The Innocents

by Francesca Segal

  “Mrs. Gilbert’s mother’s not well,” she said. “They’re at the Royal Free. Ziva’s had a stroke.”

  25

  “How is she, Pumpkin?”

  Rachel had met their cab on the forecourt of the Royal Free Hospital, waiting between a man in a wheelchair and blue hospital gown smoking and shouting in loud Arabic into a mobile phone, and two women, one also in a hospital gown and the other in pajamas, also smoking. Rachel’s nose was red but she was composed, offering a wobbly smile as they drew up. But when Lawrence had paid the driver and stepped out she took one look at her father and all attempts at bravery disappeared.

  “Daddy, she’s not conscious,” she sobbed, throwing her arms around him. He stroked her hair.

  “Take us in, poppet, let’s see what the doctors have to say. No use thinking the worst at this stage. How’s your mum?”

  “Ima’s okay.” Rachel drew back and sniffed, and then turned back to Adam. She tucked herself under his arm as they waited for the lift and he squeezed her. “She’s been talking to the consultant. She knows more than I do. I’ve been outside calling people.” She wrinkled her nose and gestured back to the unwelcoming entrance to the hospital. They walked together down a long corridor of shiny buff linoleum, an exhibit of floral oil paintings displayed on the white walls. Rachel sniffed again and looked upward, wiping under each eye with a forefinger in the vain hope of clearing her smudged mascara.

  “She found out about Ethan,” she continued when they were in the lift, pressed between two pushchairs and a man on crutches. “We tried our best but we couldn’t be with her all the time and so she found out about everything last night. Ima didn’t tell you because she said you had enough to deal with and so we’d look after Granny—and she seemed to be fine about it this morning when we left her. She was even joking that it didn’t matter because she never had much money to start with. But if it’s really all gone then she’s got nothing at all; he had everything, Daddy, and she’ll have to sell her house—and so she must have been so upset, and then Ashish called us—”

  “Who’s Ashish?” Lawrence interrupted.

  “You know, the Indian takeaway guy. That’s who found her. She called and ordered something and he went round to deliver it and she wasn’t answering the door, so he called the police because he’d just spoken to her so he was worried, and then when they let him in and they found her he called us. He came with her in the ambulance.”

  “Thank God. And what did he say? How long did they think she’d been unconscious?”

  “Not long because he said he was very quick going round. Not more than ten minutes, he was positive. Thank goodness Granny can’t cook.” Rachel smiled weakly.

  “Ziva will be fine,” Adam said suddenly, with vehemence. He had no basis for saying so—but it seemed impossible that it could be otherwise. Ziva was unconquerable.

  The lift doors opened, a nurse on reception smiled and pressed a button to unlock the security doors for them and Rachel led them down a waxed corridor to Ziva’s cubicle.

  “Ani ayefa, Jaffale,” said Ziva, squeezing her daughter’s hand.

  “I know, Ima. I know you’re tired. Shluf, Ima. We’re here if you want us.”

  Ziva had been awake and able to talk, albeit slowly, for the last few hours, and although the consultant had kept her on oxygen the mask was frequently round her neck so that she might communicate something, carefully, to Jaffa.

  Adam and Rachel had gone home, on Jaffa’s insistence, while Jaffa and Lawrence had stayed overnight at the Royal Free. Lawrence was looking white with exhaustion when they came back on Sunday morning but he met them in the corridor, smiling with relief.

  “She’s going to be fine. She’s not very mobile at the moment but she’s absolutely clear, not remotely confused, thank God.”

  “Will you get some sleep now, Daddy?” Rachel had asked.

  “Later. Later. I’m going to run to the office in a bit.”

  “You’ll be more use to everyone if you get some rest,” Rachel scolded, and Lawrence had laughed and kissed the top of her head.

  “That’s exactly what your mother just said to me. I’ll be fine. Let’s not waste energy worrying about me just now.”

  For most of the morning they had all been assembled around Ziva’s bed, sitting quietly as instructed. Every now and then a nurse would pop her head around the curtain and suggest, gently, that one or two of them might like to step outside and give the patient some air, but this was met with such ferocity from Jaffa that their efforts had become more and more halfhearted.

  “She needs the family,” Jaffa would say stoutly, waving away the nurse like a fly. “I want to make sure you don’t kill her with that terrible drek you feed to these old people.”

  “Wo ist sie?” Ziva mumbled. “Wo ist meine eynikl?”

  “She’s here, Ima, Rachel’s here.” Jaffa pointed across the bed to where Rachel sat beside Adam, holding his hand, her gaze fixed anxiously on her grandmother.

  “Nein, Jaffale, I’m not demented,” Ziva said irritably. Adam considered the irritability a good sign. It was a return to form and she was also speaking English, which was a relief. So far it had been German, Yiddish, and Hebrew, and sometimes a mixture of all three. Only Jaffa could understand all of them, although Rachel caught about half. “I can see that Rachel’s here. Wo ist Ellie?”

  “We’ve been trying to get her, Granny. She’s not picking up her phone but I’m sure she’ll call back soon,” said Rachel. She looked crestfallen that she had not been the granddaughter Ziva wanted. She turned to Adam. “Will you go down and try her again? And has my uncle answered?”

  “Pumpkin, I tried her twenty minutes ago. I think her phone’s off or something. Your dad e-mailed Boaz and it bounced back. Unless someone has a newer e-mail address for him I don’t know how we can reach him.”

  “Please try her? Or I’ll ring her. Will you come down with me?”

  “Of course but really, I’m sure if she’d got the message she’d have called by now.”

  Rachel had stood up to leave, clutching her phone, but she spun round suddenly. “Ellie’s such a selfish bitch.”

  Adam started, and he saw Ziva close her eyes with pained exhaustion.

  “Rachel!” said Jaffa sharply.

  “It’s true. Where the hell is she? We’ve been trying her since yesterday. She doesn’t care about her family at all, she’s probably holed up in some filthy hotel with some man who’s paying her to do God knows what. She’s such a slut, she’s disgusting.”

  Adam stiffened with anger and then checked himself and glanced away.

  Jaffa looked apoplectic. Rachel’s venom did not frighten her. “Rachel, tafsiki!” she hissed. “I will not have you raising your voice in this place. People are trying to heal. Go out and compose yourself. Eze meshugas?”

  Rachel burst into tears and fumbled her way out through the plastic curtain that encircled them. Adam squeezed Jaffa’s shoulder and followed his wife.

  “Rach, what is going on?” Adam asked when they were outside. They had left the hospital and were sitting on a bench by the memorial in the center of South End Green, next to a row of idling, belching London buses. It was a favorite place for a well-established coterie of Hampstead drinkers to enjoy early morning lagers, and a neat row of empty Foster’s cans was arranged at the foot of the monument.

  Rachel shrugged, rolling a Coke can back and forth with the toe of her trainer.

  “I just hate her.”

  “You don’t hate her.”

  She looked up. “I do sometimes, actually. Sometimes I really hate her. She’s so—It’s like she’s untouchable. Nothing affects her, anything could happen and she’s just—fine, she’s just perfect. Except she’s not. She does everything wrong and she’s selfish and still everyone thinks she’s perfect.”

  Adam tried to ignore the sirens of warning that were wailing in his head. They hadn’t talked about her cousin in any detail for months; he didn’t want to say anything
that might betray that he’d seen her. And yet there were odd echoes of a conversation he’d had with Ellie. He said carefully, “I don’t think her life is particularly perfect.”

  Rachel shrugged again. She looked like a sulking teenager, her shoulders rounded in self-defense, her hair falling forward over her face. He felt sorry for her.

  “I know, I know. I’m a terrible person because she’s had a hard life and I’m jealous of her and so what does that say about me, blah, blah, blah.”

  “It says you’re human, Pumpkin, and that families are difficult sometimes and you’re all under stress right now. We’re all worried about Ziva.”

  He rubbed her back, but she twisted away from him in annoyance.

  “You sound like you’re reading from a textbook. I know families are difficult, I’m not an idiot.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s not just about right now. It’s always. Like, where is she this weekend? She hasn’t even bothered to call.”

  She was meant to be in Paris with me, he thought, and shivered.

  “I’m sure she—” he started but she cut him off.

  “She hasn’t even bothered to call us and I’m here all the time, helping and worrying and it’s so unfair. I could stay with Ziva and sit with her all day every day—all year—and she would still ask for Ellie at the end of it. Everyone would, probably even my own parents. She’s beautiful and clever and troubled and needy and soooo charming, and I’m … whatever. She gets everything I want.”

  A seagull landed in front of them and Adam watched as it rummaged greedily in an abandoned bag of cheese and onion crisps. The pigeon that had been hopping nervously closer to the foil packet, eyeing the crisps with curiosity, flapped suddenly and flew to the top of the monument. It sat at the pinnacle, looking down with its head cocked at the lost prize. Adam felt the breath catch in his throat.

  “That’s not true,” he said.

  Rachel turned to him, her eyes glistening and ringed with smudged mascara. “Yes, Adam,” she said. “It is.”

  26

  “I know I sound like Rachel but Lawrence, you’ve got to get some sleep.”

  Lawrence looked up blearily; he had been nodding off, a coffee cup in one hand and the mouse in the other. “I know. I know, I know.”

  “Will you go home now, for a bit?”

  “I just want to check this through again before I go anywhere.”

  Lawrence raised a copy of the draft claim form, waving it in slow motion like a white flag of surrender. Adam wasn’t fooled; his father-in-law was angrier than he’d ever seen him. There would be no surrender until Ethan Goodman, who had still not answered any of Lawrence’s communications, had been hauled out of hiding and made to account for himself. All traces of pity had disappeared. Lawrence was going to succeed with the injunction if it killed him.

  “The barrister is going before the judge tomorrow and he had some guidance, some comments on the …” Lawrence trailed off.

  “You’re actually slurring. Go home! We spent two nights here and then you spent last night at the Royal Free. It’s in good shape, it’s basically finished and I’m staying here in any case to work on the final amendments for Jonathan. So now I’m staging an intervention.”

  “Hear, hear.” Tony had appeared in the doorway looking disheveled. His hair on one side stuck up as if he’d been clutching at it in frustration. Adam looked down. He would never have spoken to Lawrence with such familiarity if he’d known that one of the other partners was in earshot.

  “I propose,” Tony said to Lawrence, “that we meet at seven tomorrow. It’s … almost midnight. Not too late. We might know more by then in any case, at least about what he’s been up to since Friday. We’ve got a call with the accountants at nine thirty and we’ll speak to the barrister again before he goes in. Adam, do you know what you’re doing? Clear on everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Crack on then, phone me anytime and after the call tomorrow you can nip home for a couple of hours. Jonathan will be here all night I imagine, so ask him if you’ve any questions.”

  “Okay.”

  On his way out Lawrence patted Adam’s shoulder. “Doing all right?”

  Adam nodded.

  “Good. I’m very proud, you know. You’ve been a real asset these last few days. Kept your head. Well done. However this turns out …” He trailed off and patted Adam once more before he went, leaving Adam to complete the thought. How might this turn out? It was absolutely impossible, at this stage, to be certain. The worst-case scenario meant financial decimation for Lawrence and his partners who would, Adam knew, use every penny of their own to repay what they could to their employees’ fund. Unless the money could be recovered, there were some people for whom this would turn out very, very badly indeed.

  The fourth time Jasper had e-mailed Adam could not ignore him any longer. He had no time to stop, barely any time to think, but Jasper was frantically, touchingly worried about the Gilberts and Adam’s silence seemed to be confirming his worst fears. Adam reached for the phone.

  “Adam! Where the hell have you been, mate, I’ve been bloody stalking you. I’m going out of my mind. Are you okay? You’re alive? You haven’t jumped off anything?”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m alive. You can’t imagine how things have been here.”

  “If they’re anything like they are everywhere else then I can. Is it all true? He’s trying to flog it all off?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that bastard screwed GGP, right?”

  “Not intentionally. But yes, effectively. And effectively,” Adam joked, joylessly.

  “But surely it’s negligence, surely you can sue or something. What has Ethan said to Lozza? How can he even face him?”

  “He can’t, Lawrence hasn’t been able to get hold of him, Ethan’s too spineless to speak to him. He’s holed up at home I think, with Brooke. He’s lost pretty much everything, I reckon.”

  “He deserves to,” said Jasper bitterly, “for what he’s done to Lawrence. Bloody hell, what I’d give to be a fly on the wall in that house right now, Brooke must be going absolutely mental. But I mean, whatever, forget that for a minute. What about you lot?”

  “We are all,” said Adam, quoting Lawrence’s rousing battle cry in a meeting earlier, “going to have to help each other. It’s a crisis. We’re going to have to support each other in a crisis. We’ll all do what we can, not that I can do much. But I think Lawrence and the other two partners are going to remortgage to try to get something back into the pension fund. It’s a nightmare. I don’t know where it leaves them all.”

  “God.” Jasper whistled. “Well, I’m here if I can do anything. If you need another accountant … or anything. Oh, which reminds me, I saw Ginger Josh, and he said he was going to call you and Lawrence. He wants to help you, be there for people to talk to or whatever. I know he saw Jaffa when he popped into the hospital to visit her mother.”

  Adam twined the cord of the phone round his finger absently. “Not exactly sure how a rabbi is going to help anything but tell him thank you.” He had been sitting still too long—the office lights, controlled on motion sensors, turned off and left him in blackness. He waved an arm above his head and they blinked back into life.

  “Well, he can pray or something. Have a quick chat with the big man and sort out this mess. Dunno, I guess he wants to counsel the people who are desperate.”

  “Everyone at GGP is desperate, he’s got his work cut out. Jas, I’ve got to go, it’s bloody late and I’ve got a long night here. We’re making an urgent claim; it’s going before the judge tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay, mate. Good luck with it all, I’m thinking of you. It’s good to hear your voice. Tanya’s mother is dropping something into the Royal Free for Ziva tomorrow, by the way. Some audiobooks, I think.”

  “Thank you.”

  Adam put down the phone and picked up the end of a Mars bar he’d abandoned many hours earlier. It had melted onto his desk; a
string of caramel slid sensuously from it and stretched across his mouse, as fine as spider’s silk. He swore, loudly, his voice a satisfying volume in the empty office. He balled the front of his T-shirt in his hand and rubbed the mouse irritably, threw the chocolate in the bin and glanced at his screen.

  Two new e-mails had arrived while he’d been speaking to Jasper. Matthew Findlay had sent him an article about Ethan Goodman from the archives of the L.A. Times, describing a charitable donation that had halted the eleventh-hour closure of an old people’s home and had guaranteed that its residents would never have to move. A local councillor was quoted describing Goodman as a hero. “Odd,” Matthew had written, “how people are not of a piece.”

  The next was from Ellie.

  When you wrote you weren’t coming I went down to the Camargue to stay with a friend for a few days. I can’t pretend that I was surprised you bailed—let’s just say I had a backup plan in place. We were in the middle of a lavender field, I’ve had no reception till an hour ago. I’m devastated about Ziva—will be on the first train tomorrow but Adam, how is she? Rachel barely explained anything. All I know is that she’s conscious. In the morning please tell her I’m coming as fast as I can. E xxx

  He saw only one thing clearly—she would be here tomorrow. In the morning, Ellie would be in London and he could snatch a moment with her—legitimately—in the Royal Free basement cafeteria, where white-hatted staff ladled stir-fries and cubes of gelatinous lasagna onto white plates. They would be allowed, he felt, to sit there with propriety.

  “Ziva’s okay, I promise,” he wrote back. “She’s going to be fine except maybe have a little more trouble walking. She misses you but she knew you’d come as soon as you could. You can’t imagine how it’s been here. Get some sleep, see you tomorrow.”

  He considered this and then deleted the last line and wrote, “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” But she was coming because her grandmother had had a stroke. He wavered for a moment and then wrote instead, “Call if you want a lift from the station. A xxx” When she could see his face he could make her understand that he’d had no choice but to stay in London. In those three kisses he chose to see hope.