by Jojo Moyes
'Asad wanted to say something,' Henry interrupted, 'but I told him, "You can't just steam in making wild accusations." We had no idea what was going on in your house, what he was doing.'
'But you knew he wanted the house. Before we came.'
They looked helplessly at each other. 'Well, yes. It was common knowledge.'
'Not to us,' said Kitty. 'It would have been helpful if someone could have warned us that the man who was bashing our home to bits and charging us the earth for it was the same man who had wanted it for himself. Still, I guess now we know who our friends are.' She turned to go.
'Kitty!' Asad called her back. 'Does your mother know? Have you talked to her about this?' Henry heard the wheeziness in his voice, signalling his distress.
'I don't know what she knows,' said Kitty. 'I don't want to cause more problems.' Suddenly she became a child out of her depth. 'I don't know what to do. Still, I suppose it doesn't matter now because he's got to stop soon anyway. We've run out of money. We'll just sit in our semi-derelict house, work out how much we've lost and try to get on with our lives.'
There was a hint of drama in her delivery, but Henry couldn't blame her for that. 'Kitty, please wait. Let me explain a little--'
The bell jangled again and the door closed behind her.
'Well!' exclaimed Mrs Linnet, into the silence. And then again, when no one said anything, 'Well.'
'She'll come round,' said Henry. 'When she thinks about it. God only knows what that man has done to the place. I'm sorry, Asad,' he said, as he walked round the shop, pulling down the blinds. 'You can hit me with the I-told-you-sos. We should have said something, even if it was just a suspicion.'
'You knew he was up to something, then?' Mrs Linnet asked.
'Well, no,' said Henry, wringing his hands. 'That was the problem. We just didn't know. And what can you do? I mean, you don't like to spread unfounded rumours, do you? Especially not when it concerns someone like him.'
'He's in the pub,' said Mrs Linnet. 'I saw him go in not ten minutes ago, like butter wouldn't melt.'
Asad undid his apron.
'Do you know,' she continued, 'I've always thought there was something not quite right about him. When he did Mrs Barker's extension she said he'd put the handles too close to the door frames. The times she's skinned her knuckles . . .'
'Where are you going?' said Henry. Asad was taking off his apron.
'I have never felt so ashamed. Never.' There was something impassioned, barely restrained, behind his words. 'That child was right, Henry. Everything she said was right. We have all behaved shamefully.'
'But where are you going?'
'To talk to Mr McCarthy,' said Asad, 'before Mrs Delancey hears what's been going on. I'm going to ask him to behave like an honourable human being. And I'm going to tell him exactly what I think of him.'
'Asad, don't,' said Henry, blocking his path to the door. 'Don't get involved. This isn't your business.'
'It is our business. It is our duty as friends, as good neighbours.'
'Our duty? Who ever looked out for us, Asad?' Henry was shouting now, oblivious to who might hear. 'Who ever stepped in when we faced those bigots after we first got here? Who helped us when they were throwing things through our windows? Scrawling things on our door?'
'She is alone, Henry.'
'And so were we.'
'That was many years ago.' Asad shook his head, uncomprehending. 'What are you so afraid of?' he asked, and then he was gone.
The man behind the barbecue was wearing an apron with fake breasts and a pair of frilly knickers printed on the front. From time to time he clapped his hands over the breasts or held up a sausage, clamped in his tongs, and pursed his lips, as if he was doing something rude. Occasionally he would gyrate suggestively to the music, which rang out from the stereo someone had balanced on a small table by the door. Kitty only half noticed. Her nerves were jangling. The Cousins had been so shocked, so upset by what she had said to them, but they had obviously known. Why had they said nothing?
'There she is,' said Anthony, as a woman moved behind the barbecue to tell the man something. Her hair, scraped up in a deliberately messy confection, had thick blonde and gingery streaks running through it. 'That's the woman my dad's been shagging.'
Kitty's drink stalled at her lips. 'What?' she said, unsure she had heard correctly.
'Theresa Dillon. The barmaid. My dad's been shagging her for months.' He said it so casually, as if it were half to be expected that your father might be sleeping with someone other than your mother.
Kitty lowered her cola. 'Are you sure?'
'Course.' He stared at the woman with contempt. 'And she's not the first.'
Sometimes, this past year, Kitty had felt like the oldest teenager in the world. The only person in her household capable of making sensible decisions, paying bills, organising their household in the face of Mum's chaos. There were still times, though, like today, when she felt she was travelling through a landscape she had not even begun to understand. Matt had sauntered over when she had sat down with Anthony. He had joked that she could have got the drinks in if she'd taken his offer of a lift. Anthony had barely looked at him, she had been muted by fury, and in the end, muttering about teenagers, he had moved to where he now sat with some people.
'If you know that for sure,' she said carefully, 'why don't you tell your mum?'
He looked at her as if she was a complete innocent, and she remembered telling him how happy her mum and dad had been, how Mum had almost fallen apart after Dad died.
He offered her a crisp. 'You don't know my dad,' he said dismissively. They sat on the bench for a while, the heat of the lowering sun penetrating the fabric of Kitty's dress.
'Want some more crisps? I'll get some more salt-and-vinegar before they run out.' Anthony rummaged in his pockets for change. Then he stopped. 'Uh-oh. What's going on there?'
Asad was standing in front of Matt, who was seated on one of the bench tables at the other side of the garden. She could not hear all of what was being said, but she could tell from Matt's rigid expression and from Asad's bearing that it was not good.
'You don't know what you're talking about, Asad, so I'd keep your nose out before you embarrass yourself.' Matt's voice carried above the music on the still air.
'You are a shameless man. You rely on the fact that people are afraid of you. Well, I am not afraid of you. And I am not afraid to tell the truth.'
The garden had become very quiet, as everyone picked up on the disturbance.
'The truth?' Matt said. 'Village gossip. You sit there in your silly little shop spreading it like old women. The pair of you. You're a joke.' He laughed.
Kitty's heart almost stopped. She glanced at Anthony, who shook his head. 'Oh, no,' he murmured.
Matt stood up, and Kitty moved forward, but Anthony's arm held her where she was.
Henry, who had just come into the beer garden with Mrs Linnet, cast around for Asad, then hurried up to him, muttering something Kitty couldn't hear.
Asad didn't seem to notice. 'I'm asking you to do the right thing,' he said calmly.
'And who are you? Some kind of moral judge and jury?'
'Someone who is not prepared to see a good woman cheated.'
When Matt spoke, his voice was tight. 'Asad, a piece of friendly advice. Go and play with your tinned peas.'
Asad's voice was louder now. 'All that money - and her a widow. Have you no shame?'
'Mrs Delancey is very happy with the work I'm doing on her house,' Matt said. 'You ask her. Okay? Ask her how happy she is.'
'That is because she doesn't know the truth.'
'Asad, leave me alone.' Matt flicked his hand and took a deep swig of his drink. 'You're beginning to bore me.'
'She doesn't know that you have been systematically overcharging her, crippling her--'
Henry pulled at his arm. 'Asad, let's go.'
'Yes, Asad. Go - before you say something you regret.'
'My on
ly regret is not speaking out sooner,' said Asad. 'You know very well what I--'
'What the fuck is that supposed to mean?'
'I am going to tell her,' Asad said, wheezing now. 'I am going to see Mrs Delancey to tell her what you have been doing.'
Suddenly Matt McCarthy's demeanour changed. He leaped to his feet and loomed over the older man. 'Go home,' he said venomously, his face barely an inch from Asad's. 'You're winding me up.'
'You don't like the idea that someone will tell her the truth?'
Matt was jabbing a finger at him. 'No. I don't like you. Why don't you piss off out of my business? Why don't you keep yourself to yourself and stop meddling?'
'Matt--'
Another man laid a hand on his arm, but Matt shook him off. 'No! This idiot's been in my face for weeks, insinuating things, dropping hints. I'm warning you, Asad. Stay out of my business or there'll be trouble.'
Kitty's heart was thumping. Over by the barbecue, a mother grabbed her small child's hand and led him towards the gate.
Henry was pulling at Asad now. 'Please let's go, Asad. Think of your chest.'
Asad refused to move. 'I've known bullies like you all my life,' he said breathlessly. 'And you're all the same. All relying on the fact that people will be too scared to get involved.'
Matt struck Asad's chest with a palm. 'You just won't leave it, will you? You stupid old man - you don't know when to leave well enough alone!' He shoved Asad backwards, causing him to stagger.
'Matt!' the barmaid with the streaky hair was tugging his shirt. 'Don't--'
'You're always sticking your nose in where it's not wanted, making threats. And you know nothing, you hear me?' Matt yelled into Asad's face. 'Nothing.'
Kitty was trembling, and Anthony ran to his father. But Matt no longer seemed to hear anyone's protests.
'You shut your mouth and go away, you hear me?' Push. 'Stop spreading your poisonous gossip, you stupid old fool.' Push. 'Okay? Shut your mouth and go away.' Push.
At this Asad stumbled and was audibly fighting for breath. 'You - do - not - frighten - me,' he said.
The expression in Matt's eyes made Kitty shiver. 'Don't fucking push it, Asad,' he said.
'Matt, stop it. He's an old man.' The barbecue cook was now standing in front of Matt, tongs in hand. 'Henry, get Asad out of here. Matt - I think we should all just calm down.'
But Matt sidestepped him, prodding Asad's chest. 'You say one word to Isabel Delancey and you're fucking dead, you understand?'
'That's it.' Barbecue Man had been joined by several others, all of whom were steering Matt away from Asad. 'Get a grip on yourself, McCarthy. Go home and cool down.'
'Dead, you hear me?' He twisted away from the hands that held him. 'I'm going. Just leave me alone. He's the one you should be chucking out.'
'Oh, Christ!'
Flanked by a semi-circle of bystanders, Asad was sinking to the ground, his long legs crumpling elegantly beneath him, one clenched brown hand raised to his chest.
'Get his puffer!' Henry yelled. 'Someone get his inhaler.' He bent his head. 'Deep breaths, love.'
Asad's eyes were screwed shut. Kitty glimpsed his complexion, peculiarly purple, as the crowd closed round him. Someone muttered about asthma. Mrs Linnet fumbled with a bunch of keys. 'I don't know which one!' she was wailing. 'I don't know which one unlocks the shop door!'
Anthony was talking urgently to his father in the gateway.
On the barbecue something was burning, sending puffs of acrid smoke into the balmy evening. Kitty watched the scene recede from her, as if she were no longer part of it but watching from afar through a glass barrier. The birds, she noticed absently, were still singing.
'Someone hold him. Hold him for me. Oh, please . . . Call an ambulance! Someone call an ambulance!' And then, as Henry bolted past her, towards the shop, she heard him say, as if to himself, 'This, Asad . . .' He was almost weeping, his face flushed with effort, his own breath coming in gasps. 'This was what I was afraid of.'
Nineteen
Andreas Stephanides had the most immaculate fingernails Nicholas had ever seen on a man: even, perfectly regular, a well-buffed seashell pink. He must have had a manicure, he thought absently. The thought of asking Andreas Stephanides whether he did in fact have regular manicures made a nervous laugh rise to the back of his throat and Nicholas coughed, trying to cover it.
'You okay?'
'Fine.' Nicholas waved away his concern. 'Aircon. Throat . . .'
The older man sat back in his chair, and gestured at the papers in front of him. 'You know what? You've done me a favour. My wife, she's at that age . . . she needs a project.'
He picked up one of the sheets. 'This is what they're all doing now, right? The kids leave home, it used to be they'd make curtains. Colour schemes for each other's homes. Perhaps some charity work. Now she wants to rebuild whole houses.' He shrugged. 'I don't mind. It keeps her happy. And this house she likes. She likes it a lot.'
'It's got potential.' Nicholas crossed his legs, conscious of his new suit. It had been years since he'd been able to treat himself to one of such quality, but on feeling the fine wool against his skin, he had recalled that bespoke clothing made one feel - appear, even - more of a man. It seemed inconceivable now that he could have arrived in this office wearing anything less. Andreas's first payment had financed it.
Andreas nodded. 'She agrees with you. As I said, she's very happy. And if she's happy . . .'
Nicholas waited. From long experience he knew that it was wise with Andreas never to say too much. The man was a poker player, and he took you more seriously if he thought things had been left unsaid. 'Only a fool reveals all his cards,' he was fond of saying. While he waited, Nicholas gazed at the view of Hyde Park. It was another warm day and office workers were on the grass taking their lunch break early, sleeves rolled up and skirts hitched above knees. The traffic congealed in a thick artery around them, moving in short, ill-tempered bursts, but Nicholas could hear only the faintest hint of horns and engines. In this office, with its panelled walls and thick glass, one was insulated from noise, fumes, the messiness of everyday life. Money could protect you from almost anything.
'You want cash deposit?'
Nicholas smiled at him. 'Five per cent should do it.'
'You think you can get more like this?'
Nicholas returned his attention to the desk. 'Andreas, you know as well as I do that such properties don't grow on trees, especially in that area of London. But I'll keep my ear to the ground.' He had 'turned' them - valuing them low for a quick sale, and accepting a cash kickback from both buyer and seller, acting as an invisible middle man. It was not strictly legal, but so much of what went on with property was in a grey area. The seller, the son of the deceased owner, had been happy enough not to pay an agent's fee.
'And you - you're doing okay out of this?'
'It's petty cash, if you want the truth.'
Andreas was a handsome man, his hair thick and black even in his sixties, his immaculate dress and deceptively laid-back demeanour bringing to mind a 1950s lounge singer. His cufflinks were scattered with tiny diamonds. Everything about him and his office spoke of big money, ostentatiously spent.
He reached for his telephone and called his secretary. 'Shoula, bring us in some lunch, please, and drinks.' He raised an eyebrow at Nicholas. 'You have time?'
Nicholas shrugged, as if time were of no importance.
Andreas replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette. 'So what's in it for you? This is the second property you have found me at well below market value. You're not a stupid man, Nicholas. You're a developer yourself. Why are you doing me a favour?'
Nicholas had been hoping this question would crop up after drinks. He took a deep breath, hoping to appear unconcerned. 'Well . . . I thought you might be able to help me with a little project . . . There is a property,' he said carefully, 'and it's a bit special. I want to develop it myself, but I need backing.'
'Why did you not de
velop these two?' Andreas gestured at the property details on the desk. 'You could have cleared six figures, even if you just sold them on. A good builder, a few months, maybe twice that.'
'I didn't want to be distracted. This will take a lot of attention. And I need to move quickly.'
'But you don't want me to develop this "special" property with you? In partnership?'
Nicholas laid his hands on the desk. 'I want a loan. I can do a percentage return on profit, if that makes it more attractive. This one's personal, Andreas.'
'Personal?'
'There is a woman . . .'
'Hah! There is always a woman.'
The two men broke off as Andreas's secretary entered with a tray. It contained half a dozen small plates, upon which were laid out titbits: strips of pitta bread, hummus, tzatziki, olives and halloumi. She poured wine, laid out two napkins, then left the room.
'Please.' Andreas waved at the food. Nicholas was too tense to eat, but he made himself take a couple of olives.
Andreas sipped his wine and swung his chair round to face the window. 'The best view in London,' he pronounced, of the green expanse below.
'It's very fine,' Nicholas agreed, and wondered where to put his olive stone.
'This property. You own it?'
'No.'
'It has planning permission?'
'No.'
'No property, no planning permission,' Andreas remarked, as if he were humouring someone not quite sane.
'I can get both. I know what I'm doing.'
They picked at the food for a few minutes, then Andreas spoke again. 'You know something, Nicholas? I was surprised when you rang me. Very surprised. When your business went down a lot of people said you were finished. You had lost your nerve. They said without your wife's money you were nothing.' When Nicholas remained silent, he continued, 'I am going to be honest with you. There are still people who consider you a bad bet. What should I say to them?'
Nicholas clutched his napkin. The banks wouldn't lend him anywhere near what he needed. Few investors would even give him meeting time. Andreas knew all of this. He thought for a moment. 'Your people are right. On paper, I'm not a good risk.'
The older man pursed his lips.
'I'm not going to waste your time in trying to convince you of something you may already have decided, but you know as well as I do, Andreas, that it's on the longest odds you make most money.'
