by Ann Bennett
She shrugs. ‘I’m not sure, but perhaps. He can get very carried away with his ideas. Sometimes he doesn’t always have the best judgment. He cut me out of the expansion of the business completely. Set up a new company with people I don’t trust. I wasn’t happy about it, but he went ahead without me anyway.’
‘And that caused the tension between you?’
‘Yes. We’d always done everything together. I met him when I was at university. I was working in the holidays as a waitress in a restaurant in Bristol. He was the head chef there. He was so charismatic, so inspiring. He had all these ideas about setting up his own place. He persuaded me to leave university and go and live with him, work with him. It all happened very quickly.’
‘That must have been a big decision.’
‘It was. Mum and Dad weren’t too happy about it.’
‘Go on.’
‘We bought a shabby old Victorian place in the city centre and did it up ourselves. Worked all hours, put everything into it. Alex took the lead in setting up the restaurant business and I organised the renovations. It seemed to work out well, and the restaurant really took off. After a few years we moved to London and bought premises there, the same formula on a grander scale. We were a good team. It was going really well, in just two places, but Alex wanted more. He’d got a bit of a name for himself as a chef by then, written a few cook books.’
‘Yes. I’m sure I’ve heard of him.’
‘He could have capitalised on that. He was offered a TV series, but he didn’t want to go down that route. He was happier in the restaurant, cooking for customers, doing what he loved. Things were fine for a few years, but after a while he got restless. He got this idea that he would open up branches all over the country, in foreign capitals too. But he needed an investor. I didn’t want to go into business with the people he chose. That’s when things started to go wrong really. We argued about it a lot. But in the end, he didn’t care about what I felt. He went ahead anyway.’
‘I can see why that would cause difficulties. So, when the police came calling, that was the last straw?’
Sarah nods. She hesitates but she knows she has to say it now. Tell this woman the truth. The trouble is, she has not spoken the words to anyone, not even herself. How will it feel when she says them out loud? She digs her nails into the palms of her hands and takes a deep breath.
‘It was, but…’ she looks down, trying to summon the strength to say it. ‘But there was something else. I might have been able to withstand all that business with the police, but…’ she screws her mouth up in an effort not to cry.
‘Take your time, Mrs Jennings, please.’
‘Well… when the police were going through the accounts, they showed me some of the entries, to see if I knew anything about the new business. They thought I was in on it too at first, though what they’re trying to prove I still have no idea.’
‘And?’
‘And… there were two bank accounts set up in the name of the new business. It’s called ‘Taste, More’. But there was one that I had no idea about at first. It was a personal account in Alex’s name, meant to be used for expenses when he went on trips. Regular sums were coming into it from our main business account and regular sums were going out too, to a name I didn’t recognise. Well not at first anyway. A Miss Jemima Brown. I stared at it for a long time, then I realised. I remembered who it was, only we called her Jemma. She was one of the part-time waitresses in the restaurant. She only worked there for a few months. She was a lot of trouble from the start, always flirting with the customers, causing problems amongst the staff. I had to fire her in the end. That was two years ago. This account was opened around that time, and payments had been made to her every month since then. Thousands and thousands of pounds…
‘I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. I felt sick. When I finally managed to get away from the police, I went home and the whole thing went round and round in my mind. He must have been seeing her all this time. Over the past few months he’s been away a lot on trips to look at new premises… I’d never even given it a second thought. Never considered he might be seeing someone else, but we had drifted apart. I couldn’t bear to think about it. So that’s why I left him. It wasn’t just the police investigation.’
Judith Marshall is looking at her with a furrowed brow. ‘I’m so sorry…’ she says, shaking her head and scribbling something on her notepad.
There’s a silence. Sarah’s eyes wander around the room. High ceilinged, furnished in the same style as the waiting room, only here there’s a homely feeling of comfort and organised chaos. Papers and files are piled on a side table, there are pot plants everywhere, a comfortable-looking settee with worn upholstery is under the window which looks out over a small park. A mother is pushing a toddler on a swing, to and fro, to and fro. The child is wearing a red anorak. For a moment Sarah is drawn into the scene, but she checks herself quickly and looks back into the room. Judith Marshall is still busy making notes, head down, hair falling out of its pins.
On the wall behind her is a black and white framed photograph of a man. He wears round pebble glasses and a three-piece suit with a waistcoat and watch-chain. His skin has the smooth appearance of a plump man and his hair is receding. He has an elaborate moustache. Under it he is smiling. As she looks at him, it feels as though he’s looking back at her and right through her.
She tears her eyes away. Mrs Marshall has finished writing.
‘Thank you for going through all that for me, Mrs Jennings,’ she says, looking up. ‘It must be very painful for you. Believe me, it will get better. Now, without further ado, let’s get to the nub of things as far as we can today. I need to know all about the business and about your home. What you think they might be worth, who put what in when. All your assets, in other words. Then we can work out what you might be entitled to.’
There’s a knock at the door and a man puts his head round.
‘So sorry to disturb you, Judith,’ he says, ‘but do you have those papers we were discussing this morning? I’m about to go to a meeting about that matter, and think I left the file in here. Many apologies,’ he says in Sarah’s direction. She looks at him and almost starts. It could be the same man she’s just been looking at in the photograph.
‘Mrs Jennings,’ says Judith Marshall. ‘This is Peter Cartwright. Our senior partner. Peter, Sarah Jennings, a new client.’
He strides into the room and shakes Sarah’s hand.
‘Please don’t get up,’ he waves her back into the chair. ‘Delighted to meet you. I’m so sorry to butt in.’
Sarah can’t help staring at him. The resemblance is uncanny. Only this man isn’t wearing a three-piece suit or a watch chain, and his blond hair flops over his forehead untidily.
Judith hands him a file and he is soon gone.
‘Peter’s the grandson of Joshua Cartwright. The man who set up the firm in the thirties. I saw you looking a bit nonplussed and guessed you had noticed the resemblance with the portrait.’
‘Yes. I was quite shocked.’
‘It takes everyone by surprise. Apologies for the interruption. Now, where were we?’
* * *
Later Sarah wanders back along the street, glad to be out in the fresh air, released from the tension of the discussion with Judith Marshall. Her head throbs from the effort of exposing and discussing her pain. She stops in a shop doorway and lights a cigarette. She needs to walk for a long time. Walk until her legs ache and her head is clear. If only she’d worn flat shoes and trousers instead of these uncomfortable high-heeled boots and tight skirt.
She walks along the High Street glancing absently into the shop windows. There’s nothing much here. It’s a small town. A florist, a couple of bakers, a butcher’s, a gift shop and a coffee shop. She carries on past them, past a Victorian pub, ‘The Boatman’s Arms’, and a French bistro, ‘Le Gastronome’. With the eye of a professional she glances through the window and fleetingly takes in the gloomy interior, the worn M
oulin Rouge-style décor, and the fact that only three tables are occupied. After that the shops peter out, so she crosses the main road and heads down a side road. She has no idea where she’s going, but it feels to be in the direction of the river. Her mind is occupied with what Judith Marshall had said.
‘You should be entitled to half the value of the business and the proceeds of sale of the house.’
It hadn’t meant much to her. The money was secondary to the hurt and confusion she felt. Before today she’d hardly considered what her share of the business might be worth. The whole thing had been indivisible, like she and Alex had been when they first started out. And even though Alex has hurt her deeply, it seems a betrayal to think like that, a betrayal of all those years they spent as partners, building it up together.
‘Of course, we’ll have to find out more about this police investigation. They might well try to freeze the assets of the whole concern while they look into this new business, but we can try to prevent that.’
Sarah’s head reels with information. She hadn’t expected things to move forward at this speed, she’d gone there to try to stop feeling powerless. Now it feels as though she has put something in motion that she has no control over. Her head is spinning as she walks along the tree-lined street with its redbrick villas and lush, well-kept gardens.
At the end of the road stands a small stone-built chapel with plain arched windows either side of a wooden door. She stops outside. ‘St John the Baptist, Weirfield’ is written in faded lettering at the top of a noticeboard. Pinned to the board is a torn poster proclaiming, ‘God is the Answer’.
She stubs out her cigarette on the pavement and wanders into the little graveyard behind the building. She sits down on an old wooden bench and stares at the gravestones, nestling in the uncut, yellowing grass. They look grey and forlorn on this grey, forlorn day. The sight of them brings home her sadness. A painful lump forms in her throat and finally she lets the tears come. Sobs shake her body and the ache in her chest and head become intense, but letting the tears flow doesn’t dull the pain.
Finally, she dries her eyes and gets up to go. Opposite the bench are three graves in a row, close together. The gravestones of two of them are weathered and worn. But the third one is new. The grass on that grave itself is young and sparse. She peers at the names on them and draws back quickly: Ezra Burroughs, born in the year of our Lord 1890, London, died 1985, beloved father of Evelyn and Constance and husband of Edith. The second gravestone belongs to Edith Burroughs, born 1900, died 1982, and the third grave belongs to Evelyn Burroughs, beloved sister of Constance. A chill runs through Sarah from her scalp to her toes. Suddenly she doesn’t want to be in here anymore. She picks up her bag and leaves quickly.
Six
Sarah
This time she doesn’t cross the main road back to the market square but turns left and walks along the pavement closest to her. There are a few shops and businesses on this side. The pavement is narrow and each time a vehicle thunders past, the draft blows her sideways, but it soon widens out and the shops give way to the estate of modern houses where the orphanage once was. This isn’t the way back to the car, but seeing the names of the Burroughs family on those gravestones has made her want to have another look. As she gets nearer to the shabby evergreen hedge she sees the For Sale sign and her heart gives a little leap. It’s more prominent now. The hedge has been clipped around the sign, so it can be seen from cars passing through.
When she reaches the front gate, she stops and looks at the garden. She realises that she doesn’t want to go inside today. Instead, she stands for a few minutes and stares at the silent building, at the overgrown garden and at the blank, dirty windows with their peeling frames. People have thrown litter over the gate; a dented Coke can bobs in a puddle on the front path and sweet wrappers blow about on the lawn. She pictures her father walking up the path full of hope, ringing the doorbell and waiting on that step. Poor old Dad.
She crosses the road and goes back into the newsagents. The woman’s eyes light up in recognition.
‘Back again already, love?’
‘Yes. It’s a very bad habit I know,’ Sarah says, wondering what business is it of this woman anyway how much she smokes. ‘I’ve managed to smoke my way through nearly a whole packet already,’ she says with a smile.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean the fags, dear. Good God, you should see how much I smoke! No, I meant that old house. I saw you going in there after you’d been in here yesterday afternoon. You were in there for quite a long time with the estate agent, weren’t you? You must be keen if you’re back to have another look.’
Sarah’s breath is taken away by the cheek of the woman and she opens her mouth to tell her to mind her own business, but her ingrained politeness kicks in. A lifetime working in restaurants has trained her not to react to needling comments.
‘I’m not, actually,’ she says in an even voice. ‘I wasn’t even meant to be looking round yesterday. It just happened on the spur of the moment.’
‘Well, between you and me, a fair few people have been to see it today. It’s been one after another. One or two couples, but mostly blokes in suits. Business types. Probably property developers. That Jonathan Squires fella has been back and forth all day showing them around. I’ve seen him driving in and out of the side entrance in that Range Rover of his.’
‘Well, the house has got a lot of potential. It could be beautiful. Someone will buy it soon, I’m sure.’ Sarah takes the packet of cigarettes and turns to go.
‘I just hope they don’t knock it down and build on the land. So many of them big houses round here have gone that way.’
As Sarah leaves the shop, a black Range Rover passes her and she recognises Jonathan Squires in the driving seat. She turns and watches it. Sure enough, the car turns into the driveway of Cedar Lodge.
With a pang of regret that she doesn’t attempt to understand, she begins to walk back to where her own car is parked. The redbrick edifice of Cartwrights comes into view and she walks quickly past, head down. Judith Marshall will be tapping away on her computer even now, drafting a letter to Alex dropping the bombshell, asking for his financial details.
Blanking that from her mind Sarah walks on past the row of shops, turns left off the road and starts to cross the market square again. On one side is a row of offices and businesses, in the middle of which is a white-painted shop with bow-fronted windows. ‘Country Squires’. She strides over to it and stares in the window. There it is in pole position in the middle of the display: Cedar Lodge. First time to market for generations, this imposing Edwardian gentleman’s residence has great potential for renovation or, subject to planning permission, for development. Further details on application. There’s a huge flattering picture of the front of the house, taken on a sunny day.
Sarah puts a hand on the door handle and is about to push it open when she stops herself. The office is full of people. A woman is showing brochures to a young couple at one desk, at the other, a young man in a sharp suit is chatting to two men with their backs to the door. Other people are standing around, waiting to be served. What on earth is she doing? This is ridiculous. She turns away and walks back to her car.
Dad is in the kitchen peeling potatoes when she gets back.
‘I thought I’d make a roast,’ he says. ‘There’s a chicken in the fridge. How did it all go, darling?’
‘Oh, pretty grim really,’ she says pulling off her boots and coat. ‘It was quite difficult having to talk it through with a stranger.’
‘What did she say?’
Sarah sits down with a heavy sigh. ‘She said I’ve got grounds for divorce. We went through some of the financial stuff too.’
‘You don’t have to worry about money, Sarah. I can support you until you get things sorted out. You know that. In fact, it would make sense if I transferred some of my savings to you right away. I was going to say that to you anyway, even if this hadn’t happened. I was going to mention it next time you cam
e to visit.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Dad. I know you’d help me, but I’ve never asked you for money and I wouldn’t now. You know that.’
‘You shouldn’t be so proud Sarah. Sometimes we all need to accept a helping hand,’ he says quietly.
‘I know. It’s really kind of you, but I’ll be fine. I’ve got enough in my savings account to keep me going.’
He leaves the sink and sits down opposite her, drying his hands on a tea towel. His birth certificate is still on the table, together with a notebook filled with his familiar scrawling writing. He must have been looking through his research notes while she was out. He closes the notebook and draws it towards him.
‘But seriously, Sarah. I’ve been meaning to discuss this with you and now is as good a time as any. When I sold some of my shares in the company when I retired, I didn’t do too badly, as you know. The shares I did keep have gone up quite a lot since I did that. I tried to persuade you to take something at the time. You could have had some of those shares back then.’
‘And I said that I didn’t need anything. The restaurants were just picking up then. We could manage.’
‘But things are different now, aren’t they?’
‘I suppose they are… but I can still manage. If you don’t mind me staying here for a little while, though, I can look for somewhere else to live.’
‘You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. As long as you don’t mind me and my bumbling ways. It’s a bit different to Primrose Hill though, stuck out here in the sticks. Won’t you be bored?’
She shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t stay there with this going on. And like I said, I need to get away from it all. I’ll miss the restaurant, of course, and all the people, but I can’t think like that. I need to move on. Get out from under his shadow.’
‘Well,’ Dad smiles, ‘it will be lovely to have you here. To spend some time together.’
