Windfallen

by Moyes, Jojo

  “A damn sight less than it’s worth.”

  He smiled slowly at her, and she found herself grinning in reply. “Don’t suppose you’ve found any priceless antiques hanging around while you’re at it?”

  “Nah,” said Aidan, appearing behind them lighting another cigarette. “She’s out buying milk for the baby.”

  IT WAS OVER. HAL SAT IN HIS CAR OUTSIDE ARCADIA, looking at the latest sheaf of bills that wouldn’t begin to be covered by the mural money, and he felt something peculiarly like relief that it was now out of his hands, that the thing he’d known was inevitable for weeks, possibly months, had finally become a reality. The last bill, the one he’d put off opening until lunchtime, had been so huge that it had left him no choice. He would wind the business up, and then, once the mural restoration was over, he would set out to find a job.

  He closed his eyes for a minute, letting the hope, the tensions of the last weeks finally ebb away, to be replaced by a kind of dull gray mist. It was just a business. He had repeated those words to himself like a mantra. And if the disposal of its assets meant that he could stave off bankruptcy, then at least they all had a future. But then, they did have a future. He and Camille the past few weeks . . . well, they had convinced him of that at least.

  Focus on the good stuff, that was what the counselor said at their last session, wasn’t it? Be grateful for the things you have. He had a wife and a daughter. Health. And a future.

  His mobile phone broke the silence, and he fumbled in the glove compartment, trying to blink what felt suspiciously like tears away from his eyes.

  “It’s me.”

  “Hi, you.” He leaned back against his seat, glad of the sound of her voice. Nothing urgent. She just wanted to find out what time he might be home, whether he would like chicken for supper, to tell him that Katie was going swimming—the comforting minutiae of domestic life.

  “Are you okay? Sound a bit quiet.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Fine. I’ll bring some wine home if you like.”

  She sounded a little unconvinced, so he tried to make himself sound more animated. He didn’t tell her what she needed to hear—that could wait—but instead the things she liked to hear—what had happened “at work” that day. What he had uncovered. The latest bon mots from the builders. He told her how her mother now barely spoke to him while he was working on the wall and yet, as soon as they left Arcadia, how she would chat to him as if nothing had happened. “Maybe you should ask her. Find out what’s bothering her about it.”

  “There’s no point, Hal. You know there’s no point asking her anything. She won’t tell me,” said Camille, sounding sad and cross. “I have no idea what’s wrong with my mother sometimes. Do you know it’s their anniversary next week and she said she’s needed at Arcadia? Dad’s so disappointed. He’d booked the restaurant and everything.”

  “I suppose they could go another night,” he said tentatively.

  “But it’s not the same, is it?”

  “No,” he said, thinking back. “No, it’s not.”

  “Better go,” she said, brightening. “Mrs. Halligan’s complaining about her pickling.”

  “What?”

  She moved closer to the phone. “It’s what happens to your skin after you’ve been waxed. She’s got pickling in an unfortunate area, and now she can’t put her tights back on.”

  Hal laughed out loud. It felt like the first time he’d done so in months.

  “I do love you,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “I love you, too.”

  ABOVE WHERE HAL SAT, DAISY WALKED JONES INTO THE rooms that would one day be known as the Morrell suite, but were for now known among the builders as Blue Bog, after the color of the bathroom. It was the most traditional bedroom in the house, and it was finished. The bed, like all the other beds, came from a contact in India who specialized in old colonial furniture. Next to it stood a military chest, its clean, angular corners squared off in brass, its aged mahogany veneer glowing against the pale gray of the walls. At the end of the room, which was really two rooms knocked through, were two comfortable chairs and a low, carved table. On this, Daisy had placed a cloth with two plates of crab sandwiches, a bowl of fruit, and a bottle of water.

  “I know you don’t eat lunch,” she said as he stared at the arrangement. “But I thought if you really weren’t hungry, I’d have your half for supper.”

  He was also wearing odd socks. She had found it curiously reassuring.

  He walked once, slowly, around the room, taking in the decor, its contents. Then he stopped and stood in front of her.

  “Actually, I . . . I wanted to say sorry,” she said, her hands pressed together in front of her. “About that morning. It was daft. Well, more than daft. I can’t really explain it except to say that it was really nothing to do with you.”

  Jones looked down at his feet and shuffled uncomfortably.

  “Oh, go on. Sit down, please,” she said, helplessly. “Or I’m going to feel really stupid. Worse, I’m going to start wittering. And you really don’t want me to start wittering. Almost as bad as the crying.”

  Jones stooped toward the sandwiches. “You know, I’d hardly even thought about it,” he said with a sideways look at her, and then he sat.

  “I wouldn’t normally offer lunch in the bedroom. But it’s the only room that’s quiet,” she said after they’d started to eat. “I would’ve liked to have set this up on the terrace, near the mural, but I thought we might get flecks of paint or turpentine in our sandwiches.” She was wittering. It was as if she had no control over what came out of her mouth. “Plus, Ellie’s asleep next door.”

  He nodded, giving little away. But he looked relaxed, she thought. Perhaps even pleased. “I’m surprised you went ahead without me,” he said eventually. “The mural, I mean.”

  “I knew you’d be pleased if you just saw it. If I’d asked you whether to go ahead, you would have found reasons to fret about it.”

  He paused, his sandwich halfway to his lips. Then lowered his hand and looked at her properly. Really looked, so that she found herself prickling with the beginnings of a blush.

  “You’re a strange one, Daisy Parsons,” he said. But it wasn’t unfriendly.

  She relaxed then, told him the history of each piece of furniture, the decisions behind each choice of paint and fabric. He nodded, his mouth full, taking it all in while committing himself to little in the way of responses. Daisy fought an urge to ask him what he thought, whether he was pleased. If he wasn’t pleased, she told herself firmly, he’d tell her.

  Gradually she found herself embellishing some of the stories, telling jokes, determined to unbend him a bit. It was good to have company, urban company. Someone who knew his Gavroche from his Green Street. Someone who could talk about more than paint charts or the state of the neighboring B-and-Bs. She had even put on makeup for his visit. It had taken her forty minutes to locate her makeup bag.

  “. . . and the reason they sent the big one at a discount was that it was so large they’d had it three years and never had room to take it out of the warehouse.” She laughed, pouring herself another glass of water.

  “Has Daniel been in touch?” he said.

  Daisy halted, flushed.

  “Sorry,” he said, rubbing at his face. “Shouldn’t have asked. None of my business.”

  Daisy looked at him. Put down the bottle. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he has. Not that it makes much difference.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, Jones intently studying the hinge on the corner of the table.

  “Why do you ask?” she said, and for a few seconds the air in the room became a vacuum, and she became aware that his answer had suddenly become crucial to fill it.

  “I just . . . The builders who lost the contract wanted to speak to him about something. . . .” Jones looked up at her. “I just thought you might have the number.”

  “No,” said Daisy, feeling suddenly, inexplicably cross. “I don’t.”
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  “Right. No problem, then,” he said into his collar. “They’ll just have to sort themselves out.”

  “Yes.”

  Daisy sat for a minute, unsure why she suddenly felt so unbalanced. Outside, through the open window, she heard her name being called. Aidan’s voice. Probably a paint query.

  “I’d better see what he wants,” she said, almost grateful for the interruption. “I’ll only be a moment. Eat some fruit. Please.”

  When she returned, some minutes later, she stopped in the doorway at the sight of Ellie in Jones’s arms. Flushed with sleep, the baby was sitting upright against him, blinking. When Jones saw Daisy, he became immediately awkward and made as if to thrust the baby at her.

  “She woke up while you were gone,” he said, a little defensively. “I didn’t like to leave her to cry.”

  “No,” said Daisy, staring. She had not seen her baby held by a man since Daniel left, and it jolted her, plucked at undiscovered heartstrings. “Thanks.”

  “Friendly little soul, isn’t she?” Jones walked forward a step and handed her over, managing to somehow tangle his hands with Ellie’s limbs as he did so. “Considering I’m not really used to them. Babies, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” said Daisy truthfully. “She only really gets held by me and Mrs. Bernard.”

  “I never held one before.”

  “Nor had I. Till I had one, I mean.”

  He was looking at Ellie intently, as if he’d never seen a baby either. Suddenly aware that Daisy was watching him, he stepped back again, touching Ellie lightly on the head.

  “Bye, then,” he said to the baby. “I suppose I’d better get off,” he glanced toward the door. “The office will be wondering where I am. Thanks for the lunch.”

  “Yes,” said Daisy, adjusting Ellie’s weight onto her hip.

  He made for the door.

  “It’s looking good,” he said, turning to face her. “Well done.”

  He forced a smile, looking suddenly, strangely unhappy. He’s got thumbnails like Daniel’s, Daisy thought.

  “Look. Next week,” he said abruptly, “I think you should come down to London. I need to talk to you about the opening arrangements somewhere where I’ve got all my files and things around me, and I thought maybe we could go to that reclamation yard while we’re at it. The new one you were talking about. For the outdoor stuff.”

  He paused. Cocked his head to one side.

  “I mean . . . are you free to come down to London? I’ll buy you lunch. Or dinner. At my club. You can see what it’s like.”

  “I know what it’s like,” said Daisy. “I’ve been there.”

  She grinned. An Old Daisy grin.

  “But, yes. That sounds great. You name the day.”

  PETE SHERATON WORE THE KIND OF SHIRT THAT TRADING-FLOOR dealers wore in the eighties: boldly pin-striped, white-collared, starched white cuffs. It was the kind of shirt that spoke of money, of deals in smoky rooms, the kind of shirt that always made Hal wonder if Pete was less satisfied with his lot as a provincial bank manager (staff: three cashiers, one trainee manager, and Mrs. Mills, who cleaned Tuesdays and Thursdays) than he liked to admit.

  The cuffs that steered Hal into his office that afternoon were pierced with two tiny, just visible, naked women. “The wife’s idea,” he said, glancing down at them as Hal seated himself opposite. “She says it stops me becoming too . . . bank manager-y.”

  Hal smiled. Tried to swallow.

  He and Pete had known each other for years, since Veronica Sheraton had paid Hal to frame a portrait of the two of them together for Pete’s fortieth birthday. It was a truly dreadful thing, revealing Veronica in a puff-sleeved ballgown and soft focus and Pete, behind her, as several feet taller than he actually was, with a complexion like a burned toffee. Their eyes had met at its “unveiling,” and one of those peculiar, uncontrivable male bonds was formed.

  “You’ve not come to book a game of squash, I take it?”

  Hal smiled. Took a deep breath. “Sadly, not this time, Pete. I . . . I’ve come to talk to you about winding up the business.”

  Pete’s face fell. “Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ, mate. I’m sorry. That’s bad luck.”

  Hal nodded, wishing Pete could look a bit more objective about the whole thing. Suddenly the old-fashioned, stiff, unfriendly bank manager felt like an easier option.

  “You’re absolutely sure? I mean, you’ve talked to your accountant and everything?”

  Hal swallowed. “Not to tell him the final verdict, no. But let’s say it won’t come as a surprise to anyone who’s seen my bottom line.”

  “Well, I knew you weren’t exactly in takeover and acquisitions mode, but still . . .” Pete shook his head, then reached into his drawer. “Do you want a drink?”

  “No. Best to keep a clear head. I’ve a lot of calls to make this afternon.”

  “Well, listen. Don’t worry about anything this end. Anything I can do, let me know. I mean, even if you want to consider a loan or something, I’m sure I can get you a preferential rate. . . .”

  “I think we’re beyond loans.”

  “It’s such a shame, though, when you think of all that money. . . .”

  Hal frowned.

  There was a brief silence.

  “Oh, well. You know best.” Pete stood and walked back around the desk. “But listen, Hal, don’t make any decisions tonight. Especially if you haven’t talked to your accountant. Why don’t you have a think and then come back and see me tomorrow. You never know.”

  “It’s not going to change, Pete.”

  “Whatever. Think about it anyway. Things all right with you and Camille? Good, good . . . and little Katie? That’s what counts, eh?” Pete placed his arm on his shoulders, then suddenly stopped and turned toward his desk.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. Look, I know it’s probably not the time, but would you mind giving this to your missus? It’s been sitting in my drawer for ages—I kept meaning to give it to you at our next game of squash. I know it’s not quite the rules, but it is your—”

  Hal held the stiffened envelope. “What is it?”

  “It’s just the braille template for her new checkbook.”

  “But she’s got one.”

  “Not for the new account.”

  Hal frowned. “What new account?”

  Pete looked at him. “The one with—” He paused. “Well, I assumed it was some insurance policy or something you’d cashed. That’s why I was a bit surprised when you said about the business. . . .”

  Hal stood in the middle of the room shaking his head. “She’s got money?”

  “I assumed you knew.”

  Hal’s mouth had grown suddenly dry, the high-pitched ringing in his head an echo of a year before. “How much?”

  Pete looked suddenly anxious. “Listen, Hal, I’ve obviously said too much already. I mean, I just assumed that with Camille’s sight and all . . . Well, you normally handle most of her financial stuff and—”

  Hal stared at the envelope in front of him. It felt as if someone had slowly let the air out of his lungs. “A separate account? . . . How much?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “It’s me, Pete.”

  “And it’s my job, Hal. Look, go home, talk to your wife. I’m sure there’s some obvious explanation.” Now visibly anxious, he began almost physically propelling Hal toward the door.

  Hal was unseeing, still shaking his head, almost stumbling over to the door. He paused in the doorway and turned to look at Pete. “Pete?”

  Pete looked at him. He glanced out into the branch office, then back at his friend. Then he took out a piece of paper and scribbled a figure onto it, flashing it at Hal.

  “It’s not far off that, okay? Now, go home, Hal. I can’t say a thing more.”

  SIXTEEN

  It wasn’t hard to work out where the money had come from (they’d all wondered how Lottie was going to divvy up Arcadia’s proceeds). The thing that haunted him, that left h
is stomach in toxic knots, his food like ashes on his tongue, was that she’d kept it, silent, hidden, while watching his business crumble around him. That she had comforted him even, while all the time she’d held the wherewithal to make it better, the one thing she’d said she believed in, the one thing they both knew he could do. Given time. And a bit of luck.

  The fact that she’d lied to him again made him feel physically sick. It was worse than the discovery of her infidelity, because this time he had allowed himself to trust her again, had forced himself to overcome his fear, his distrust, and placed himself in her hands. This time it could not be ascribed to her dejection, her insecurities. This time it was about what she thought of him.

  If she’d wanted him to know about it, she would have told him. That was the incontrovertible fact that Hal returned to, hour after feverish hour, the fact that stopped him from confronting her, demanding answers of her. If she’d wanted him to know, she would have said something.

  God, but he’d been such a fool.

  She had been reserved around him this last few days, a new wariness imprinted on her face. Being unable to see the nakedness of other people’s expressions, she never thought to hide her own. He’d watched her, barely able to hide his frustration and fury.

  “You okay?” she would say, meaning was he all right with the end of his business? Was he in need of a hug? A kiss? Things that were supposed to make it all right. He looked at her uncertain expression, at the hint of guilt it conveyed, and wondered how she could speak to him at all.

  “Just fine,” he would answer. And with another wary glance in his direction, she would shepherd Katie out or turn back to making the supper.

  Worse still was what it all meant. For the money—and her decision to keep it from him—could mean only one thing. He knew they’d not had the easiest year, that things still felt artificial, stilted. He knew he’d rejected her on occasions where he need not have done so, that some small, mean part of him was still punishing her. But he thought she might have given a hint that things were coming to this . . .