Twinkle Twinkle Little Lie

by Geraldine Fonteroy

  ‘His what?’

  ‘Oh, just some calcification thing. I didn’t actually mind it – quite satisfying.’

  Lia coughed. ‘Gross, Julia. And way too much information, so let’s change the subject to something a little more savoury. Such as your ridiculous plan to dupe this sad woman you found in the hardware store.’

  ‘I am helping her, Lia, not duping her. And my plan is this: take ten grand from Hettie, pay David, then extract cosy dinner for two in Knightsbridge from him.’

  ‘Good luck with that. That first divorce was so terrifying he hasn’t been in a decent relationship since. You and your Rover baggage might not be what he’s looking for.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Julia suddenly had a thought. ‘He’s not seeing anyone now, is he?’ Not that she considered it a problem, but she’d need to size up the competition in order to eliminate it, and with the Hettie thing, her days were already far too busy.

  ‘Nope. I heard he just broke up with some lawyer from another firm.’

  ‘Excellent. Then he is looking.’

  ‘I hear he had to get a non-molestation order out on her. Are you hearing me? He might be fed up with women.’

  ‘Is he gay?’

  He said he wasn’t, but that didn’t mean anything. Rover had said he loved her. And now he was bonking a dwarf.

  ‘Well, obviously not, if he dates women.’

  ‘Then how can he be fed up? A man has needs.’

  ‘What, like a wife?’

  Julia giggled. She loved that Lia could read her mind. ‘So, back on to you. Who did you con into buying that house? . . .’

  Connie and Julia were watching from the French windows of the formal dining room. A little before five, Hettie appeared in a battered rain mac and wedged boots that Julia was sure had never been in fashion. Ever. The feral builders from across the road didn’t even look up from packing up their gear for the day. That said a lot. A lot. She saw them wolf-whistle at a miniature poodle the other day. Christ. If anyone was in need of one of those makeover programmes, it was Hettie Brown. Even her name was bland and blah.

  ‘She not look rich,’ Connie commented. ‘What you do if she not afford you pay?’

  ‘Her husband owns a copper mine, Connie. Only multi-millionaires have those. And there are lots of people around here who don’t dress well. Look at Mrs Amberley at 51.’

  ‘But Mrs Amberley wears old, old Burberry. Her maid told me. This women is wearing something from a supermarket. I had that coat once. Bought for fiver. Gave to Oxfam.’ Connie pointed at Hettie, who was now having problems with the front gate. She hadn’t realised it was on an intercom system – and that you had to be buzzed in.

  ‘Leave it to me, okay? Hettie is the only way I am going to squeeze Rover for what is rightly mine, so let’s be nice and make this work.’

  The maid clicked her tongue, as if to say, we’ll see, and went to answer the door. She was walking unsteadily in a pair of Julia’s Jimmy Choos. Julia hoped she didn’t break the bloody heel – buying a new pair was out of the question until she’d fleeced Rover.

  ‘You need to ring buzzer,’ Julia heard her maid call in a sing song voice, letting Hettie in.

  A monotone accent completely devoid of received pronunciation answered back: ‘Oh, sorry. Never had that before.’

  ‘This is important house, can’t let any old person in.’ Connie said.

  Julia shoved the maid out of the way and held out a hand to Hettie. With that attitude, bloody Connie would scare the loser from Harrow-by-the-railway-line off before there was a chance to hand over a big fat cheque.

  She plastered a smile across her perfectly smooth face. ‘Hettie, how are you? I see you’ve met my secretary.’

  Underneath the coat that Hettie had immediately shrugged off was a dire frock with black and white horizontal stripes. Connie took the coat, face scrunched into a scowl.

  Hettie’s thin lips curled into an apologetic smile. ‘Yes, hello. I, um, hope I am not too early.’

  ‘No. Not at all. Come in to my office.’ Julia held out a hand to the only open door off the foyer, and Hettie walked in, her sturdy brown walking boots squelching on the highly polished parquetry. The woman dressed as a bolshy teenage Goth on date night. No wonder Kevin had left, Julia thought for the hundredth time. It was a wonder he lasted as long as he did. Living in that black and purple monstrosity of a house by a rail track, married to this. You couldn’t really blame him.

  ‘I didn’t get a letter from you. But the postman doesn’t like coming near the house, on account of Rover.’

  ‘Not to worry, I’ll ask Connie to send another. But basically, I charge ₤500 plus taxes, per hour, on a pro rata basis. Photocopying and other expenses are charged at cost.’

  Her new and only client looked horrified. ‘That seems a lot.’

  ‘It’s pretty standard.’ Julia had no idea how much lawyers charged, but given how they lived, it had to be in the region of 500 quid per hour.

  Hettie accepted the fee. ‘So, are we ready to go?’ There was hope on the broad features.

  Julia nodded sagely. ‘Yes, I am going to send a letter to Kevin’s solicitor, informing him that we are going to contest the offer of settlement.’

  ‘And will I get my half of the money then?’ Hettie’s big brown eyes were expectant, and Julia wanted to slap the woman’s face and tell her to man up. How could anyone be so pitiable?

  ‘No, they will probably write back and say no. Then we will have to deal with the matter in court.’

  ‘Oh dear. I don’t think I could go to court. Far too frightening.’

  Julia sat in Rover’s huge, revolving, ergonomically friendly leather office chair, and indicated that her ‘client’ should sit down in the large leather bucket Connie had dragged from the games’ room.

  ‘Look, it’s the way it happens. We say no, they say no, then we fight it out. But don’t worry. I suspect Kevin doesn’t want to waste money on legal fees.’

  Kevin didn’t seem to want to waste money on a decent home and wife. Why would he purposefully spend cash on a lawyer?

  ‘I see,’ Connie replied, not really seeing at all.

  ‘So . . .’ Julia cut to the chase. ‘Do you have your cheque book? I’ll need a retainer.’

  ‘Oh, how much?’

  Julia had considered the amount carefully and had built some ‘fat’ into the request. ‘Twenty thousand pounds.’

  Connie went white. ‘That much?’

  ‘It’s obviously a small portion of what you might get from Kevin when you receive your share of that copper mine. And if we settle this quickly, there might be some left, which, of course, I will refund.’ Julia was planning on spending some on the necessities, such as food and manicures, but still, if copper-mining Kevin settled quickly, all might be well.

  Connie had suggested that Julia say it was usual to take a fee from a divorce settlement – a brilliant idea – and as Julia had failed to mention it, the maid, listening outside the window, gesticulated wildly to remind her.

  Yes, yes. Okay.

  ‘A small percentage,’ she said to Hettie, broaching the subject, ‘when we win. It’s quite usual.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course. I trust you, Julia. That sounds fine.’

  Christ, that was quick. This woman was so dim she would trust a banker. Julia almost felt sorry for her.

  Almost.

  ‘Right, so if you hand over the cheque – and Kevin’s address, we can get started.’

  Hettie fixed her eyes on her hands. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He hasn’t said.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not if he is in the country or out of it?’

  ‘No.’

  This might be a problem.

  ‘Right, I’ll get a private detective onto it. It might cost a bit extra, but in the meantime, the twenty grand should be fine.’

  Finally extracting a battered chequebook from the
ghastly fake Prada, Hettie took up Rover’s fine gold pen from its stand and quickly filled out the required parts of a scrappy piece of paper. ‘Who do I make it out to?’

  ‘Julia Parmier. My company name is the same as my own.’

  The tattered scrap was handed over. Julia quickly checked it was signed and dated properly. Then she stood up.

  ‘Okay, I think I have all I need.’

  ‘What about Kevin’s details? Can you find him just using ‘Kevin Brown’?’

  Maybe the woman wasn’t so stupid.

  ‘No, but I thought you might go home and email me everything on him you have. I’ll need a photo, and his NHS card and tax number, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have email. Kevin says . . . said,’ she hiccupped slightly, and Julia prayed Hettie wouldn’t start blubbering again, ‘it wasn’t worth the money.’

  Sighing, Julia pushed a pad of heavy note paper towards her. ‘Well, write down what you know, and you can ring my secretary later with the rest of the information. How does that sound?’

  Julia was eager to bank the cheque and get herself to David Henry-Jones’ office quick smart. How she’d find the enigmatic Kevin Brown was a problem for another day. In fact, it was a problem for Connie. The woman was such a snoop – a little PR work should be right up her street, shouldn’t it?

  ‘Oh, okay . . .’

  Mercifully, Julia’s mobile rang, so she escaped into the hall, leaving Hettie to come up with something useful to track her husband down with.

  It was David Henry-Jones.

  Bliss.

  His deep voice hit her in a delicious place between her legs.

  Concentrate! she warned herself. Be normal.

  ‘Julia?’

  ‘David, yes, how are you?’

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. We spoke with Rover in New York–‘

  ‘Oh, you found him, then?’

  ‘Easily. But that’s where our luck ends. He says he was being over generous with you as it was, and now he wants half the house, too.’

  ‘What!’

  Shit.

  The total and utter bastard!

  ‘I did warn you that contesting the settlement offer might end badly.’

  ‘You didn’t say I might get less than I had.’

  ‘That was implied.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ Julia momentarily forgot she had the hots for him. Bloody lawyers. It occurred to her again that David might be on Rover’s side, even after all her attempts to divert him from the friendship. ‘Are you sure you’re really working for me?’

  There was a brief silence, then a much more sombre tone. ‘Look, Rover is a snide bastard who cost me a partnership all those years ago, so I can assure you that I am most definitely on your side. The issue is, what can I effectively do for you?’

  Faith in him restored, Julia longed to betray exactly what he could do for her. Instead, she thanked him meekly and said she would bring in a cheque.

  ‘So feel free to start the bulldog tactics straightaway.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You know, start mauling him. That’s your reputation, I hear.’

  He laughed. ‘Who from?’

  ‘The grapevine.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid the grapevine has it wrong. I am more the sure and steady type.’

  Julia was certain there was sexual intent in the statement, and was about to reply in the same manner when Hettie appeared and thrust a sheet full of spindly scrawl into her face.

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Pardon?’ David said.

  Hettie stubby forefinger was stabbing at point three. ‘Here it is. Do you need stuff about his weight and that? I added a couple of pounds, because people always put on weight when they start a new relationship.’ She gulped and began to howl.

  Again.

  ‘Are you crying, Julia?’ Even via the airwaves, it was possible to hear the freaked out voice of a man uncomfortable with emotion.

  ‘No, that’s not me, it’s a . . .’ She tapered off, in the hope that further questions might not be forthcoming.

  ‘A?. . .’

  ‘Friend. She’s in the same predicament as I. Except she actually misses the evil cheat.’

  ‘You can admit it, you know,’ David said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you still love Rover. Many of my clients remain firmly attached, despite being hideously abandoned.’

  Horrified at the tack the conversation was now taking, and realising that David still thought she was the one blubbering, Julia signalled urgently that Connie should show Hettie out.

  ‘I’ll be in touch later today,’ she mouthed, as Hettie was hurriedly shovelled into her cheap coat by the maid, who had now taken off the high heels and was standing on tip toes to try and maintain the illusion of respectability.

  God.

  ‘Julia, are you there.’

  ‘Sorry, David, my maid was just showing my friend out. And trust me, that howling wasn’t me. Rover was far less man than I’d hoped for, if you know what I mean. I am certainly not grieving.’ Julia prayed that a perky sexual innuendo would fix the problem.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well . . .’

  ‘So, about that grapevine, can you be the bulldog I desire.’

  The lovely deep laugh again. Julia wondered hazily whether a decently long tongue could be assumed from such a honey rich voice. Did she dare to hope she might find out?

  ‘Look, Julia. I hate to bring it up, but if you want me to reply to Rover’s lawyers and get things started properly, I’ll need cleared funds sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Why don’t we meet for a coffee later? I’ll give it to you then.’ The suggestion was rather forward, but Julia was keen to make David Henry-Jones aware of her availability.

  Anywhere, anytime.

  ‘That’s okay, just leave it at reception tomorrow and it will be dealt with.’

  Julia was about to counter with an offer for a drink after work when she realised that the lawyer had rung off.

  Damn. Could it be that he wasn’t interested? Surely not? Probably just didn’t expect Julia to be interested in him, in that way. After all, she was a woman in her prime, with new boobs to boot. And soon, she’d be sporting a truckload of cash to support her obvious attributes. What man wouldn’t want her? Particularly one who was not to everyone’s taste. David Henry-Jones was gorgeous as far as Julia was concerned, but he wasn’t beefy or built, and to most of her friends, a six-pack was a prerequisite for accepting a man into their beds.

  But Julia was looking for more than sex. She was looking for husband Number Two. And everyone knew that buff abs turned to fat anyway. Far better to stick with brains and wallet.

  ‘Connie,’ she called.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Palmie.’

  ‘I need you to find Hettie’s husband.’

  ‘Where he?’

  ‘That’s what you need to discover.’

  ‘But how I do that?’

  ‘Research?’

  ‘Hah?’

  ‘Look him up on the net.’

  ‘The net? Is that a paper?’

  Christ. She does it on purpose. ‘Oh forget it! Just go deposit that cheque. And tell the bank we need a fast clearance.’

  ‘Hah?’

  Julia resisted the urge to scream. For about one second.

  As Connie walked to the bank, Mr Rover called.

  ‘So, Connie. How is she paying for the lawyer? I’ve done a little digging, and that firm is expensive.’

  ‘Don’t know, Mr Rover. Maybe that house friend is helping her?’

  ‘Lia? I wonder if Hugo knows anything it. I might give him a call.’

  Connie was silent.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rover.’

  ‘Well, go and find out what you can. I’m not paying you to laze about watching my pathetic ex-wife cry, am I?’

  ‘No, Mr Rover, Yes, Mr Rover.’

  After he’d rung off, Connie frowned and, trudging down th
e crowded street towards the tube station, she decided that both her employers were equally obnoxious.

  But at least Mrs Palmie let her borrow her shoes.

  That counted for something. Which is why she was still keeping the woman’s secrets.

  For now, at least.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LIA AND JULIA SAT ON the revolting vinyl table in the dingy café in Mile End. ‘Is this really necessary? Why couldn’t he come to South Ken?’

  ‘You wanted cheap and cheerful,’ Lia reminded her. ‘My boss recommended this private detective, who says he’ll find your Kevin Brown for five hundred quid inclusive, but that doesn’t include the petrol to drive to see you.’

  ‘Christ. But what if someone sees us here? How will we explain it?’

  Lia snapped her fingers. ‘Easy. Looking at property for your soon-to-be rapidly expanding portfolio. It shows how confident you are in receiving more money from Rover.’

  ‘Or, it shows I’ve lost everything and have to buy a shack around here.’ The thought chilled Julia to her calcium-deprived bones. A semi or worse, mid-terrace on a main road with lorries thundering past. No thank you. ‘Is it colder out here, or is it just my imagination?’

  ‘It’s not that far from London, now shush, here he comes.’

  A fat man in a shiny tracksuit had slunk in behind an elderly couple and was looking around the café eagerly.

  ‘Him? Come on! How can he be a private investigator, dressed like that?’

  ‘Well, you didn’t guess it was him, did you? And it does look like a designer brand.’ Lia waved at the man as she spoke.

  ‘Probably a knock off.’

  Could there be anything worse than a fake tracksuit? Not even Hettie’s handbag was as bad as fake sportswear.

  ‘Awright, love.’ The PI arrived at the table and looked straight down at Julia’s breasts. ‘Nice rack, darlin’.’

  ‘My God, are you really so stereotypically chauvinistic, or is it part of some act?’

  ‘You’ll have to work it out, eh?’ He winked at her, and Julia couldn’t help but feel she had been outwitted by, well, a halfwit. He held out a rough, brown hand. His face was pasty white, so why his hands were so dark was a mystery. One she had no desire to unravel.