by Hilary Boyd
She shot them all another withering stare before turning on her heel and walking, head held high, into the house, her sandals swishing on the concrete. Neither Dillon nor his sister had had time to speak.
‘Wow,’ said Ted, blowing his cheeks out.
‘Wow, indeed,’ Helen retorted, also getting up.
‘I suppose we have been a bit unfair to her,’ Dillon muttered to no one in particular, glancing at his aunt, then towards the house. He was hurt by his mother’s words, but he also felt guilty. He had been avoiding her.
Helen shrugged, picking up the plate on which a lopsided pile of cupcakes still remained.
‘At least she sounds as if she’s over Freddy,’ Sara said, voice also low. ‘I’d better go and see if she’s all right,’ she added, getting up and letting go of Ted’s hand.
‘No,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll go.’
Chapter 40
Max and Julie Blackstone’s house was in the heart of Notting Hill, minutes from the Tube station and Holland Park Avenue. A rambling detached house with a paved area for cars in front, a large garden and terrace at the back, the Blackstones had filled it with modern art: everything from the rampant verdigris stag that greeted you as you came through the front door to the curved wave shape made from glued-together black vinyl records – 78s, 45s and LPs – in the well below the staircase, and the mosaic of Usain Bolt on the sitting-room wall next to the fireplace. The décor was a bit worn – neither Julie nor Max was particularly fussy about things being pristine, despite all their money – and the house had a relaxed, lived-in feel, with plenty of light and comfortable sofas, big towels and a kitchen with wooden dressers and a red Aga rather than the fashionably chilly marble, steel and white interiors favoured by many with similar wealth.
It was late in the evening of Freddy’s arrival in London. Julie was curled up on the sofa with a glass of red wine, and Max was pacing about – he was never still for long – with a bottle of Peroni swinging by the neck from his right hand. He was filling Freddy in about the progress of his various investment projects since they’d last talked.
Max had thrown some steaks onto the barbecue earlier, while Julie was concocting a huge salad, and they had sat on the terrace in the light from four yellow garden candles until it began to drizzle. Freddy felt a wave of exhaustion as he lay back against the plump cushions on the sofa opposite Julie. He closed his eyes, his hands clasped loosely over his belly, his ankles crossed.
It was bliss to be there with his oldest friends after months in the wilderness. He had always got on with Julie. Down-to-earth and intelligent, she was a vivacious redhead with a rounded, voluptuous figure who took no prisoners. The money Max had heaped upon her seemed to have made little difference to her soul, even if it had to her lifestyle. She still held to her northern Labour roots, still spoke with a soft Darlington accent, still made beady deals on holidays and flights, cars and clothes – no thousand-pound designer dresses for Julie, although she could well afford them.
‘Haven’t you told Freddy about the food trucks?’ Julie’s voice penetrated his doze and he opened his eyes to see her face alive with enthusiasm.
‘What food trucks?’
Max grinned. ‘Ah, yes, I was getting to that. A new departure . . . bit of a gamble if I’m honest.’
Freddy waited.
‘Okay.’ Max set his empty beer bottle on the mantelpiece and went to sit next to his friend. ‘We thought . . .’ he shot his wife a glance ‘. . . we thought it was about time trendy London got to experience some north-east delicacies.’
Freddy pulled a face. ‘Such as?’
Max chuckled. ‘Which is what most people would say. Not a region exactly famed for its food, right? But I’m telling you, things like pan haggerty, saveloy dip, singin’ hinny . . .’
‘Not even sure what they are,’ Freddy said.
‘No! Well, you have it from us that it’s proper soul food, eh, Julie?’
Julie nodded and took over. ‘We think people have had enough of the same old same old: burgers, burritos, pasties and fusion stuff. They’re in every food market, every festival and fair now. Along with stalls that peddle murky salads with tofu and kale, yams and suspicious sprouting things we’ve never heard of.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Why on earth would you want to eat the likes of chia seeds or amaranth, unless you have the digestive system of a camel?’
Laughing, Freddy said, ‘So you’re going to give them soul food from the north?’
They both nodded.
‘We’re not Geordies, but the food will be labelled “Geordie”. It’s a recognizable USP. We’ll be doing proper tasty, easy-to-eat hearty snacks,’ Max said. ‘Give you a coronary if you ate it all the time, man, but for lunch on a nithering November Tuesday, you can’t fucking beat it.’
‘These’ll be trucks on the street, will they? Or just at markets and festivals?’
‘We’re starting with five, putting them round the Shoreditch area, Borough Market, the South Bank. There’s loads of competition, but our food will make a punter’s mouth water.’
‘Won’t the trendies be freaked out about their waistlines?’
‘Ours’ll be healthier versions – less fat, less sugar, all that bollocks. But tempt them with a saveloy dip and a cherry cola? We’ll have them by the short and curlies, calories be damned.’
‘Maybe.’ Freddy thought about it, then nodded slowly. ‘People are always looking for the new thing.’
‘Say what you really think, Freddy,’ Julie said, the expression on her round face suddenly focused. ‘No bullshit.’ She picked up her mobile from the coffee table between them and began to scroll through photographs. ‘We’ve gone for northern cheesy – the trucks are old bread vans.’ She began to hum the music from the Hovis commercial as she came round to sit next to Freddy and flick through a series of images on the screen of dark green vans with a serving hatch open along the side.
*
It was only after Julie had gone to bed and Max had poured Freddy a cognac in a small brandy balloon that his friend moved closer and lowered his voice. ‘You heard all the stuff about the new business. Well, I’d like to involve you.’
Freddy’s heart skipped a beat. A job?
‘But . . . you know what I’m going to say, man.’ Max shifted on the cushion till he was facing Freddy, his arm across the back of the massive sofa.
Freddy did know. Returning Max’s look as steadily as his tired eyes would allow, he said, ‘I haven’t gambled a single penny of my money since I left London in April. Not a single penny.’
Max didn’t immediately cheer for joy, instead he continued to stare at his friend. ‘You didn’t have a single penny. Does that count?’
‘I had enough. You don’t need much for stake money.’
‘Okay . . . That’s good, then.’ His tone was cautious. ‘But now you’re back, are you intending to get help, make sure you stay away from the tables? I know you think you can do it on your own, but I’m telling you, Freddy, you fucking can’t. No one can.’
Freddy didn’t say anything, just took a sip of his drink and felt the liquid burning pleasantly in his throat.
‘I’m not going to give you money just to see it fill the pockets of some casino gangster.’
‘Give me money for what?’ Freddy sat up.
‘I’d like help with the food trucks. PR stuff, marketing, networking . . . the stuff you’re brilliant at. Me and Julie were thinking of a glitzy launch mid-September. We’d love all those celebrity mates of yours to pitch up.’
Freddy closed his eyes for a second. ‘I can do that,’ he said, before his face broke into a huge grin. ‘I can totally do that, Max.’
His friend held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute. There’s still things to discuss. For instance, what happened to your gambling debts? Presumably they aren’t covered by the bankruptcy.’
‘Have you been in touch with them, negotiated some payback situation?’
‘How can I? I haven’t got a fucking bean, Max. That’s why I disappeared. I’m just hoping they’ll forget about me.’
Max gave a cynical snort. ‘Very likely, that.’ He was silent for a while and seemed to be considering something. He stood up, paced around, then came back and stood in front of Freddy as he sat on the sofa.
‘Okay. Listen to me. I said I’d help if you could prove you’d stopped gambling for a decent amount of time. You’ve lied to me before on this score, I know, but you seem to be telling the truth this time. So . . . if you tell me what you owe to the ones who’ll cause the most trouble, I’ll pay them off. A loan, mind. I’ll expect it back when you’ve made your next million.’
Freddy was about to speak, but Max held his hand up again. ‘I haven’t finished. As I said, I’d like to use your nous on the food truck project – if you’re interested – and obviously I’ll pay you for that. But I can’t risk being associated with someone who racks up debt with loan sharks and gangsters. You need to get professional help for your habit, Freddy.’
At that precise moment Freddy would have agreed to walk the length and breadth of the Sahara Desert barefoot if his friend had asked him to. He was overwhelmed, stunned by his generosity. The most he’d hoped for was a bit of support in some new venture. ‘Would you really do that, Max? Pay off my debts and give me a job? Oh, my God . . . I can’t believe you’d . . .’ His eyes filled with tears.
Max was embarrassed. ‘Okay, okay, don’t go and cry, you soppy bastard, or I will too.’ He glanced away, looked back. ‘So do we have a deal, then? You’ll keep your side of the bargain?’
‘I’ll sign on to Gamblers Anonymous in the morning.’
‘Don’t just sign on. Go to the meetings, Freddy. Keep going.’
‘Keep going and going,’ Freddy echoed firmly.
Max held his hand out and gave him a hearty shake. ‘Fucking good to see you, man. I’ve missed you.’
Chapter 41
The morning was hot and cloudless. In the garden, Lily was working, her laptop perched on the rickety wooden table, barefoot, wearing sunglasses and David’s battered straw hat against the glare. Being outside made it hard to concentrate, though, and she found her mind wandering. Thoughts of previous summers with Freddy – driving to the Italian lakes, swimming in the pounding surf at Biarritz, shopping in the covered Marché Forville in Cannes, where a sea bass cost more than the national debt. She closed her eyes, let her hands fall from the keyboard. It was too hot to work, too hot to think.
Lily had been looking for somewhere to live. She was still embarrassed by her angry outburst at the twins’ party a week ago – which she had only partially made good with her children – and guilty that she’d allowed them to believe her relationship with Freddy was well and truly over. But maybe it was. Maybe she knew, deep down, and her brain was just refusing to acknowledge the painful truth.
Until she knew for certain, she felt she had to follow up on her assertion that things were under control. She felt like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights, though. The minimum rental in the area was seven hundred a month, for a miserable box of a ‘studio’. Plus there would be a deposit, then the ongoing utilities. She could just about afford it now, with the money she’d saved, but she wouldn’t be able to afford it for more than a couple of months without securing a better job first. And it would surely be grim, basic . . . lonely.
But Helen and David were going away the day after tomorrow for their annual walking holiday in the Salzkammergut. They would be gone for two weeks, staying at the same Gasthof in St Gilgen – on the Wolfgangsee – where they’d summered for the last ten years. So at least there was a short reprieve: she would have the place to herself.
Her sister, with the end of the academic year almost upon her, had been giddy with the prospect of the three-month break – even taking into account departmental meetings, clearing after the A-level results and the new book she intended to research. She had been easier to live with, less combative. Almost, and Lily hesitated to use the word, cheerful, their argument about Lily’s lifestyle not referred to again. But it wouldn’t do to settle back, Lily knew. Helen’s moods could turn on a penny. She had to have something sorted before they got back.
A shadow fell across her face and she opened her eyes, blinked, thinking it was David.
‘Hi, Aunty Lily.’ Kit stood beside her. She could smell the rank whiff of unwashed clothes coming off him.
‘Kit! You startled me.’ She closed her laptop, immediately apprehensive. Silhouetted against the sun, she couldn’t see his face clearly. ‘Sit down. Can I get you some tea? A drink?’
She was ashamed of her nerves. This is Kit, she told herself, but wondered at the same time how she might go inside to make tea, taking her laptop and phone with her, without embarrassing them both in the process.
‘Nah, I’m okay at the moment,’ he said, pulling out a chair on the other side of the table and sitting down. ‘I thought you might be here,’ he added.
‘Did you?’ Had he been watching her?
‘Well, stands to reason. You work from home.’ He glanced at the computer.
‘You got me into a lot of trouble last time,’ she said. He appeared healthier than he had before, she thought. Tanned, maybe a little less gaunt. But his eyes held the same haunted, nervy expression, as if he were constantly prepared for flight. ‘Your mother went ballistic, blamed me for giving you money. And your dad got it in the neck for the key.’ She knew David had taken the key back weeks ago. Had Kit been intending to break in today? It wouldn’t be hard.
He smiled. ‘Yeah? Sorry about that.’
‘Why have you come?’
Kit, playing with a red elastic band he had round his wrist, shrugged, didn’t look at her. ‘Umm . . . I wanted to talk to you, Aunty Lily.’
Kit’s use of ‘Aunty’ felt like a hangover from childhood. The twins had dropped the term with Helen and David years ago.
‘About what?’
Her nephew hesitated, then turned the full charm of his beautiful grey eyes upon her, inclining his head slightly to the side, almost as if he were intending to seduce her.
‘Umm, I know they’re going to Austria on Saturday. Dad told me. And I thought maybe I could crash here while they’re away . . . maybe get some help.’ He offered another appealing smile, which sat uneasily on his ravaged features. ‘You said last time I was here that I could stay if I wanted, and I’ll never get clean if I hang around the squat. People come and go at all hours, use the place to score, shoot up . . . The police don’t come within a mile.’
Lily didn’t know what to say.
‘I wouldn’t be a bother. I could sleep on the sofa . . .’ The boyish pleading was hard to hear.
‘You know I can’t do that, Kit.’
‘But,’ he leaned forward, eyes wide, ‘it’s my only chance, Aunty Lily. I’ll never get away from them otherwise. Please, please, think about it. You won’t know I’m here, I promise. Just until they get back . . . No need to tell them anything.’
Her heart wanted to believe him. How wonderful would it be to help her nephew kick his habit, bring him back into the family? For a second she imagined Helen’s grateful smile. But her head balked at the idea of being responsible for someone who was so volatile and manipulative. So sick.
‘I can’t. It would be betraying my sister. I can’t do it.’
Kit leaned back in his chair. She could see the muscles in his cheek twitching, his eyes blinking double time.
Glancing down the garden, he pointed to the magnolia. ‘Do you remember the camp me and Dill had under the tree? God, I loved that place. It felt so safe, so . . . mine.’
Lily co
uldn’t help smiling at the memory of her son and his hero cousin, little boys – one blond, the other dark – crouched for hours beneath a construction of blankets and towels balanced on fruit boxes and sticks. Kit had been the master builder, a genius at creating a cosy, secret world from which all adults were firmly excluded. Dillon had wanted never to come out.
‘Those were the days,’ Kit was saying, his eyes never leaving Lily’s face. He’d seen the softening of her features, she was sure, and wanted to drive home his advantage. Or was she being cynical? Did the man really want to change?
‘If you want to come home,’ she said, ‘you’ll have to ask your parents. This isn’t my house.’
‘But you know what Mum’s like. She’ll never let me back in unless I can prove I’m clean. And I can’t get clean unless I get away from those people.’
‘Have you tried methadone?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Won’t work for me. Remember, I’m like you, an asthmatic.’
He may be a drug addict, but he’s not stupid, Lily thought, remembering Helen’s euphoria when her son got his doctorate so young. She had no recollection at all of him being asthmatic.
‘Do you really want to stop, Kit?’ she asked.
His face suddenly became animated. ‘God, yes. Of course I do! Do you think this is any sort of a life? Do you think living in a shithole surrounded by violence and pain – death sometimes – is what I had in mind for myself? What anyone has in mind for themselves? Aunty Lily, we’ve always had a bond, you and me. You got me. Please, please, help. Give me the chance to prove myself.’
There was silence for a moment. Why, if he didn’t want to give up, was he begging this favour of her? It didn’t make sense.
‘You’re asking too much of me, Kit. You need professional help, people who understand how to bring someone down off drugs. You can’t do it on your own, on your parents’ sofa. It would be hell.’
