Later she placed a bowl of scrambled eggs, flecked with freshly ground black pepper and chilli flakes, and a plate of toasted bagels on the breakfast bar, with two tall glasses of fresh orange juice. She looked up and imagined Finn rushing into the room. ‘Any chance of a coffee, love, I’m running late?’ he would ask as he grabbed a bagel and gave her a kiss before rushing off again. His woody scent lingered around her and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
‘I miss you.’
‘Who are you talking to, Mum?’ Declan asked, staring at her as he took a seat and spooned scrambled egg onto his plate.
‘Dad.’ She smiled sheepishly.
‘I talk to him too,’ he whispered, holding the spoon in mid-air.
Connor strode in and changed the atmosphere, stirring the air with his words and breaking the beat of grief that had held them. His voice when he spoke was quiet; he looked downward, as if unsure of the etiquette, awkward in his own home.
‘I . . . I was talking to the coach about next term and I wasn’t sure if we have anything planned for the break. But he asked if I could join the squad for training. It’s quite a big deal. I didn’t know what to say, but I’d quite like to go. I think . . .’ His voice trailed off and he looked sheepish, as if it were wrong to express joy or an interest in something.
‘You should tell him yes, definitely, Con.’ She spoke with a tone of reassurance. ‘It’ll put you in a good place for the team next year.’
I’ll get the fees paid today. Mr Monroe can make the necessary transfer. It’ll all be okay . . . Her self-calming mantra helped.
‘The first thing I thought when he asked me was that I couldn’t wait to tell Dad.’ The wobble to his bottom lip when he was trying to be brave was somehow harder to watch than when he gave in to the sadness. It ripped at her heart.
‘He would be so pleased for you, honey. You know that.’
He gave a brief nod. ‘I should be pleased, too, but without him around, everything feels like’ – he shrugged his shoulders – ‘like “so what?”. Everything is only half as good . . . a bit pointless.’
She drew breath to remind him that she was still here, but changed her mind. This wasn’t about her, but was simply her son longing for contact with his daddy.
‘It won’t always be that way. I promise you. And I understand how it feels, having lost my mum.’ She shook her head. ‘Not that I remember her too much, but I felt her absence, always. It does get easier, but oh my word, not being able to introduce her to the man I was going to marry, or see her hold you . . .’ She looked up and saw the look of horror on Connor’s face. She hadn’t meant to go on. Pointing out the prospect of living this half-life of disappointment and muted joy forever was clearly more than he could bear.
An idea struck. ‘Maybe we should go somewhere for half-term, just the three of us?’ Her tone brightened a little as the notion grew in her mind. ‘It might do us all good to get away. How about Italy? We could find a nice hotel in Tuscany, eat good food, walk in the sunshine?’ She looked at their less than eager faces. ‘I know it will be strange without Dad, but there will be a lot of firsts without him and once we have done them, we won’t fear them any more. This could be our first holiday. What do you think?’
Connor stared at the bagel and egg on his plate, ‘If I’m going to make the A team next year, then I need to be around for training and I don’t really want to go away, Mum.’ He spoke softly, as if to counter her disappointment.
‘I don’t want to go anywhere without Dad,’ Declan confessed.
Nina turned her attention to the making of tea. She didn’t want to do anything without Finn either, nothing at all. All she did want to do was take to her bed, hide under the duvet and sleep and cry . . . but carrying on was what was required for all those who got left behind. No matter how hard it got. ‘That’s okay, boys. We shall stay here.’
‘I also need to finalise my subject options for next year,’ Connor said, as if further justification were needed. ‘Dad was going through it all with me and we had a vague plan.’
‘I can help you with that if you like,’ she offered.
‘Sure,’ he said unenthusiastically. ‘Ms Rabieno says I should take Biology and Chemistry, and I really want to do History too because I love it. But apparently top unis want subjects in matching clusters of topics – nothing too broad. So maybe I should choose Physics, even though I don’t really like it.’
‘I think to study at the level required for university, and to do it justice, you have to love the subject matter or you won’t get the best out of it and it won’t get the best out of you.’
‘Thanks for that insight,’ Connor muttered, and turned his attention to his phone. ‘I’ll talk to Ms Rabieno.’
It made her feel like her opinion was worthless, but he was probably right. What did she know? She never went to university. She felt her stomach cave with a sinking feeling of inadequacy.
After breakfast the three of them made their way to the car. It was a bitingly cold winter’s day. They drove the few minutes to the boys’ school in silence.
‘Are you okay, Connor?’ she asked, looking at his profile.
‘Yep. I’ll speak to the coach today.’
‘I meant more, how are you feeling in general, not just today?’
He took a deep breath. ‘In general? I feel sad, Mum. Sadder than I knew was possible.’ He stared out the window at the solid pale villas that lined the route to school. ‘And I feel angry, at how unfair it is. Some of the guys at school tell me how their dads treat them, hassling them about grades, punishing them even, you know?’ He shrugged. ‘But Dad was’ – he swallowed – ‘Dad was the best, and it makes me mad because he’s the one that died. I thought I had more time.’
Nina nodded and struggled to find words that might help. ‘Me too. I thought we had all the time in the world.’
The heart-wrenching sound of Declan’s sobbing filled the car. She reached back and patted his arm. ‘Don’t cry, my darling.’
‘I . . . I can’t . . . help it,’ he managed. It was a stark reminder that they were always only a heartbeat, a phrase, a mention and a reminder away from this raw distress that they all tried so hard to keep at bay, and it was exhausting. She neared the traffic lights and was greeted by a green light: a good omen for a good day.
Mr Monroe’s offices were in the centre of Bath, entered via a small, unobtrusive door next to the rear entrances of the shops, and at the top of a winding staircase, high above Milsom Street. They offered a glorious view over the shoppers and tourists ambling around the Georgian city. That was if you were tall enough to see out of the apex window. The room was cluttered with boxes and files and smelled of old books. The aroma wasn’t wholly unpleasant but, rather, evocative of libraries and real fires and winter nights and the escape of stories. This in turn made Nina think of her mamma and those early, early years in Frederiksberg, and the cold winter nights when darkness drew its blind on the day. She didn’t remember too much about that time, but the odd memory stood out clear and distinct. She could picture herself with Tiggy huddled under a fur blanket, in the small, slate-floored room, happy and content, with a log fire crackling in the grate, and lamplight casting gentle shadows on the wall, and listening to the rustle of crisp pages turning, with her mum’s beautiful, soft voice reading to them the story of Thumbelina.
Her tears pooled; it was as if Finn’s death had made her miss her mamma more, too. Nina coughed, doing her best to defeat the nerves that threatened to swamp her.
‘Ah, Mrs McCarrick, here you are. Please sit down.’ Mr Monroe extended his hand. He was as wide as he was tall and had a certain awkwardness about his manner, as if apologising in advance for his cumbersome demeanour. He pulled a chair away from the desk and awkwardly wedged himself in.
‘Thank you. And I’m sorry not to have retuned your calls. I’ve had my head in the sand a bit.’
‘Not at all, it’s perfectly understandable, and believe me, I hated disturbing you
. But as I mentioned on the phone, I have been very keen to talk to you.’ Mr Monroe gave a tight smile and held his suit jacket closed over his shirtfront. He was far too big a man to be holed up in such a small office; she was sure that with one deep breath he might take all the air from the room. She placed her handbag on her lap and sat up straight.
‘I really don’t know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘I had a call from school about fees, and I called the bank to try to see what had happened to the standing order to try to sort the situation, but I could only get through to an automated system that asked for numeric codes and passwords. The trouble is they have all been set up by Finn, and I have no idea what they are.’ She shook her head at the absurdity of the situation. ‘And when I eventually got through to an actual human, they said that as I had failed their security measures, they could only talk to the primary account holder – who is Finn.’ She bit her lip, remembering the utter desolation at having to explain to the uninterested call handler that her husband had passed away and being told her best chance of success was to write a letter . . . ‘Apparently we are behind on school fees, which I find hard to believe, as Finn has always been such a stickler for paying punctually. I need that sorted today, without question. It’s become quite urgent.’ She swallowed.
Mr Monroe sat forward and formed his fingers into a pyramid that hovered at his chest. She stared at his thick moustache, thinking it must be strange to have more hair on your face than your head as his bald pate shone under the lights.
‘You have had nothing to do with your accounts?’ he asked.
Nina shook her head, embarrassment heating her neck and chest. ‘Not really. Finn always took care of the financial side of things. I haven’t worked outside of the home.’ She felt the blush on her cheeks, as if she needed to justify her position. She wanted to explain that looking after the big house, and Hampy when he lived with them, nursing him until he died, and childcare, running errands – all of it was work in itself. Not that she needed to explain her life to anyone; it had worked for her and Finn, and that was all that mattered. ‘You’ve had to worry about money your whole life, but not any more. I will take care of you. Take care of us . . .’ Nina bit her lip, remembering how his words had filled her with peace, reassurance. She had felt any worry over her financial future slip from her bones, warmed by the fact her kids would never know what it felt like to try to squeeze their feet into last year’s shoes, which she knew from experience made you feel as if you yourself didn’t quite fit.
She looked across the desk at Mr Monroe. ‘I had a bankcard and a couple of credit cards, and there is always cash in the house.’ She felt the weight of the man’s stare. ‘The money, our money, is all tied up with the business, so it always felt more like Finn’s responsibility than mine.’ She closed her mouth, aware that she was gabbling, in part to hide her discomfort. His stare made her feel he was judging her. How could she begin to explain that the idea of looking after the accounts had never occurred to her, that it was just how it was?
‘And your husband didn’t discuss your current financial situation with you? Didn’t say anything before he passed away?’ He tapped his fingertips together, and she noticed that his fingernails were a little grubby, with half-moons of dirt sitting underneath the tips.
‘No.’ She shook her head. She felt nauseous and her legs began to shake. She pushed the soles of her boots down against the wooden floor. ‘But I did speak to our lawyer, Mr Firth, who told me that Finn had left everything to me. I mean, I already knew. We had discussed what would happen under these circumstances, a long time ago.’ She closed her eyes briefly. They had spoken casually over a cup of coffee while reading the Sunday papers together on the couch, sitting top to toe on the sofa in comfy socks, never believing the measures would be needed; they fully intended to live side by side, just as they were, until a ripe old age. It still shocked her that she was having this conversation, shocked her that she was a widow, shocked that the word was hers now. Widow. Would it ever get easier?
Mr Monroe sat back. She saw the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. ‘I hate having to be the bearer of bad news, Mrs McCarrick, particularly in light of what you have been through.’
She felt the tremor of anxiety shudder through her limbs once more. ‘Bad news, how?’
He looked up. ‘I am afraid that when it comes to the money situation, things are not good.’
She unglued her tongue from the dry roof of her mouth. ‘Not good?’ Nina’s mind raced to think what he might be referring to. As a couple, they had had many things to worry about over the years, but money had never been one of them.
Mr Monroe gave a wry laugh and looked up to a stain on the ceiling. She could tell that this wasn’t easy for him. ‘No, not good. In fact, things are about as bad as they can get. I didn’t want to burden you with the details at the funeral.’
‘Is the business in trouble?’ Nina felt her chest tighten, thinking of all the people Finn employed: loyal men and women with mortgages and rent to pay, food to buy, kids and families to support. She felt sick at the idea of some of them losing their livelihoods.
‘The business is gone.’
‘The business is . . . ?’ She must have misheard him.
‘Gone. The business is gone.’
Nina stared at him. She felt her jaw open involuntarily and her stomach drop. His words were clear and audible, but they made no sense. Gone? What did that even mean?
‘What do you mean, gone?’ She laughed nervously after a moment’s silence. She pictured Finn’s latest project: a low-rise block of ten upscale apartments on a prime spot on the river, with a roof terrace to die for, state-of-the-art appliances, ecotechnology, twenty-four-hour security, the finest-quality materials, and five high-end retail units below, a restaurant, a deli . . . The land alone was worth millions.
‘The bank foreclosed on the new development. Finn overstretched on the borrowing to complete the construction, then he ran out of time to complete the sales. Interest rates have been hiked and the bank called in the loan.’ He splayed his palms as if it were that simple, that obvious. ‘Everything else was mortgaged against the success of the new development, so it all fell apart quickly.’
She continued to stare at him, picturing her husband leaving for work every day with a smile on his face, sipping his coffee, kissing her firmly on the mouth, her strong man who kept all the cogs turning, so confident and assured. The man who provided their wonderful, wonderful life.
‘I don’. . . don’t understand.’ Her voice was a cracked whisper.
Mr Monroe took a deep breath, and just as she had feared, all the air left the room.
‘McCarrick Construction is bankrupt. And Finn’s other companies sat under the umbrella of Gerhild Holdings.’
Gerhild was my mum’s name. That’s where it came from, all those years ago. Finn named it in tribute to her. I remember the day – his gesture made me cry.
‘Gerhild Holdings is liable for the debt and there is no money to pay that debt.’ He shook his head. ‘There is a long list of creditors. Outstanding tax liabilities, land registry fees, wages, consultancy, utilities, advertising, service charges . . .’ He shook his head again, and she wished he would stop. ‘The list goes on and on.’
‘I don’t . . .’ Nina struggled to get the words out. ‘How . . . how much do we owe?’ She had begun to run through a list of things she might be able to sell: things of value that might make a dent in the shortfall – anything she might have lying around the house that could help make up the deficit: her jewellery, a spare laptop . . . Her mind darted around the rooms of her home, trying to think of what might be secreted in drawers, anything valuable, and how best to shift it. She vaguely remembered Finn buying some vintage bottles of whisky. Maybe she could find them.
‘All in all, close to eight million.’
There was a beat of silence while the figure flew from his mouth, bounced around the room and settled on her shoulders, where it would
weigh her down, stroke her face in the early hours, disturb her sleep and irritate her sensibilities.
‘Eight million pounds?’ she squeaked.
‘Yes.’ He nodded.
Her limbs turned to concrete.
Eight million pounds, eight million pounds, eight million pounds . . .
The amount tumbled in her head on a never-ending loop. It was a huge, huge sum. The two sat in silence for a minute or two. Mr Monroe’s hand hovered near a large box of tissues, as if he were expecting her to cry. She was, however, too numb for that.
When she recovered the power of speech, it was to ask the question that was the most important to her. ‘Have I got enough money to pay the boys’ school fees?’ It seemed impossible, but perhaps somehow, somewhere, there was another account or . . .
The accountant gave a short snort of uncomfortable laughter and ran his hand over his moustache. He shook his head.
‘I’m afraid you have no money at all. There is nothing left,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’ He used his straightened hand to chop at the air. His tone was blunt, punchy, as if this were the approach he now considered necessary to make himself understood.
She tried to picture telling Connor, tried to picture her boys leaving the only school they had ever known, at a time when what they needed more than anything was stability and to be able to grieve in a safe, familiar environment.
I’ll have to sell the house. Oh my God, our home! She placed a shaking hand over her mouth as the facts began to permeate. It should sell quite quickly and then I can pay the school. How are we supposed to live until the sale of the house goes through? Will they let me use any of the proceeds? The overheads are huge. I’m sure they’ll wait if I explain the situation to them. Her head swam at the prospect. ‘I don’t know what to say. I feel sick.’ She placed her hand on her stomach and took a deep breath. ‘What am I supposed to do? What does that mean, no money? What the hell is going on?’
The Art of Hiding Page 6
