by Maggie James
I adopted a suitably sympathetic tone. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?’
‘The bitch cheated on me.’ For a second, darkness snaked into his eyes. A sense of unease needled up my spine.
Liam waved a contemptuous hand in the air, his former ebullience restored. ‘Water under the bridge. Tell me more about yourself.’
We conversed further over our drinks, the usual insubstantial chit-chat that marked most first dates. I touched on my employment, professing a lack of love for my accountancy role. ‘Not my dream job,’ I declared, my tone dismissive. ‘It pays great, though.’ Was it me or did his interest perk up?
‘You mentioned you live near here?’ he queried. ‘Wow. Property in the city centre doesn’t come cheap.’
I shrugged, the epitome of nonchalance. ‘Like I said, I earn good money. And my father left me well off when he died.’ Another seed planted. A few minutes later I let slip that I drove an almost new mid-range Audi. It was the rental car I’d collected at the airport, but he wasn’t to know that.
Over the next hour, I drew him out, enquiring about the construction firm he professed to own, as well as his past relationships. His replies were nebulous, giving a smidgen of information but he’d switch the conversation if I probed too hard - a deft flick of the subject, steering our discussion into safer waters. His evasiveness intrigued me. I wasn’t certain, but it seemed possible that Liam Tate and Steven Simmons were the same man. He wasn’t what I’d describe as sweet, like my sister had done, but we’d always viewed the world through different lenses. Liam certainly possessed a fraudster’s charm by the bucket-load.
‘You live in Charlcombe, right?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘I was stupid enough to buy a house that’s a total money pit. The place needs renovating from top to bottom – new roof, plumbing, the works. Right now it’s uninhabitable, so I’m staying in rented accommodation until everything’s completed.’ He flashed a few pictures from his phone my way. The house he showed me was huge and, once finished, would be stunning. My bullshit radar kicked off at once. He’d probably culled the photos from an estate agent’s website. If my intuition was correct, Liam must be paving the way for a future scam. The quasi-mansion he claimed to own was needed to convince me he was a man of means, although temporarily short of funds. Before long he’d mention he needed cash for the restoration work, a twist on his usual ploy. My suspicion grew stronger that seated opposite me was the man who’d conned Ellie.
When the time came to leave, he pressed my hand. ‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Lynnie. I hope we can do this again sometime.’
‘I’d love that,’ I said, pasting a flattered smile on my lips.
‘Do you enjoy French food? There’s a new restaurant in Bristol I’ve been meaning to try.’
‘How about one evening next week?’
‘Fine by me. I’ll call you to arrange a date,’ Liam said. ‘Sorry, but would you excuse me? All that beer has gone straight to my bladder.’ Without waiting for a reply, he strode off in the direction of the toilets. I waited.
From the depths of my handbag, my mobile pinged. When I fished it out, I saw I had a message from Steven Simmons.
Hey there, stranger. Missed me?
Like a hole in the head, I typed. I hoped you’d died a slow painful death and left the world a better place.
Within seconds a reply came. Not nice. And I thought we were friends.
Fuck you.
I’d love to, darling. Assuming you’re female, that is, and my instinct tells me you are.
Too angry to respond, I threw my mobile back in my bag. A minute later it pinged again.
Been checking my lady friends who have this number. Those ones who have sisters. You’re connected to one of four possibilities.
My earlier worry resurfaced; might my drunken text result in Broken and Betrayed getting hassled by this man? And if he’d used the same mobile number with Ellie, the prick might pester her as well.
Wrong, I typed. Think again, fucker. Leave it enigmatic, I told myself. Buy time to consider my next move.
Oh, I will, believe me. I’m getting ever closer to discovering who you are. And when I do, we can meet in person. Won’t that be fun?
Goosebumps prickled my skin. I didn’t bother replying. Why gratify the fucker with a response?
Look at the facts, I told myself. If Liam Tate was also Steven Simmons, Rick Montgomery and Michael Hammond, he could have no idea I was behind the anonymous texts. I’d given him the pay-as-you go mobile number before our date, yet I’d been using my regular phone for the weird text exchanges. I was safe. Right?
A couple of minutes later, I watched Liam stride back through the bar. He’d been gone an awfully long time. Had he been messaging me while he was in the toilets? Despite my best efforts, worry coiled around me, my conviction I’d found Ellie’s ex growing stronger.
Back home after our date, I checked my Premier Love Matches account to peruse Liam’s profile for any clues I’d missed. When I did, I saw Scotty123 had sent me an email.
Like Liam, he didn’t say much in his initial message. Just that his name was Scott, that he had read my profile and liked what he saw. How he was shy when it came to dating but that his goal was a long-term relationship, preferably marriage.
‘I’m intrigued by your user name,’ he ended. ‘I’m guessing you enjoy art - me too! Have you checked out the exhibition of watercolours at the city museum? If not, could we go together sometime? Or at least have coffee somewhere?’
Coffee, I decided, not the exhibition. I’d love to see it, but it suited my purpose better to sit opposite this man, study his reactions while we talked - something best done over a cappuccino or espresso. While there, I would make sure Scott knew I was a woman of means, suss out whether he might be Ellie’s ex instead of Looking For Love. I’d not yet ruled him out on that score, despite Liam seeming the more likely candidate. With that in mind, I composed a reply.
‘Coffee sounds great! How about Jumping Beans at the Harbourside? I have an apartment close by,’ I typed. ‘Are you free Saturday lunchtime?’ Before I could think twice, I clicked the ‘send’ button. All I could do next was play a waiting game until he replied. He didn’t, not that day.
Instead, Steven Simmons got in touch again. I awoke the next morning to another text.
Hello, friend. How is your lovely sister?
I composed a reply. Doing much better now you’re out of her life.
His response came within a minute. Been thinking about that message you sent. About me doing jail time.
My fingers flew across my screen. I meant every word. Get used to the idea of going to prison, fucker.
‘You want some breakfast?’ Ellie called up the stairs.
‘Sure. I’ll be down in a minute,’ I shouted back. In my hand, my mobile vibrated.
Another threat. Not a good idea, my friend.
The arrogant prick. Oh, yeah? And why is that?
‘Scrambled eggs okay for you?’ Ellie asked, still from the hallway below.
‘Whatever you’re having.’ I held my breath, willing my phone to ping. And it did.
The last person who threatened me ended up regretting it. Followed by: Got to go. I’ll be in touch, don’t worry.
Over breakfast, I pondered the texts. They rattled me, especially the penultimate one, but I reminded myself that Steven Simmons had no idea who I was. Nevertheless, the man was both ruthless and unscrupulous. No way could I afford to underestimate him.
Later that morning, I logged onto Premier Love Matches again. Scotty123 hadn’t let me down. A message beckoned from my inbox.
Can’t wait to meet a fellow art enthusiast! Is one o’clock on Saturday good for you?
I typed a quick response. Perfect. How will I know you? Can you send me a photo?
Ten minutes later he replied, with a picture. The focus was blurry, sure, and it wasn’t a close-up, but I judged it better than nothing. From the little I could see, he looked like
many women’s dream guy – the quintessential tall, handsome male. An apology came with it. ‘Sorry I have nothing better to send over! I’ll wear jeans and a blue shirt. Can’t wait to have coffee with you.’ He added his mobile number as well.
Game on, it seemed. Either Scott was a lonely man searching for love, or else he was the bastard who’d fleeced my sister. I planned to decide which one when we met. The fact he’d sent me a photo indicated the former, however, as did his location. Besides, I was growing ever more convinced that I’d found my target in Liam Tate.
Saturday arrived, and I dressed for Scott with the same care I had for Liam. Outside my window the sun shone hot and strong, meaning cool clothing was in order. Different top and trousers, identical jewellery, same air of understated wealth. After leaving the house, I drove to the Harbourside and parked under Millennium Square, then walked the short distance to Jumping Beans.
A guy dressed in tight jeans and a blue shirt was waiting for me outside the entrance. An uncertain smile played around his lips as I drew near, one that grew once I stopped in front of him.
‘Scott?’ I queried, fighting to keep the tremble from my tone.
‘Lynnette,’ he said. ‘Scott Champion. Pleased to meet you.’
Wow, with a cherry on top. The man before me could have starred as the love interest in a Hollywood movie. Blue eyes appraised me from a chiselled face, his nose perfectly balanced with the full lips below. His hair was mid-brown, thick and cut into short spikes, touches of blond showing in the sunlight. A grin quirked one side of his mouth, which nestled amongst cultivated stubble. And, oh my God, that dimple. As though an invisible finger had drilled into his right cheek. When he shook my hand I was the only woman in the world, or so it seemed. Scott was sex on a stick, his allure hot and potent. I doubted I’d found the guy who’d conned my sister, though. Something about him didn’t fit.
From somewhere I found my voice. ‘My friends call me Lynnie.’
He cleared his throat. ‘It’s good to meet you. Shall we ..?’ He gestured towards the door.
Once inside, he seemed hesitant, his eyes roaming the crowded space. ‘There’s a table free over there,’ he said.
‘I’ll get the coffees. How do you take yours?’
After I’d paid for our drinks, I led the way to our table, Scott following close behind. Around us the café hummed with the buzz of conversations and piped music, and I wished everyone else a million miles away. My cappuccino provided much-needed caffeine while I fished for something to say. In the end Scott spoke first.
‘So,’ he said, his gaze on his espresso. ‘Have you been on many dates through Premier Love Matches?’
‘This is the second. You?’
He glanced at me, a faint smile on his lips. ‘The first. Like I mentioned in my message, I’m a bit shy. I’ve only had a few relationships, to be honest.’
A bit shy. I realised what didn’t fit about this guy. He appeared nervous, not the confident man Ellie had portrayed. His looks didn’t gel with her description either, his hair being too light, too short - his height and eye colour matched, but nothing else. I didn’t think the guy opposite me was Steven Simmons.
‘So you’re into art,’ he continued. ‘Me too. Are you an artist yourself, or just an admirer?’
‘I paint. Landscapes, seascapes, all in watercolour. What’s more, I own a small gallery. I run it as a sideline to my job.’ I’d already decided the fewer lies I told, the better.
‘Wow. I’m impressed.’
‘What about you?’
‘I dabble in acrylics. Still life, the odd abstract.’ He frowned. ‘I’m not very good, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you do for a living?’ I remembered his profile said he was in management.
‘I run a Toyota dealership, near to where I live. Not the most exciting of jobs, but it pays the bills. You’re an accountant, right?’
‘Yes. I’d rather be a full-time painter, though.’
‘Me too.’ I watched his lips as he spoke and all I could think of was kissing them. Everything about this man called to me with a megaphone. I’d always been a sucker for blue eyes - hello, Gary McIlroy! - and Scott’s stellar looks, combined with his shyness, packed a powerful punch. After Gary, I found cocky, arrogant men a turnoff. Give me a guy unsure of himself, and I was hooked.
Scott grew in confidence as our conversation progressed, and I found myself enjoying our date. I mentioned Dad’s death, the fact I had a sister, whom I renamed Emma in case the man opposite me was Steven Simmons. We discussed travel, films, our mutual love of Italian food, and by the time Scott said he needed to go, two hours had flown by.
Once we were outside the coffee shop, words hovered on my tongue, ones I couldn’t bring myself to voice. As Lyddie Hunter, I considered myself a confident woman. In my role as Lynnie Connor this man made me nervous.
Say it, I urged myself. Tell him you’d love a second date.
I remained mute.
‘So,’ Scott said, his gaze fixed on his shoes. ‘I’ve enjoyed this. Meeting you, I mean.’
‘Me too.’ My voice was barely a whisper.
A pause, during which time neither of us spoke. My embarrassment doubled, then tripled.
He cleared his throat. ‘Can we ... er ... do this again sometime? Maybe take in that art exhibition I mentioned?’
Thank God. I smiled at him. ‘I’d like that.’
Relief crept into his expression. ‘That’s ... um, that’s great. I’ll call you. Soon.’ He leaned in, his lips brushing my cheek. Desire shot up my spine. Then he stepped away and the moment passed.
On the drive home, excitement raced through me. I’d been lucky enough to meet an insanely handsome man, one who shared my love of art and travel. Who wasn’t brash or arrogant, but refreshingly normal. Was it wrong of me to hope that, besides snaring Steven Simmons, I might find Mr Right at last?
That evening, I sent Scott a text, saying how much I’d enjoyed our afternoon together. He replied at once, saying he’d also had a wonderful time. How he’d phone me in the next few days. Things were looking up.
‘It’s time I went home,’ Ellie informed me over breakfast the next morning. ‘Thanks for taking care of me, but you’ve done enough. I’ll be fine. Really.’
I eyed her critically. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Totally. Could you give me a lift back to my place sometime?’
‘Of course. How about after lunch?’ I’d miss her, but maybe she was right. Perhaps she was ready to return home.
I dropped Ellie off at her flat that afternoon. To fill the void left by her departure, I turned to my art. My brushes and paints were in Spain, but I unearthed an ancient sketchpad and box of pencils from a cupboard in my bedroom. Drawing had been my first love, and my fingers flew over the paper, every line an attempt to capture Scott’s essence. Portraits weren’t my forte, and my efforts failed to depict the delights of that dimple, the sweetness of that smile. God, I had it bad for him, and so soon too. Our next date couldn’t come quickly enough.
To my relief, he called me that evening. We chatted, then I made my move. What did I have to lose?
‘About that watercolour exhibition. Do you fancy seeing it next weekend?’ I held my breath.
‘I’d love to,’ he replied. I punched the air in triumph.
After the call ended, a note of caution crept into my happiness. I couldn’t overlook the fact we’d started with a lie. To Scott, I was Lynnie Connor, accountant and life-long resident of Bristol. He’d have to discover the truth at some point, along with the reason for my ruse, if we were to forge a meaningful relationship. Would he walk away if I confessed what I’d done? Most men wouldn’t want a liar for a partner, and I couldn’t blame them. Hadn’t I been burned that way myself?
Caroline might know what to do. That meant telling her what I’d planned for Steven Simmons, however, and I wasn’t ready for that. First I needed to decide if Liam Tate was my target.
6
That same
evening Liam also called me to arrange our second date. We settled on Le Bistrot d’Yves, a restaurant he’d long wanted to try, on Monday of the week after next. It was the earliest evening we could both manage. Part of me chafed at the delay, but at least I’d get a decent meal out of meeting him - besides, scamming Liam might prove fun. I relished the idea of taking the bastard down a peg or several, my disquiet over the texts I’d received while he was in the Watershed toilets gone. Boldness would bag me my prize, not cowardice. For the time being, my former confidence had been restored.
I’d play things by ear, I decided, perhaps record our conversations on my phone. I’d draw him out, drop further hints that I was a wealthy woman. All the while, I’d be considering how best to trap him. At some point he’d spin me a sob story about his construction company needing funds, or his house repair costs escalating. How he hated to ask, but could I lend him some money to tide him over? Followed by a promise to pay me back straightaway. If I recorded everything, then confirmed it as lies – although I wasn’t sure how I’d do the latter part - would that be enough evidence to involve the law? Maybe not, but it was a start. Ellie might refuse to go to the police, as had most of the women on Love Rats Exposed, but I, Lyddie Hunter, was a different animal.
I reminded myself I’d need proof of where he lived, if the cops were to pay him a visit. That might prove more of a challenge, given his penchant for lying about his address. Maybe I’d follow him after one of our dates. I could work out the details later.
In the meantime I needed a new place to live. My house in Kingswood didn’t portray the image of wealth I required to trap a con man. Moreover, after living on my own in Spain for two years, sharing with Amelia was proving claustrophobic. I’d already mentioned to both Liam and Scott that I lived at the Harbourside. Time to give shape to that illusion.
I switched on my laptop and typed ‘short-term serviced apartments in Bristol’ into Google. I was searching for an apartment block at the Harbourside, one that didn’t have any signage indicating it housed serviced accommodation rather than regular flats. No reception area staffed by management, that kind of thing - just a normal entrance lobby.
