A Perfect Husband

by Hilary Boyd

  Now he sighed and collapsed heavily onto the sofa in front of her. ‘God, Lily, I’m so sorry. I got stuck with this maniac Ukrainian producer, Borys, who says he’s going to put all sorts of business my way. He’s clearly filthy rich, got a massive film studio in Kiev and a mansion on the Embankment . . .’ He yawned. ‘Anyway, he was coked up to the eyeballs from the off, wanted non-stop action, wouldn’t let me go. We did the King’s Road Ivy, then Annabel’s, Hertford Street and Loulou’s – loathe that place . . .’ He yawned again, his face stretched to what looked like breaking point. But Lily was able to focus only on her husband’s bloodshot eyes, his scratchy chin, his sweaty shirt, not on what he was saying. ‘Then, just when I thought I was home free, he insisted I take him fucking gambling. I’ve only just got rid of the man.’

  ‘Why didn’t you phone me, text me, something, so I didn’t lie awake worrying about you all night? I’ve been up since five, imagining what you were up to . . .’

  Freddy raised his eyebrows, a sudden tension in his face, brown eyes unfathomable, as he waited for her to go on.

  ‘I finally came to the conclusion you were in the arms of some horrible girl, sleeping it off after a night of unbridled passion. Sabrine, I thought. Or – or that dreadful Emily.’ On the verge of tears, she heard the brittle note in her voice as she named a couple of socialites she was sure lusted after Freddy: beautiful girls and at least twenty years younger than Lily, who was fifty-four. They had the easy, proprietorial intimacy she so envied. Girls who would hang on Freddy’s arm, make effortless small talk with him in sexy whispers, giggle a lot . . . Manage to imply they had some sort of special relationship based on knowing him longer than Lily had, while at the same time being patronizingly friendly to Lily herself.

  At Lily’s suggestion, Freddy looked aghast, then threw back his head and roared with laughter, so clearly amazed that Lily was taken aback.

  ‘Sabrine? Really? Christ, Lily, I do hope not.’ He continued laughing, a genuine, almost out-of-control giggle – tiredness a contributory factor, no doubt – only stopping to draw breath before starting all over again. ‘And Emily? Blimey, I wouldn’t trust my body to her cold-eyed scrutiny. Anyway, her bottom line is a Learjet. She wouldn’t drop her drawers for anything less.’

  Lily, despite her genuine annoyance with him, couldn’t resist a smile.

  ‘Seriously? You thought that?’ Freddy was on his feet and had her wrapped in his arms before she had a chance to change her mind. Looking into her eyes, his own suddenly intense, he said, ‘I don’t fancy those women, Lily, honestly I don’t. I wouldn’t touch them with a bargepole. You need never, ever worry about my screwing another woman. I just wouldn’t.’

  Scooping her up in her dressing-gown, he carried Lily to the bedroom and laid her on the bed, leaning over her and gently running his fingers through her short, satiny-brown crop. Freddy said the colour was ‘truffle’ – he loved the softness of her hair, although she despaired of its fineness. He brushed the long fringe off her forehead, slowly bending to kiss her mouth as he slipped his hand inside her robe and found her small, naked breast.

  It was only much later, after they had made love, slept a bit, woken and showered, made coffee and scrambled eggs, only after Freddy had gone off to the studio, that Lily had time to think. Although she was totally convinced he was telling the truth about last night, she still didn’t understand what was really bothering him. She couldn’t forget the look on his face when he’d walked through the door that morning. It wasn’t the look of a man who’d just had a tedious night with a Ukrainian producer – bonding was par for the course with Freddy. It was the look of a man in complete despair. But the lovemaking, especially after so long, had soothed her. She hadn’t wanted to spoil the moment.

  Chapter 4

  Freddy did not go to his studio. As he was leaving the block of flats, his phone rang. Staring at the screen, he bit his lip, hesitated, then reluctantly answered. The call lasted barely ten seconds. Apart from ‘Hi’, the only words Freddy uttered were ‘Fifteen minutes’, before he clicked off, striding purposefully towards Lancaster Gate Tube.

  *

  Lau Heng’s office was two floors above a shiny red and gold Chinese restaurant on the corner of Soho’s Gerrard Street and Newport Place, facing the entrance to what is generally referred to as the ‘Chinese car-park’. It was an unimpressive place for such a successful man: Mr Lau – Freddy had learned the Chinese surname comes first – owned numerous restaurants in Chinatown, a casino and properties all over Soho. The two rooms were dingy white, worn brown carpet tiles underfoot, grey metal filing cabinets lining the walls, the glass in the windows dull with city grime. There was no computer on Heng’s desk, just a tidy pile of stacked letters, a red lacquer cup holding a clutch of new-looking biros, pencils, a pair of black-handled scissors, and three identical mobile phones in a neat line on the leather desk surface. It was Lin, his assistant, dwarfed by the wide-screen desktop in the outer office, who apparently held the reins of the online environment.

  When Lin saw Freddy she nodded briefly. ‘Go in,’ she said, indicating her boss’s door. Freddy had long since stopped trying to charm the severe middle-aged woman, always dressed in black, her dark fringe low over wary eyes.

  Freddy knocked and tentatively pushed open the door, forcing himself to breathe slowly to maintain the appearance of calm. Lau Heng would immediately scent any iota of fear.

  ‘Freddy!’ He was seated behind his desk, beaming broadly. He managed to look pleasantly surprised to see Freddy, although he’d summoned him to his office not half an hour before. He was a small round man in his fifties, grey hair brush-cut short, smartly dressed in a dark tailored suit and open-necked white shirt. His heavy black-rimmed glasses gave him an air of seriousness, belied by his almost permanent grin. ‘Come in, come in. Take a seat.’ He indicated the only other chair in the room, a treacherous blue swivel number with chrome feet that had sent Freddy sliding across the carpet tiles on a previous visit. But today he did as Lau Heng asked and perched gingerly on the padded seat.

  Mr Lau continued to beam, small hands placed on the desk in front of him, palms down, waiting.

  Freddy took a breath. ‘You wanted to see me.’ There wasn’t anything else he could think of to say: the loan the Chinese man had given him was so long overdue, the conversation they were about to have so painfully familiar.

  ‘I am hoping you have some good news for me.’ His accent was almost entirely English – Lau Heng had come to London from Hong Kong when he was twelve; only his slightly sing-song intonation was Chinese.

  ‘It’s been a bit of a rough time,’ Freddy said, after a pause that he hoped might indicate the huge pressure he was under and elicit some sympathy. ‘But I intend to pay back at least half by the end of the month.’

  It was bollocks, of course, and Lau Heng knew it. On previous occasions, however, he’d nodded and pretended to believe Freddy. Not so today.

  ‘Hmm . . . half. I’m afraid we have come to the end of that road, Mr March.’ He lifted his hands towards him as if to say ‘Over to you’, and waited, his dark eyes behind his spectacles never leaving Freddy’s face.

  Freddy squirmed. ‘Mr March’, is it? Not the usual ‘Freddy’. Of course he felt bad about the debt – or ‘loan’, as he preferred to call it – but not very bad. Lau Heng wasn’t short of a bob or two and Freddy would repay it as soon as he could lay his hands on it. ‘You know I’m good for it, Mr Lau.’

  The businessman raised his eyebrows slightly, said nothing.

  ‘I take this very seriously,’ Freddy went on, lowering his eyes to show respect. ‘But I’ve got clients who owe me a shedload of money and they’re dragging their feet, so I haven’t been paid myself for months. I know they’ve got it, so it won’t be a problem in the long term. I just need a few more weeks.’

  Saying it made part of him believe the lie. Why not? There were always clients who
hadn’t paid. Freddy conveniently skated over the fact that, even if they did, it wouldn’t scratch the surface of his debt to Lau Heng. And he had paid himself his salary, regularly and in full, plus the odd bonus he never really justified.

  The man on the other side of the desk shook his head very slightly. The beam, however, still seemed perfectly genuine – the sort of smile to which it was hard not to respond. And he liked Lau Heng. They had always got on well when they had met in his casino, years ago now, before Freddy had made the rash decision to borrow money from the man.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr March. I hear what you are saying, but I don’t feel it would help either of us to let this situation slide.’

  Freddy noted the tone and gave up being bullish. ‘I need more time. Please, just four weeks, Mr Lau.’ He cast himself on the man’s mercy, his brown eyes imploring.

  After a long moment, during which Lau Heng’s mouth tightened, he said, ‘The first of April. No more time.’

  ‘Thank you. I absolutely promise you will have your money by then.’

  Freddy felt almost faint with exhilaration. Nearly sixty thousand pounds and three weeks to find it might not have sounded so thrilling to most people, but the important thing was that he had bought time. Lau Heng would not send round his terrifying gang of enforcers. Not yet, anyway.

  He tripped on the step into the street and nearly went flying, his heart racing in his chest, so keen was he to get away from that smile and all it implied. Crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, he strode at a fast pace along Frith Street, cut through Soho Square gardens, past Govinda’s and the Hari Krishna temple, navigated Oxford Street and into Rathbone Place, heading for one of his favourite coffee shops. He ordered a double espresso and sat at one of the narrow wooden tables, which was riveted to the floor, gazing out of the plate-glass windows onto the street. It was thronged with young, über-cool advertising people, disgorged from a number of high-end agencies in the surrounding streets.

  I have been here before, he thought. I’ve wriggled out of worse than this.

  But the time he was remembering was not the same, not worse by any means. Back then, he’d been younger and with no ties. He’d basically had nothing to lose. Now he had so much. He cursed himself, realizing what a fool he’d been for thinking he could lead a normal life, for believing he could have a business and a wife, even a family, her children becoming his.

  Lily. He inhaled slowly, his thoughts returning painfully to the moment this morning when he’d kissed her. The anxiety in those clear hazel eyes, the way his kisses had gradually dispelled her fear. She had slipped under the wire that very first morning he’d set eyes on her in the Marylebone shop. Not a beautiful woman in the accepted sense, she had nonetheless stopped his breath, the frail quality in her slim figure belying a steady, thoughtful expression and poise. She looked like someone who would know how to listen. And however unexpected and bizarre, it was a soul connection. He couldn’t have ignored it if he’d tried. She seemed to complete his life, make him see what he’d been missing all these years. He had been so sure he could clean up his act for her. And at first he had. Months had gone by after he’d met Lily without a single flutter.

  Freddy shook his head, trying to focus on the current problem. No point dwelling on what might have been. But his normally quick brain seemed unable to come up with a plan. The situation had burgeoned to such chaotic levels that every way his thoughts led they skidded to a halt. So absorbed had he been in his habit that he’d taken his eye off the ball. Deals he should have clinched, he’d messed up, his head elsewhere. Extravagances such as the improvements to the studio equipment, the state-of-the-art soundproofing, taking on too many staff, were way beyond budget and mostly unnecessary for a small business like his. But gambling was not just a roulette habit: it was intrinsic to Freddy’s personality. He would always, always assume that he would find the money, the deal would be done and things would turn out exactly as he dreamed they would.

  The pending court judgement on the company would kick in any day now: next month’s salaries were in jeopardy; the bank was screaming, daily, for resolution of the overdraft; Lau had given him three weeks; and Barney, his endlessly accommodating bookie, had cancelled his account and was not returning his calls. Not a good sign: Barney was a mate. And HMRC . . . He couldn’t even think about them. This was just the sharp end of his nightmare.

  The final straw was the overdue rent on the penthouse. Every time he went home he expected the locks would have been changed, expected to find Lily sobbing in a heap by the front door, expected to see someone’s muscle waiting by the lift to break his kneecaps.

  He could have dealt with all of that, though, if it hadn’t been for Lily. She believed in him. Nobody in his life ever had before. Sure, he was always able to charm people into doing what he wanted, but he sensed they did it despite their better judgement, because they wanted to trust him, not because they actually did. But Lily got him. She loved him for being Freddy, not for his superficial charms. The thought of her finding out the scale of his financial meltdown made the coffee he’d just swallowed rise in his throat.

  Fingering the bundles of cash in his coat pockets from last night’s casino win, and knowing that any payment had to be in cash from now on – his credit lines were all shot – he made a calculation of priorities. Rent. That would take half of it. He had to leave himself enough of a stake to win more, but Lily’s security must come first. If the penthouse went, the game would be up.

  Horses? he wondered, calculating how to make the most of the remaining money. The payback on just one bet could be huge. Freddy, a solidly loyal roulette man now, had nevertheless made a lot of money on the nags – and occasionally the dogs – over the years. And lost a lot too. But he always felt the track was his father’s domain. He experienced a sudden flashback of the sleazy betting shop in Fosse Road South, Leicester, glimpsed, as a boy, when his mother had dispatched him to fetch Vinnie home. He would put his head round the door to be confronted by the familiar shuffling desperation of a room full of no-hopers, the pungent miasma of booze and fags, the despair – almost tangible, even to a child – in the litter of discarded betting slips. Then his father’s sullen pretence that he couldn’t hear Freddy’s call. Freddy had vowed, back then, that he would never, ever gamble a single penny of his money. It was so bloody dumb.

  But twenty-five to one, ten thousand on the nose? Quarter of a million, plus the ten thousand stake: two hundred and sixty thousand pounds. Even half that, twelve to one – more likely odds for a potential winner – would net a hundred and twenty, plus stake. Freddy allowed himself a moment to imagine the thrill of winning that amount.

  It would sort some of it. Shut Mr Lau up, sub the wages for a month. The bank and the taxman would have to wait, but he could throw them a small bone. There wouldn’t be enough to cover the County Court Judgement against the studio: that was those bloody accountants who seemed to think he owed them a mint. Christ, they’ve waited for years, why go for me now? But the court had not yet set a date; it would probably be months before he even had to appear. By which time . . .

  Problem was, which bookie would take the bet? He needed someone absolutely reliable. Barney was a genius, but he would want his money back first. He did a mental trawl through the options and settled on Jansen Cole, commonly known as JC, a young guy, very ambitious, he’d met through his friend Fish. JC seemed impressed by the famous people Freddy knew. And horses were his thing. He’d said a number of times that if ever Freddy needed help . . . He leaned back on the stool and dug out his mobile from his jeans pocket. He was feeling slightly better now he had a plan. He did not even entertain the possibility that the horse might lose.

  Chapter 5

  Dillon watched his mother push open the heavy glass door of the café. He saw the face of the maître d’ light up as he welcomed her. Business-like to the point of rudeness, the man, in his trendy suit – which looked deliberately two size
s too small – with his flicked-back fringe, designer stubble and pointed black lace-ups, took no prisoners when it came to the average customer. But for his mother his face softened as he kissed her on both cheeks. Everyone loved his mum.

  Dillon rose from his seat to welcome her.

  ‘This is a treat,’ she said, sliding into the leather banquette opposite him.

  He smiled. ‘Got to be allowed the occasional skive.’

  Dillon was the spit of his dead father: tall, broad-shouldered and athletic, with clear blue eyes in a strong face, his dark hair rumpled from the cycling helmet that sat on the seat beside him – he biked everywhere. But he had none of his father’s drive. His current job was as an editorial assistant for a small academic publisher in Islington. The salary was rubbish, but he loved the team. And the low-pressure, although still diligent, approach to the work suited him. Dillon hated stress.

  ‘How’s Gaby?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Yeah, good. Crazy busy as usual. I hardly see her.’ His Brazilian fiancée was the ambitious one of the two, her small theatre company, always on the verge of extinction from lack of funds, demanding every minute God sent, with almost no financial reward and, as yet, no critical acclaim either.

  ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ Lily asked.

  ‘Sometimes, I suppose. But she loves it, Mum. I either accept her as she is, or get out.’ He chuckled. ‘You know her. Can you imagine the fallout if I tried to control her?’ Gabriela was feisty, vibrant, full of energy – it was what he loved about her.

  His mum smiled. ‘Not a pretty sight, I’d imagine.’

  Dillon was never quite sure if his mother approved of his girlfriend. She was always kind and welcoming to her – and never criticized her to him – but he felt they had little in common, except himself. The clue was the odd remark, such as ‘She obviously makes you happy’, which implied reservations.