Perhaps Eva can’t decide where to go because, deep down, she wants things to stay as they are, thought Kim. She likes living as a family with Harry and Otis. Which is deeply depressing. There’s one tiny sliver of hope: Maybe Eva isn’t actively choosing to be with Harry. Maybe she’s just hanging around until her options become clearer. She’s never been good at making up her mind about anything.
“Are the stars not aligned?” said Harry.
“I don’t mean in some kind of mystical sense. I mean, maybe there’s something holding me back.”
“Like the thought of paying rent?”
“You may mock.” Eva shut the laptop with an air of finality. “But we don’t always know why things happen when they happen. Right now I feel as if I’m leaning against a locked door trying to push it open. Maybe I should just give up and let fate take over.”
Kim shivered.
“It is cold, isn’t it?” said Eva. She swung her legs down and stood up. “It’s Harry’s guilty little secret. It’s nearly summer. So he keeps turning down the thermostat.”
• • •
You wouldn’t know from a quick glance that anything was wrong. Any casual observer would have noticed nothing unusual—just two old friends having a drink after work. You would have had to know Harry quite well to see that he wasn’t relaxed at all. He was leaning back in his chair, smiling at Syed on the opposite side of the table. But his eyes were blank. It was as if someone had drawn down a blackout blind and cut out the light.
His glass of wine was untouched.
The pub, an old coaching inn in the City, stretched all the way from the street to a tiny courtyard at the back. It was a warren of interconnecting rooms, lit by lamps with red shades that turned everything the color of old blood. Cracked oil paintings in gilt frames hung from the dark wood paneling. The floorboards underfoot were sticky with spilled beer. Harry and Syed were sitting in an alcove underneath a vast portrait of the Duke of Wellington. The duke wore a scarlet military jacket with fringed gold epaulets and a white cravat bandaged all the way up to his chin like a sort of neck brace.
Syed was drunk. He’d been drinking all afternoon. Harry hadn’t noticed at first. Syed had seemed his usual boisterous self—a little louder, perhaps, the jokes a bit cruder. But now, in the hour they’d been together, Syed was sinking into a dark pool of serious inebriation. “No one will suspect a thing. Happens all the time. Up and down faster than a whore’s drawers.”
Harry said nothing.
“What?”
“You need me to tell you?”
Syed looked belligerent. “I need the money.”
Syed’s brother-in-law, true to form, had once again crashed into debt. (It’s not possible, said Harry. Not again. Syed looked gloomy. It’s the only thing he’s any good at, he said.) The night before, the family home had been ringing with wailing and recriminations. Syed had tried to stick to his guns. What’s the point of bailing him out again? He’ll just lose it. It’s like throwing a match in a pile of £50 notes. But his mother wouldn’t listen. You must put it right. Think of your sister. I trust you.
He probably doesn’t mean a word of it, thought Harry, trying to push down his mounting irritation. He’ll have forgotten all about it tomorrow. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk his whole career.
“Your sector’s a good one,” said Syed, stumbling over the syllables like someone blundering about on a pebble beach. “Health care.”
“You think so?”
“I say something won’t get FDA approval. And that’s it. Nosedive.”
Harry shook his head. “It takes more than that.”
“Depends who you tell. They trust me. Syed has the magic touch. Syed can’t fail.” He tried to tap his nose but missed.
I should change the subject, thought Harry, before my opposition makes him more determined.
“I know the market,” said Syed. “If I say it’s true, they’ll believe me.”
“Why don’t we go and get something to eat?”
“That’s all it takes.”
“There’s a restaurant round the corner.”
“Just a word in the right ear.”
Harry lost patience. “You’re not serious.”
“Of course I’m fucking serious.”
“It’s illegal. It’s immoral. And you’ll get found out.”
Syed waved his hands around, as if shooing a cluster of kittens. “Happens all the time.”
“If someone finds out you’ve spread false information in order to influence a share price, you’ll be prosecuted. You know that.”
“What I need is a bright new company. Brilliant prospects. Growing fast.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“Sell high. Buy low. Job done.”
Harry imagined himself at work, staring at the screens. The share price in Medway was falling. A couple of big pension funds had sold off their stakes. He saw himself putting in calls to old colleagues in New York. Yes, they’d heard rumors. Nothing concrete. Doubts about FDA approval. But it was enough to get people nervous. He imagined Michael Adewale pacing up and down in his brand-new office. He thought about Medway’s research and development into innovative, affordable medical equipment that could be used across the world.
Harry leant forwards. “Don’t do this. I’m telling you, as your friend, that this is a bad idea.”
“You’re telling me no one ever breaks the rules?”
Harry fantasized about upending the table, grabbing hold of Syed, and pinning him to the wall. Shouting into his face until he saw sense. This is not a victimless crime. You will affect thousands of lives—from the elderly investor in Halifax to the woman with cancer in Nairobi. You’ll end up in prison. You’ll never work in the City again. All for the sake of a relative who’s got himself into debt. “I’m telling you not to do it.”
“What you don’t seem to understand,” said Syed, “is that I have no choice.”
“Of course you have a choice.”
Syed focused with great difficulty. “It’s too late.”
Harry stared.
“I’ve already done it.”
• • •
Kim was in the quiet carriage on the train back from Bristol. She had booked it on purpose because she assumed she’d be using the time to write up her notes. The new job was complicated. It wasn’t just about raising the charity’s profile in the regions. She’d also been asked to streamline operations and cut costs. Jake said that unless the charity became a leaner organization, it wouldn’t be able to survive.
But now that she was sitting here, in total silence, Kim didn’t feel like working. She wanted to ring Eva and discuss final plans for the wedding. She wanted to chat to Otis. She wanted to play silly clips on YouTube. I’d quite like to talk to Jake, she thought, staring out of the window at the open green countryside. Because it doesn’t feel like we’ve said anything to each other for weeks. Maybe ringing or texting is the only way to communicate these days. He doesn’t seem to think anything’s worth listening to unless it comes out of an iPhone.
“Yeah, I’m on the train,” said a voice from the next bay.
Kim looked up, surprised.
“Only just. Few seconds to spare.”
He doesn’t realize, thought Kim. He doesn’t realize he’s in the quiet coach.
“Got no idea. Around seven, maybe.”
Oh, thought Kim. It’s just a quick call home. To say what time he’s getting in. He’ll stop in a minute.
“Oh, you’re an angel, babe. I’m fucking knackered.”
Although you would have thought he’d have seen all the signs.
“Did he bollocks. Came out with the whole fucking history. Couldn’t shut him up.”
Kim got out her phone and scrolled down her messages. I could always text Eva, she thought. That’s a quiet activity. I’m sure you’re allowed to text people. That doesn’t disturb anyone.
“No fucking thought for anyone else.”
Kim sh
ut her eyes.
“You would have thought he’d have learnt by now. But once he started, he couldn’t fucking stop. No one else could get a word in.”
Does he realize he’s shouting?
“I know, babe. I know. Fucking unbelievable.”
It’s like he’s trying to tell the whole train.
“I tried. I said, Listen, mate, I’m not interested. It’s gone on long enough.”
At full volume.
“But he said, You’re forgetting where this started. What you—”
Kim stood up. In the next bay, spread-eagled on the seat, was a man of about thirty, clean shaven, with slicked-back dark hair. He was wearing a navy-blue suit, a white shirt, and a thin red tie. Quite professional looking, thought Kim with surprise. “Excuse me.”
“Sorry, baby, hold on.” The man cupped his hand over the phone. “Can I help you?”
“You probably didn’t realize, but this is a quiet carriage.”
“So?”
“That means you’re not supposed to be using a mobile phone.”
“It’s disturbing you, is it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to be long.”
“Yes, I appreciate that. But I’m trying to work.”
“Trying to work.”
“Yes. That’s why I chose the quiet carriage.”
“Fair enough.”
Kim sat down. There, you see? she said to herself. No fuss. No drama. Just a polite request, a reasonable conversation, and a rapid resolution.
“Babe? Yeah, sorry, got to move. Someone complaining about my mobile. Hold on.” Kim could see the man reaching up to the luggage rack above his head to pull down a briefcase. She tried not to stare. Grace in victory, after all.
Passing the end of Kim’s bay, the man paused, the phone still held to his ear. “Haven’t got a fucking clue. Some sad old cow wants to sit in silence.”
• • •
Constantly moving. Heart pounding. Head slipping, head ducking. Beat the crap out of it. Till your ears are singing.
When Harry eventually stopped, unable to breathe, the pressure in his ears had got so extreme he was deaf—as if the heavy bag, swinging, had walloped him in the head. His legs were tired. His arms were trembling. Sweat was blinding him.
He wanted to sit down. But his body, in shock, could only wonder that it was still alive.
“You OK?” said Leon.
Harry nodded. He leant back against the wall, fighting for breath.
Leon stood watching him. Gradually, Harry heard the sounds of the gym again—shouts and thuds, the thwack of the jumping rope, a body falling to the floor. Blood was pumping round his body, making his skin feel fat. His shirt stuck to his chest like plastic wrap.
Leon said, “You want a few rounds?”
Harry nodded.
Much later, outside the gym, Harry stopped to check his phone. The entrance was busy because the kids’ class had just finished, so Harry moved off down the road, away from the streetlamp, and stood in the shadow of the railway arch. The boxing had left him weightless, as if his bones had melted to air.
He’d beaten down the shock. All the fear and anger and grief had gone. Harry felt empty.
It was a fine May evening. There was a gentle warmth in the air. When a car pulled to a halt outside the gym, Harry looked up. It was a battered blue Toyota. Now, for the first time, he saw Ethan, standing against the wall. There was no one else around. All the parents had collected their kids. The street was empty.
A man got out of the car. He was shouting. Ethan began to sidestep with small movements as if he were about to run. But the man closed the distance between them in just a few strides. It happened so fast. Ethan was lifted and thrown back against the wall. There was another push, a slap to the side of the head, and then the boy was on the ground, curled up, raising his arms to defend himself.
For a moment, Harry stared. Then he put his phone back in his pocket. He lifted up his sports bag, slung it over his shoulder, and strolled back to the gym entrance. Ethan had got to his feet and was stumbling behind the man to the car, hunched over as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible.
As Ethan was about to get into the backseat, Harry tapped on the driver’s window. Ethan, holding the door—half in, half out—looked at him in terror.
The man wound the window down.
Anyone watching would have seen two mates exchanging a friendly greeting outside a neighborhood boxing club. A normal south London conversation. Harry bent down, relaxed and smiling, his arm resting on top of the car above the open window. He waited, allowing the man to assess him—his height, the bulk of his shoulders and arms, the expression in his eyes. He waited just long enough to make the point. Then he said, clearly and slowly, “So now I’ve seen you. I know who you are. And I’m telling you this once. If I ever see another bruise on him—a mark, anywhere—I will come and find you. And I will beat you to a pulp.”
There was a long moment when time stood still.
It was only when the car sped off, tires grinding into the tarmac, that it all came back.
That afternoon. Sitting with Eva. Everything that was said. But Harry—like someone stepping back from a cliff edge, horrified by the fall—blanked the thought from his mind. He wouldn’t let himself remember.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
• • •
Izzie sat back on her heels. “You’re not going to forgive him, are you?”
No, thought Kim, I’m not. Sitting there smugly at the wedding, knowing secrets that didn’t belong to him. He must have felt so powerful. Like a god. Like the center of the universe.
“Eva told him in confidence.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t want to tell you before the wedding.”
But she told Harry. I can’t forgive him for knowing before I did. Kim closed her eyes. Pictures of the wedding crowded in. She remembered the cavalcade of cars covered with flowers, balloons, and streamers, all sounding their horns as they wove their way through the sunlit streets of the village near Nice. She remembered the pretty restaurant with its pink-and-white awning hosting the vin d’honneur—the celebration after the civil ceremony—with champagne and tiny canapés, and fresh lemonade for Jean-Marc’s grandchildren.
How hard it was not to feel intimidated by the neat tailoring and high heels and perfect manicures all around her. For once, Kim had made a huge effort with her appearance. She’d had a haircut. She’d even polished her shoes. But the casual elegance of the French guests had made her feel clumsy and unfinished.
Eva had said her navy dress, a silk shift, brought out the blue of her eyes. But Harry looked taken aback when he saw her, which said it all, really.
Grace shone like a film star, elegant and demure in a white lace dress with a high neck and long sleeves. Her white-blond hair was swept back from her face, showing off her beautiful bone structure. She’s Princess Grace, thought Kim. She has become the woman she always wanted to be.
Jean-Marc, to Kim’s surprise—because Grace had described him as impossibly good-looking—turned out to be small, with brown hair speckled with gray, a hooked nose, and a slight stoop. He made Kim think of a hooded falcon hunched against the wind. Grace had insisted he stay with his eldest daughter in the days before the wedding (There is simply too much to do. Men just get in the way), so there had been no chance to get to know him at all. After the ceremony, conversation was hard going because Jean-Marc spoke no English, and Kim spoke no French. Harry, who had never met Jean-Marc before either, came out with a few formal sentences that he’d painstakingly learnt, and Jean-Marc inclined his head, as if to show he was pleased that Harry had made the effort.
But it was Otis who saved the day. His face lit up when he saw Jean-Marc. He remembered staying with him the year before. “Hola,” he said, holding out his hand. “Bom dia. Buon giorno. Guten Tag. Sveikas.”
They all laughed, and Eva hugged him. “Nea
rly.”
Jean-Marc bent down low and took Otis’s hand, looking right into his eyes. “Hello.”
Oh, thought Kim, seeing how Jean-Marc’s face had softened and been made younger by his smile, I think I can see what my mother means.
After the formal reception, they got back into the noisy procession of cars, and the select few—family and close friends—were driven to Jean-Marc’s grand old villa in the hills. One long table had been set up in the shade of a pergola twisted with vines. They had course after course—melon, then scallops, chicken with fresh thyme, a green salad, local cheeses on a wicker platter, and then a croquembouche, a great pyramid of choux pastry puffs threaded with caramel and decorated with sugared almonds. The wineglasses were filled and refilled.
Somewhere at the bottom of her third glass of peachy Bellet rosé, Kim, who was beginning to feel drowsy and happy, found herself wondering how her mother had managed to make it all happen. Jean-Marc may not be a Grimaldi, she thought, looking out at the bright blue sky beyond the olive trees. But this is pretty close to the Palace of Monaco.
“So what do you think?” Harry sat down on the empty chair next to her. It was that time of the meal when people were changing places to catch up with gossip. Later, the children might swim in the pool behind its hedge of oleander, or play hide-and-seek in the formal gardens planted with lemon and olive trees.
“I think she’ll be really happy.”
“Jean-Marc seems OK.”
“I like him.” She frowned. “Because he likes Otis. I like everyone who likes Otis.”
Harry smiled as if she’d said something funny.
“What?”
“I like Otis,” said Harry. “But you’ve never liked me.”
Kim was about to say, Yes, but I’m trying really hard these days not to hate you, but realized that might sound rude. So she took a sip of water instead. “I’ve been wondering whether my mother deserves it.”
“Deserves what?”
“All this. She’s been so supremely selfish the whole of her life. But now all her dreams have come true.”
Harry looked amused. “So you think good things should only happen to nice people?”
Kim felt a flash of irritation. Trust him to talk to her as if she were a child. “Don’t you?”
Don't Get Me Wrong Page 16
