by Paula Daly
Our family became fractured.
Sick with shame, I became the culpable person everyone now knew me to be: not to be trusted with money, not to be given any real responsibility, looked upon with a combination of disdain and pity.
And Petra lost her babysitters. Which was what today’s dig at Liz was really about. If you didn’t lose all that money, I wouldn’t have to make do with Vince’s sister …
And so it went on. We danced around the issue with normal sisterly chitchat, Petra covering her annoyance and disappointment in the best way she knew how, but, ultimately, all roads led back to this: How could you have sabotaged our parents’ lives in that way?
I wish I had the answer.
Petra gave a small shudder as though to rid herself of the negative energy that threatened to take hold. ‘Lecture over,’ she said, and placed her hand on top of mine. ‘Listen, we’re going out to dinner with Scott and Nadine on Saturday – nothing flash – why don’t you come? My treat.’
‘No, I … I have to—’
Petra turned to face me and frowned. ‘What do you have to do? It’s not your weekend to have George, is it?’
‘No, but I …’
I couldn’t think fast enough. Words escaped me. Lies escaped me. There was no way I could sit through a dinner with Scott and Nadine after spending the whole of Friday night with Scott.
‘Roz?’ she prompted. ‘What’s going on? Are you seeing someone?’
‘No,’ I said quickly, and immediately realized I should have said yes. A pretend relationship would be the perfect foil in this instance.
Petra, bewildered, shook her head, before giving my hand a squeeze. ‘I know what this is about,’ she said. ‘And it’s high time you got over this inferiority thing, Roz. You can’t keep thinking of yourself as worthless like this. Just because Scott and Nadine are wealthy doesn’t mean they won’t want to spend time with you. They’re not like that. They don’t judge the way other people do.’
I stared down at our clasped hands, unable to bear looking at my sister.
‘Please come,’ she pressed. ‘I know you’ll enjoy it. I’d love you to be there, and you never get out for a nice meal. Go on.’
I was about to speak when she cut me off.
‘Roz,’ she said seriously, ‘I will take it as a personal insult if you don’t.’
15
LIKE A LOT of criminals, it wasn’t the crime itself that was problematic, rather, it was what to do with the cash.
In an age when everything is digitized, from earnings to dental appointments, clearing debts with freshly minted twenty-pound notes was not as straightforward as I first thought. In fact, it wasn’t straightforward at all.
I had assumed I could deposit the four thousand Scott paid me directly into my bank account and, from there, I could pay my rent arrears.
But no.
Shortly after making the deposit I received a phone call from my bank, apologetic, but firm nonetheless, requiring verification of the origin of the cash deposited. They were now obligated to check on large cash withdrawals and deposits in the fight against fraud. Thinking on my feet, I explained that the money was a loan from my parents to help me out of a financial fix, but it was quickly apparent that I would not be able to use this excuse on a regular basis. If ever again. Apart from anything else, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs would also want to know the source of any further deposits.
What I thought was a fail-safe way to earn my way out of debt suddenly wasn’t. And it got me wondering, just exactly how did those escorts operating from their spare bedrooms in their semidetached houses ‘show’ the money they earned? You can’t run a home on nothing. Either they were claiming benefits and the cash supplemented their income or else they listed their occupations as something other than ‘prostitute’ on their tax returns. ‘Masseuse’, perhaps.
I had an appointment with Scott that evening, as George was to be picked up directly from after-school club by Winston (the international man of business was now back in the country, it appeared), so I had the rest of the afternoon to come up with a way of accepting payment for my services that didn’t arouse suspicion. It seemed almost unfair. I was doing my utmost to pay off my debts, but the law said I wasn’t allowed to do it in this way. I thought about the drug dealers that commonly featured on Traffic Cops, their pimped-up Range Rovers with the blacked-out windows, and wondered how they got away with it (assuming drugs, like escorting, was a mostly cash business).
As it turned out, Scott was experiencing similar difficulties. And to make sure I didn’t turn on my heel and leave mid-date when I discovered he was without a satchel full of cash, he made an impromptu call at the clinic to discuss our arrangement, our options and to put a new proposal to me.
It would be this decision, within the list of bad decisions, that would send our lives on the roller-coaster trajectory that was to change everything.
Earlier, I had dropped George at school with a small rucksack containing the essential toys and bits and pieces for his stay with his dad. Winston, though incompetent in paying me child support, was fairly good at providing enough clothes, pyjamas and games consoles. And because Dylis supplied three square meals a day and a constant offering of clean laundry, I never worried George was going without when he stayed over there. George and Winston would rollick around, following their noses into adventures, with none of the ties or responsibilities that anchored most parents to their homes at the weekends. I imagined it was like staying with your favourite carefree bohemian uncle, and a weekend of this was probably just what George needed, after the upheaval following the bailiff’s visit and the meeting with the head teacher.
After speaking to Winston at length about George’s stealing, Winston finally admitted that George had stolen from his mother a few times as well. When I’d blown my top at him for keeping it from me, his response was ‘He just wanted a dog, Roz. Don’t be so hard on him.’
‘Well, he can’t have a dog, can he? He knows he can’t have a dog while we’re in rented accommodation.’
I didn’t stick the knife in as I might. Didn’t drag up that it was Winston’s fault that the dog had gone in the first place. Because it was pointless. Not because we were past tit for tat but because it would be lost on Winston. He would no more make the connection between his infidelity and George’s dogless state than he would between it and my moonlighting for extra cash. As far as Winston was concerned, his behaviour didn’t have repercussions.
Winston told me he’d found over fifty pounds stuffed inside George’s pillowcase – which meant he’d been at it for far longer than any of us suspected. And probably meant he’d thieved from Petra and Vincent on a number of occasions as well. I decided to keep that piece of information to myself for now, confident that my warning to George of No dogs ever again was enough of a deterrent against his stealing in the future.
It was around 11 a.m. when I heard the telltale roar of the Ferrari outside in the car park. Peculiar, isn’t it, how an elderly woman over-revving her Fiat Panda’s 900cc engine is mocked heartily by people but doing the exact same thing in a performance car commands general respect?
I could hear Wayne tripping over his feet, scrambling to get to the front door to greet Scott, in expectation of another ride through the Lyth Valley. Scott had tolerated Wayne, he told me, to get to me. He’d given him a loop of countryside, riding through Winster, taking a right to Strawberry Bank, over Gummer’s Howe and finally speeding north along the eastern shore of Windermere before depositing Wayne back at the clinic. Somewhere during the twenty-minute journey Scott reported that Wayne began to speak differently, changing the cadence and rhythm of his words to match that of Jeremy Clarkson. When I’d scoffed at this, ridiculed Wayne, Scott told me it happened with every man who rode with him. It was an unconscious thing, and they really didn’t know they were doing it.
Rather than wait for Wayne’s knock on the door, I popped my head out. The patient I was with was prone, stippled with
acupuncture needles, and could be left alone for a few minutes. Patients were often reluctant to continue the conversation with needles stuck in their head. I suppose they worried that any movement at all might result in their brain being skewered. Not possible, but I wouldn’t discharge this information readily, as I enjoyed the brief snatches of silence it afforded.
The clinic door was wide open, with Wayne standing on the threshold, his back towards me. We’d had a monsoon-like downpour that morning, the rain rhythmically thrumming on the roof, like a marching military band. The delicate, desiccated scents of summer that for the past few weeks had been carried on the breeze were now in vapour form. And all at once the air had become dense, sickly sweet and overbearing.
Scott must have dawdled inside the car, as it was only now that I heard the car door slam, followed by Wayne clapping his hands together, greeting Scott in a way that was meant to be blokey but sounded sycophantic.
Seeing me peer out of the treatment room, Scott said he needed to speak to me as a matter of great urgency and, where Wayne would no doubt usually ignore a request such as this from a patient – telling them I could not be disturbed, they must make an appointment – he watched helplessly as I gestured across the reception area to the nutritionist’s room, which I knew to be empty.
It would be the first time I would witness Scott without his usual charming demeanour, with this rebuff of someone he had no further use for. I was surprised by the ease with which he moved past Wayne, briefly acknowledging his presence but giving him no further attention, as though they had never had even a conversation in their lives. Wayne looked taken aback. He was perplexed by Scott’s snub and didn’t know what to make of it.
The nutritionist’s room had been used that day as a dumping ground for a large delivery of couch rolls, boxes of tissues and toilet rolls, ready for Wayne to sort out.
‘We have a problem,’ began Scott.
‘How’s the elbow doing?’ I asked in an over-loud voice, pushing the door closed. But I neglected to close it completely, my thinking being that if I were to shut myself away with Scott it might arouse suspicion that there was something between us. Best to appear relaxed. Best to appear as though we were discussing his elbow, so there was no need for total privacy.
I turned, and Scott shot me a look as though to say, Fuck the elbow. Then he strode across the room, took my face in his hands and kissed me.
‘Don’t,’ I said, aghast. ‘Not here.’
He didn’t apologize.
‘What sort of problem?’ I asked, instantly feeling that queasy dread that comes from the threat of discovery. ‘Is it Nadine?’
He shook his head.
He seemed agitated and edgy, not the Scott I was used to, and I wondered what it had taken to unsettle him so.
‘It’s money,’ he said. ‘I can’t raise the money.’
I took a step back. ‘You can’t raise four thousand pounds?’
That seemed unlikely.
‘I can’t raise four thousand pounds in cash. Not right now, anyway.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I thought …’
He smiled. ‘No, I’m not quite that strapped.’
‘Okay, so what happens now?’
‘I have an idea, but I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it.’
‘Try me,’ I said.
‘Well, if I continue to draw cash from the business, it won’t go unnoticed. The accountant’s going to want to know what it’s for and, though I think I can trust the guy, I don’t really want him poking around. Plus, his wife and Nadine are friends. And as much as he likes to promise total confidentiality, we all know everyone confides in their wives.’
‘Is tonight still going ahead?’ I asked.
‘That depends on you. I would very much like it to, in fact,’ and he paused, reaching out and running a finger along my jawline. ‘I think I may have a solution. But it means you’ll have to wait a short while for your money.’
‘How long?’
‘A few days.’
‘Oh.’
‘I realize you need it fast, I’m aware of that. But think about it: you can’t hide that cash from the Revenue. They’ll catch up with you eventually and want to know how you came by it. And when they do that, depending on how you handle yourself, they’ll come sticking their nose into my business, Roz, and I just can’t take that chance.’
‘Okay,’ I conceded, ‘so what do you suggest?’
‘You call yourself a consultant.’
‘A consultant in what?’
‘Anything you like. Really doesn’t matter. What’s important is that you come up with something credible, something you can invoice my company for, and we’ll credit your account within twenty-four hours. I was thinking something along the lines of ergonomics, but if you can come up with anything better, I’m all ears.’
‘Ergonomics would work.’
‘The sooner you provide an invoice, the sooner you’ll be paid,’ he said. ‘You could say you advise us on desk height, back support, that kind of thing, yes?’
‘I could do that.’
‘And you’re okay about tonight?’ he asked tentatively.
‘You mean about not being paid?’
He nodded.
‘It’s unexpected, so I can’t say I’m totally okay with it, but I do have a little breathing space after your last payment. I don’t want to compromise our arrangement though, so … Do you still want the whole night?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet at seven?’
‘Seven.’
‘I’ll go then,’ he said. ‘Let you get back to it.’ He moved towards the door, pulled it open and turned back around to face me. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thanks for understanding.’
I lifted my hand to bid Scott goodbye and instantly froze. Beyond him, Wayne was at the water cooler.
Again, Scott didn’t acknowledge him as he passed.
Only this time there was no sign of hurt or rejection in Wayne’s eyes. Rather, he began to whistle.
He filled his cup, whistling a jaunty, made-up tune, before flashing me a knowing smile.
16
AREN’T PEOPLE SURPRISING?
I have always had a particular fascination with the concept of pecking order. For each person in any given situation there is a hierarchy – whether they are aware of it or not.
Often it’s an invisible dance we do around each other. Where do I fit with you? How important am I in your life?
Generally, though, we know where we fit. We know where we are on the importance scale, and we behave accordingly. We tend to sit in our allotted spaces, uncomplaining, not daring to move out, not daring to ask for more for fear of a rebuttal.
So when, in the late afternoon, Wayne hit me with the news that he wanted in on the arrangement, well, understandably, I laughed in his face at the preposterousness of it.
When I saw that he was actually serious, I said, ‘What arrangement?’ and he said, ‘Don’t insult me, Roz.’
Here’s what I thought he was proposing: A cut of my earnings to keep quiet. A thousand pounds or so to hold his tongue, not to reveal the true nature of my business with Scott, to his wife, my employers, the wider community.
But it wasn’t that.
‘I want a night with you,’ Wayne said earnestly, and my mouth dropped open.
‘Wayne,’ I began, ‘there is a difference … a very big difference with what goes on between—’
‘There’s no difference,’ he said simply.
A pause.
‘From what I could make out from that conversation you had earlier,’ he said, gesturing to the nutritionist’s room, ‘Scott Elias is paying you. He’s paying you a substantial amount of money for your services. Or have I misunderstood?’
I didn’t deny it. I wanted to see where he was going with this.
‘I would like the same,’ he said.
I regarded him, trying not to show my outrage. ‘Wayne,’ I said carefully, ‘I don’t want to do that
.’
‘Roz,’ he replied, ‘I don’t think you have a choice,’ and he motioned towards the computer.
‘Remember the anomaly I pointed out to you,’ he said, gesturing to the screen.
Evidently, I was not allowed to look as, when I craned my neck to see, he minimized the page.
‘An anomaly with?’
‘The accounts,’ he said.
‘Yes. And you’re telling me this now because …?’
‘It’s been brought to my attention by the accountants at HQ,’ he said, ‘that this particular clinic has been the victim of – shall we say? – the misappropriation of funds.’
HQ, I was thinking, trying not to scoff at the silly officiousness of his tone, when it hit me what he was really saying.
‘Stealing?’ I asked.
‘It certainly looks that way.’
‘But there’s nothing to steal,’ I protested. ‘We don’t stock anything … Nothing of any use anyhow.’
I was thinking about the teabags and toilet rolls I’d taken recently, wondering if he could be referring to those. But then I put that out of my head because surely nobody was spending their hours quantifying normal usage?
‘How does this affect me?’ I said eventually.
‘Across the ten clinics – and that includes more than fifty clinicians – you have the highest patient cancellation rate.’
‘But I have the highest number of patients,’ I reasoned. ‘The number of cancellations is bound to be higher. It’s proportional.’
‘Apparently not. The accountants at HQ have done an audit, and your rate of missed appointments is five times higher than anyone else’s. What’s more, now that I’ve had a chance to look at the data more closely, those missed appointments all tended to coincide with when I was absent from the clinic myself.’
I swallowed.
‘And they are all patients who usually pay in cash,’ he added.
‘Careful what you’re suggesting there, Wayne.’
I stared at him hard.
He stared back.
‘Of course, HQ might be willing to overlook any misdemeanour that may have taken place,’ he said carefully. ‘Perhaps I could persuade them to overlook it, if you catch my drift.’
