it all boils over and she goes completely St Trinians. Times like now.

  I tried not to listen, trying to concentrate instead on the focus of all this debate – Lana’s gummy wet smile and tiny jerking fists, podgy limbs like plump haggis in brushed cotton skins. I didn’t last very long. Certain phrases have a knack of jerking one back to attention.

  “Sorry?” I interrupted, catching my fear and swallowing it hard.

  “The shop too,” Jane said again. “Next week some time. We have to call and make an appointment. He’ll bring all the spreadsheets and such. Greg somebody,” and she rose, moving to her bag. “Dad gave me his card.”

  “The shop too?” I wobbled. My world, so I suppose to one extent or another, the world, lurched to a stop. My mouth dried up, eyes flicking guiltily to my satchel. “He’s not going to want to spend all evening trawling through the shop stuff as well?”

  “Well, dad said it couldn’t hurt to show him the lot. Apparently there are tax write-offs for the shop dad doesn’t think you’re taking advantage of. It would help this chap to know the whole … ah, here we go,” and Jane handed me a thick business card. Chandler Dufford Lebrecht – Wealth Management, followed by some city address. Jane lifted Lana from her blankie and curled themselves into the couch. “Did your Chanel woman stop you getting your accounts done?”

  The sweet perfume sting was still hanging about the flat like a drunk guest.

  “Huh? Oh I got a good chunk sorted. And what do you mean, my woman? She was in trouble. What was I meant to –”

  “And your letter? Did you finish … y’know?”

  The room fell quiet.

  “To my dad?” I said, a little loudly. “You can say it you know. He isn’t Macbeth.”

  “Sorry,” Jane said. “I know. It’s just …” and she fussed with Lana’s babygro. “And I’m sorry before, about –”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” I waved. “And no, another page or so. I’ll post it tomorrow.”

  “And have you – oof! Who’s a big girl? – Have you written back to that solicitors yet?” Jane added, holding the baby aloft, nose to nose. “Boaters or whatever they’re called? Told them you’ve sent a cheque? Aww, ooze a dribbly one den? Eh? Ooze a dribble?”

  “Cheque? Oh yes yes, that’s … that’s all sorted.”

  “Would you love me if we were poor?” I asked quietly.

  I was propped up in the yellow glow of our bedside lamp, listening to the pages of Jane’s Terry Pratchett turn slowly and the clicky milk breath of Lana between us.

  “Poor? What do you mean?”

  “If something happened?”

  “Like what?”

  “Forget it,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. Go back to your book, I’m being … forget it.”

  I sighed and stared at the ceiling some more. There was a beige half-moon of damp along the cornicing. A water tank leak that never really got sorted properly. Thoughts wobbled and worried like loose teeth.

  “Oh, before I forget,” Jane said, making me jump a little. “Dad’s popping down to Brighton for a charity something or other next week. I said you’d pick him up from Victoria? Neil?”

  “I mean, I know this place isn’t what your father wants for you.”

  “Neil?”

  “Hn? Yes yes, fine. And I know how he feels about me and the shop and everything.”

  “We’ve been over this,” Jane whispered, shifting over towards me, snaking a scented, moisturised hand up to my cheek and giving me a long kiss. She broke away slowly with a smile. “You’re providing for your family. Putting a roof over our heads. He respects that. Just do what I do and ignore all that other stuff. That’s just daddy being daddy.”

  “Not easy to ignore when he’s coughing up school fees.”

  “Oh let him do it,” Jane soothed gently, giving my hand a squeeze. “He’ll write a cheque and it’ll be off his mind.”

  The world lurched.

  I stopped breathing. I waited. Swallowed hard. An idea barged in-between us, all fat arse and elbows.

  I waited some more. The idea jabbed me in the kidneys and coughed.

  “How er … much?” I said, too loudly and too quickly. I fussed with Lana and the duvet a bit to cover my eagerness.

  “The fees? Fifty thousand pounds,” Jane said. “Greg thingy will bring a banker’s draft or something with him tomorrow I expect. Oh and while I remember, Catherine and Jack are coming over for dinner next Thursday.”

  “Fifty? I-I mean, sorry, Thursday?”

  “Next Thursday. Guy Fawkes. I’ll do a Nigel Slater or something. We can watch the fireworks from the window.” Jane turned and noticed the open book in my lap. “What’re you looking up there?”

  “Looking? Oh er nothing, nothing. Just work.” On the duvet lay a greasily thumbed and well-worn comic-book price guide. Robert Overstreet’s. 35th edition, cracked open near the front as casually as I could manage, considering it had 900 pages and weighed more than I did.

  “What’s it worth?” Jane asked.

  “What?”

  “C’mon. It must be in there. Has it gone up?”

  “Oh,” I faked. “Same as ever I expect.”

  “Dad thinks you’ve forgotten about it. His bank said you haven’t been to see it for ages.”

  “Keeping tabs on me now is he?” I said.

  I kissed Lana on the upper arm, kissed Jane softly on her toothpasty lips and then tugged the duvet about my chin and had a good long stare at the damp patch on the ceiling.

  I thought about the box file above the desk. The contents of my battered satchel.

  “Does he have to come over this week?” I said after a moment. “This Greg guy? Can’t he just send us the money to put away?”

  “Dad said it’s more complicated than that. Plus he’s having a look at the shop accounts too, don’t forget? Free expert advice? You’ll have to bring the books home. I thought you’d be keen.”

  “Mnn,” I said.

  After a thoughtful moment I clicked on the bedside light again, shimmied up the bed and hauled Overstreet from the bedside cabinet. I flipped back open to the Golden Age comic listings.

  1938 to 1945.

>   I chewed my lip. I thought about Jane’s father. I chewed my lip some more.

  “Hey.” An elbow in the ribs. Jane.

  “Sorry?” She’d said something. I’d been miles away.

  “I said we’d love you no matter what,” Jane repeated, stroking Lana’s arm. “You take care of us.”

  “Right,” I said, taking one last yearning look before slapping the book closed and returning it to the bedside. I clicked off the light once again.

  An hour later, Jane and Lana both breathing beside me in the dark, I must have finally fallen asleep because I remember the dream. The Man of SteelTM, in handcuffs, heaving a huge, brown velvet chequebook over his head in glorious technicolour, the planet Krypton exploding above, taking his family away.

  Forever.

  Freud or not, I was in deep shit.

  two

  Now.

  You might be wondering how my beloved wife came to know about Messrs Boatman Beevers and Boatman, what with all my deskbound subterfuge and satchel stealth? Or you may alternatively be asking yourself why I bothered with all the subterfuge and stealth when my wife already appeared to be up to speed with all things solicitor-like?

  Well we’ll get to that. We’ll get to a fortnight ago’s surprise second post. The heavy paper, watermark and the City of London address. The letter that should have arrived safely at the shop where I could have disguised it among the other, shall we say, less immediate daily post:

  “Dear Hero Incorporation, I picked up a Donatello Mutant Turtle Ninja at a boot sale for sixty pee. He’s got one hand, made in Korea on his foot (claw?) and his shell has got you are a gaylord written on it in face paints. My mates think it could be worth a hundred quid.”

  It was the next day, Wednesday, 28 October, the day after the car-jacking, just after ten a.m. by the shop clock – a cracked plastic thing with Elvis Presley’s sneery mush on it. Sneery in the way that we’d all be I suppose if we had a layer of dust on our face and two clock hands stuck to our nose.