by Hilary Boyd
Why the hell did I agree to this? Lily asked herself. I can’t lie to him, it’s not fair. But she also knew it wasn’t her place to reveal her daughter’s secret.
‘Know what?’ she asked, her voice more irritated than she’d intended, although her annoyance was with herself, not Stan.
Stan raised his eyebrows, his expression cynical. When he answered it was as if he were talking to a halfwit. ‘That Sara is having an affair.’
‘She told you that?’
‘No, she doesn’t need to.’
‘Stan . . .’
‘Please,’ he begged, grabbing her hand across the table and squeezing it hard. ‘Please, Lily, put me out of my misery. When I ask her she just says I’m being ridiculous, that she’s exhausted, that she doesn’t have time to bloody think, let alone have an affair. But she’s changed. She barely comes home, even though I know she’s not on duty. We never make love . . .’ He paused. ‘And she’s being unusually kind to me.’
Lily knew that Stan would find this last transgression the most telling. Sara was tough; she took no prisoners. She and Stan had always had a very straightforward, unsentimental relationship. No frills. But also – until now – no secrets. ‘Look, Stan. This is between you and Sara. I met you because you sounded so upset. But it’s not fair to ask me stuff you should be asking her.’
Stan let go of her hand and slumped back in his chair, briefly closed his eyes. ‘Right. So that’s a yes.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
He looked away, biting his upper lip. ‘Who is he?’
Lily sighed. ‘Talk to her, Stan. You’ve got to talk to her.’
‘I have. I told you. She just denies it.’
Lily thought of Freddy. She had talked to him time and again, and he always had a plausible answer, one that allayed her fears in the moment. Then his obvious tension would manifest itself again, and she would wonder. He’d been home early last night and they’d had a cosy shepherd’s pie in front of the television – a rare event. But then, around ten, he’d checked his phone and cursed, explained that this famous American record producer was in town and was demanding Freddy join him at Annabel’s. He hadn’t come home at all, just rung to say he was going straight to the studio. Lily didn’t have time to question him before he’d said he loved her and clicked off.
‘Listen,’ Lily said, steering her mind away from thoughts of Freddy. ‘You and Sara have been together a long time. There’s bound to be the odd glitch, especially when you’re both under such pressure at work.’ She tried not to think of her daughter’s radiant face when she’d been telling her about Ted.
But Stan, after a moment of consideration, seemed slightly mollified. ‘You think?’
‘Of course.’
‘So I should just shut up, let things ride?’
Lily thought about this. Maybe it was the best course. Let Sara have her fling. Get over Ted and realize what a mistake it would be to lose Stan. ‘I don’t know. I can’t tell you what to do. But sometimes badgering people only makes things worse. You know how stubborn Sara is.’
Stan nodded dispiritedly.
‘And sometimes it’s not important. You don’t need to know.’ She knew she was talking to herself more than Stan.
His face shut down with a weary acceptance. ‘So there is something to know.’
Lily didn’t reply and Stan must have taken her silence for agreement. He closed his eyes again.
‘Sara loves you, you know that.’ Lily spoke sincerely, but felt like a traitor to both him and Sara. She was glad when her daughter’s boyfriend pushed back his chair and rose to leave.
Chapter 14
At the seventh floor, Freddy exited the lift and wandered outside to gaze at the immaculate roof terrace. The banks of green foliage had the pale translucence of early spring, interspersed with bright splashes of flowers, sky blue benches along the paths and pink and white flamingoes beside the pond. Looking across at the London skyline, he could make out the curved dome of the Royal Albert Hall to the east, bordered by the green swathes of Kensington Gardens, St Mary Abbots church across the high street. He hadn’t announced himself yet: he needed to give out an atmosphere of supreme confidence when he met Suzie, the events manager, and he wanted a few minutes to gather his wits. Another long night at the tables had netted a miserable seven grand, which he was sure he could work up to the seventeen required, but he needed more time.
Suzie was small and charming – as you might expect from someone in her line of work. She shook Freddy’s hand warmly and ushered him to a table in the empty restaurant, where a coffee pot and white cups, a plate of mini croissants and another of strawberries, their tips dipped in chocolate, had been carefully laid out.
‘If you would prefer something stronger . . .’ Suzie said, smiling and indicating the coffee, but Freddy shook his head, gratefully accepting the cup she handed him.
‘Right,’ he said, straightening up. He’d showered at the studio and changed into a dark suit and white shirt – he kept a selection of clothes at his office, in case of all-nighters – and hoped he looked like someone who had seventeen thousand to spend on a wedding. ‘I won’t beat about the bush. I spoke to my stepson, Dillon, and he said you were asking for the balance on the wedding by today.’
Suzie picked up her tablet, which had been lying beside her on the white-clothed table, and clicked it open. ‘That’s right, Mr March. It was actually due last Friday.’ Another friendly smile. But Freddy wasn’t fooled. This was not a woman to mess with, her dark hair too sleek, makeup too perfect and tastefully understated, her gleaming diamond engagement ring too expensive. Tiffany’s, he thought.
‘Well, I appreciate your giving us some leeway . . . Although the wedding isn’t for another four weeks or so.’
Suzie checked her tablet again, although she must have known the date long before the meeting. ‘Three weeks on Friday. The fifteenth of April, yes.’ She looked up at Freddy. ‘But the contract clearly states that the balance is due one calendar month before the event, Mr March.’
‘I realize that. But the thing is . . .’ Freddy leaned a little closer to the table, holding Suzie’s eye ‘. . . it’s a little delicate. I don’t want to bore you, but my wife is the one paying for the wedding, and she hasn’t been well recently . . . Things have been tricky . . . with her affairs . . . if you get my meaning.’
Suzie looked as if she wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded anyway, and seemed drawn in by Freddy’s brown eyes and conspiratorial expression.
‘I’ve taken it in hand,’ he went on, after a pause which signified the seriousness of the problem, ‘and I can have the money to you, absolutely for certain, by Monday.’
Suzie frowned slightly. ‘Well . . . the problem is, we have so many people wanting to book with us. And if you were to default – not that I’m saying you will,’ she added hastily, as Freddy summoned an indignant look, ‘but if you did, it doesn’t give us much time to sort out another client. That’s why we have the rule.’
Freddy nodded sympathetically. ‘Absolutely, I totally see. It could be awkward filling the slot at the last minute. But we have already paid way above the usual deposit, so even in the unlikely event that we were to default – which I assure you we won’t – your losses wouldn’t be sooo great.’ He cocked his head to one side, gave one of his famous smiles. ‘Would they?’
Suzie gave a short sigh. ‘Okay. Let me think about it and get back to you later today, Mr March.’ She didn’t look happy, but she didn’t look too disturbed either. Obviously she had to be seen to be doing her job, but he’d got her, he was sure of that. She just wouldn’t want to lose face.
Freddy stood up. ‘That’s great, Suzie. I can’t tell you how much we all appreciate your help. It’s been such a difficult time . . .’ He reached over and shook her hand quickly, before she could change her mind. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from
you. You have my number, I think. Contact me, rather than my stepson. He’s very busy at the moment.’
She nodded, smiled. ‘I hope things work out for you. Weddings can be so stressful.’
That was generous, Freddy thought, and he immediately felt horribly guilty for his lies – implying Lily was some sort of nutter, unable to manage her affairs. Which he hadn’t until now, so intent was he on getting the result he needed.
Once safely outside the building, he wanted to punch the air. It wasn’t much of a victory – the money was still due by Monday, but Monday was nearly a week away. A great deal could happen in a week.
He walked across the Gardens, past the Round Pond, up towards home. It was a beautiful spring day and Freddy luxuriated in the warmth of the sun as he found a bench near the Peter Pan statue and sat down to think. His head was spinning from lack of sleep, his mouth dry. The sums going round in his head no longer had any coherence. All he knew was that he needed money, and fast. There were still a couple of options, investor-wise, he hadn’t plumbed, but both had major snags.
The first one, Nelson Posner, was basically a gangster, an asset-stripper with no moral conscience. There would be blood – probably Freddy’s – on anything he got from him. The second was an unscrupulous trader, one Morgan Weber, who specialized in shorting – short selling – and had made billions thereby, according to various rich lists Freddy had seen. But although at one stage they had been sort of friends, Morgan was highly competitive and a bully – being mean to waiters was one of his specialities. He would revel in Freddy’s failure, rub his nose in it, then probably not come through. So he would have humiliated himself for nothing.
This was his problem, Freddy understood. From sheer stupidity he had lain down with dogs and now, inevitably, he risked getting fleas. He brushed the idea of either of these two men from his mind. Better to crash and burn than associate himself with villains like that.
He sat there for a long while, people passing the bench alone and in groups, children circling the statue, squirrels darting among the trees. At one stage he dozed off – he didn’t seem to have enough energy to move a muscle. Eventually he decided he would have tea with Lily, then go into town, hole up in one of the establishments he favoured – maybe the Piccadilly Club, he hadn’t been there in a while – not stay out all night again. He was completely exhausted and Lily was worrying again. And who knew? He might sort it out this afternoon. If not, he still had five days before Armageddon.
*
‘So you paid them?’ Lily’s first question, as her husband walked into the penthouse, was laden with anxiety.
He summoned a grin, nodded emphatically. ‘Sorted.’
‘You went in there?’
‘Yup. Saw Miss Suzie Perfect. All done.’
Lily’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Oh, Freddy, thanks so much. Dillon and Gaby will be so relieved.’
Freddy took Lily in his arms, kissed the top of her head, held her against him. ‘I’m sorry it took so long. I didn’t want them to worry.’
‘Doesn’t matter now.’ She raised her head and the love in her eyes made Freddy wince. She was such a good woman – how could he have jeopardized her happiness?
As he held her, he made a fresh vow. As soon as this mess was sorted out, he would get help, start again. There were groups all over London. He had even been to one a couple of years ago with his friend Peter, a reformed gambler who was, like Larry Hedstrom, determined to save Freddy. But the group was so pious and needy, spewing out never-ending tales of self-destruction that he felt bore no relation to himself, he had run a mile. He hadn’t spoken to Peter since.
Freddy made loose leaf tea in the red pot, warmed some cheese scones he’d picked up on the way home, laid two chocolate eclairs on a plate, found butter and blackcurrant jam – delicious with cheese scones – in the fridge and poured milk into a small jug. Then he dug out china cups, saucers and tea plates that had belonged to Lily’s mother, setting it all on the kitchen table along with two lacy linen napkins – also Lily’s mother’s.
As he surveyed his handiwork, he thought the presentation worthy of a food magazine, the sun pouring onto the gleaming white surfaces, showing off the pretty blue and white china and silver spoons, the tempting chocolate buns, the crusty scones, yellow slab of butter and rich, dark jam. This was his haven, his bubble. Nothing could touch him here.
They sat in the tranquil kitchen and talked as they ate. Now that Lily thought the wedding money had been paid, she seemed more relaxed and told him about the little boy who had nearly choked on his rage, and her lunch with Stan.
Freddy pulled a face. ‘God, Lily, you shouldn’t have seen him without telling Sara.’
Clearly irritated, she replied, ‘Well, obviously I know that. I feel terrible. But it would have said just as much if I’d refused to meet him, wouldn’t it?’
‘You didn’t tell him about oily Ted?’ He’d never met the guy, but he was sure he was a no-good chancer.
‘No, but as good as. He was very insistent.’
‘Poor bugger. He should know, anyway.’
‘Does he have to?’ Lily asked. ‘If it’s not serious?’
He frowned. ‘She’s taking away his power, not telling him. It’s always better to be in possession of the facts.’ He had no idea why he’d said that.
‘Well, you’re not telling me all the facts, Freddy March,’ she said after a moment, seeming angry and defiant in the face of Stan’s humiliation. And for a split second Freddy had an almost overwhelming desire, a physical compulsion, to tell her everything. But he stopped himself on the brink of confession. Like Stan, did Lily have to know? Might he not save the day, even now, even at this eleventh hour? He’d done it before.
Chapter 15
Dillon took the call at work. It was after eight on Tuesday evening and the small office was empty. He had been delayed by some last-minute changes to a book they were publishing on sexuality in nineteenth-century Britain. The author, a highly respected historian, was unable to leave the text alone, making myriad changes up to the very last minute – for which Dillon was responsible.
‘Mr Tierney?’
‘Yes?’ he said distractedly, his eyes still on the screen and the Track Change notes from his author.
‘It’s Suzie from the Roof Gardens.’
‘Hi, Suzie.’ He had no sense of premonition, just a weary resignation at having to deal with yet another wedding matter.
‘Umm . . . I’ve left messages for Mr March, but he hasn’t got back to me.’ A pause. ‘I’m afraid we still haven’t received the balance of the money. Mr March promised last week in our meeting it would be with us yesterday, Monday, at the very latest. I can’t hang on any more, Mr Tierney. I’m sure you understand . . . It’s a popular venue . . .’
Dillon, who hadn’t really been listening, frowned, swung away from the screen. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Mr March hasn’t paid the balance.’
‘Hasn’t paid? But . . .’ Dillon’s heart jumped in his chest.
‘I made an exception and extended the deadline till Monday,’ Suzie was saying, her voice sounding genuinely regretful. ‘But there’s no sign of the money. I’ve tried a number of times to contact Mr March, but he hasn’t returned my calls.’
‘Wait. You’re saying you’re cancelling our wedding?’
There was a sigh at the other end of the phone. ‘I’m afraid I have no choice, Mr Tierney. I gather there have been some difficult issues with the family, and I do sympathize. But it clearly states in the contract that the balance is due one calendar month before the event.’
‘What issues?’ Dillon’s head was spinning. His wedding, cancelled?
‘Well, Mr March said . . . I realize it’s delicate—’
‘What’s “delicate”?’
‘I think you should talk to Mr March about it.’ Her tone was flat,
as if she were getting impatient with his questions.
‘Please, please don’t offer our slot to anyone else, Suzie. I’m sure there’s been some stupid mix-up. I know he’s paid. Can you give me half an hour and I’ll sort it? Please.’
Maybe it was his clear desperation, but the events manager hesitated. ‘Umm . . . okay, well, half an hour then. But I honestly can’t hold it any longer, Mr Tierney. This is a caring company, and the last thing any of us want to do is ruin someone’s special day. But I’m sure you can see our point of view. If the money hasn’t been transferred by midday tomorrow, I’m afraid I will have to cancel your booking.’
‘I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks.’
Dillon clicked off and sat for a moment, stunned, swinging his chair from side to side, trying to work out the ramifications of what Suzie had just said. Then he quickly punched in his mother’s number. She didn’t pick up. He followed with Freddy’s. He didn’t pick up either. He tried his mother again. No joy. He left texts for them both, saying, ‘Please ring, very urgent.’
Slamming his phone down on the desk, he got up, not knowing what to do next. He felt sick. The thought of telling Gabriela the news made him feel even more nauseous. I won’t call her till I’ve seen Mum, he thought, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair and closing down the document on the screen. The book would just have to wait. He would come back early in the morning and finish it.
Clutching his bike helmet, he vaulted down the dirty brown-carpeted stairs at the back of the building, which was on the first floor of a Regency terrace, above a dry cleaner’s in a small road behind Upper Street. Pushing open the rear door to the paved patch of garden where he kept his bike, he unclamped the D-lock and pushed the bike through the very narrow alleyway between the houses – which always smelt of piss – onto the pavement. As he zipped up his hooded blue storm jacket and fastened his helmet in place, he realized that his mother and stepfather could be anywhere. They seemed to be out most nights and there was no guarantee that they would be home if he went all the way to Sussex Square. He hesitated, tried his mother’s number for the third time. Just the same irritatingly cheery voice telling him to leave a message. Which he did, again.
