by Simon Booker
‘And he wants you to teach him how to be a burglar?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What, then? Are you going to break in?’
‘Not my style, despite what you may believe. But from what Tom told me there might be another way to gain access to the flat. Ideally, the ruse needs three people. I thought you might like to help. Keep it in the family, so to speak.’
‘Some family,’ I said, my performance starting to falter.
He sidestepped the dig. Was his refusal to rise to the bait a sign of desperation?
‘Will you help him or not?’ he said. ‘It’s for the girl and her baby, remember, not for me.’ He paused before delivering the clincher. ‘But mainly it’s for the boy. Our boy.’
I closed my eyes tightly, silently cursing. He’d always known how to appeal to my better nature. Part of his shtick.
‘Help how?’
He sounded cagey. ‘Are you in or not?’
I considered my options. This was no longer just about Tom and Harriet. The stakes were now much higher. If George was dying, it was essential to make sure he took to his grave the secret that had wrought nuclear winter in the midst of our broken family, a secret so toxic it still had the power to wreak havoc. If the bastard was gripped by a sudden determination to play happy families – with Tom at least – then I needed to keep them both under close observation, to fend off potential catastrophe.
And there was another consideration. If I spurned George’s request, not only would I risk things spiralling out of control, I would deny myself this opportunity to curry favour with the woman I adored, leaving the field clear to Tom. All things considered, it was what he would call ‘a no-brainer’.
‘I may live to regret this,’ I said, ‘but the answer is yes. So stop playing around and tell me – what am I letting myself in for?’
HARRIET
If you don’t tell his missus, I will.
There was no doubt that Nan meant every word. I knew I didn’t have long before she carried out her threat so after the show on Monday I skipped breakfast with Richard, saying that I had an appointment with the obstetrician. I knew he wouldn’t ask questions.
I hurried to Oxford Circus and hopped on the first tube to Brixton, cringing every time an announcement came on the tannoy. Perhaps it was to do with being pregnant but hearing my voice echo along the platform made me feel extra vulnerable and exposed.
I wouldn’t like to give the impression that I’d repeatedly stalked Candida Vance as my relationship with Cockweasel had crashed and burned, or that I’d been driven crazy by jealousy, but let’s just say I knew where they lived – a five-bedroom, Farrow-and-Ball-decorated house within walking distance of Brixton tube, giving Damian an easy half-hour commute, including the six-minute stroll to his Harley Street surgery. I knew where their kids went to school. I knew what time Wifey dropped them off in her maroon Range Rover Evoque. I also happened to know she went to the gym on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, emerging just after 10 a.m. then treating herself to a caffé Americano in the Starbucks down the road. (Oh, and she was partial to a cinnamon swirl, too, but only on Fridays.)
I bought a cappuccino and took a seat by the window. Sure enough, she walked in at six minutes past ten, ordered her coffee and flicked through a copy of OK! magazine while taking delicate sips through a straw, careful not to smudge her lipstick. She was blonde, of course. Her tan looked real. I vaguely remembered Damian saying something about how she always visited Marbella during autumn half term. She looked like one of those saddoes who enjoy paying extra for priority boarding so they can walk past the rest of us, nose in the air.
‘Hey,’ I said, taking the seat next to her. ‘I’m Harriet.’
Candida looked up from the magazine.
‘Do I know you?’
‘No. But I know your husband.’
She gave me a glare, as if I were something unpleasant stuck on the sole of her shoe.
‘Christ,’ she sighed. ‘Not another one.’
‘Excuse me?’
She narrowed her eyes.
‘Actually, this is good news. He’s already said yes to the new house and the villa in Tuscany. Now I’ll get the new car, too.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘That’s because you don’t get Damian,’ she said, leaning closer. I could smell the coffee on her breath, and her expensive perfume. ‘Not like I do. Which is why he always comes back.’
‘From where?’
‘Whichever slag he’s been shagging. You’re not the first, darling, and you won’t be the last. Which is why our arrangement works so well.’
I blinked, determined not to lose my cool.
‘What arrangement?’
A thin smile. She was tapping her acrylic nails on her brand new iPhone, focusing on its screen as she searched for an app.
‘He’ll never leave his family. Know why? He’s half man, half rosary. Each time I catch him out he’s so overwhelmed by Catholic guilt that he can’t sleep. That’s when I get an upgrade.’ Without pausing for breath, she held up her mobile and took a photo of me. ‘I had a Mini then a Golf then a Beemer. Last year he bought me the Evoque.’
‘Wait,’ I said, leaning forward and holding up a hand to staunch the flow of words. ‘He was seeing someone else? Last year?’
She pocketed her phone and faked a yawn.
‘There’s always more than one on the go, darling. Lucy, I think her name was. Or was it Lottie?’ She shrugged. ‘Not that it matters; they all look the same.’ She leaned closer still. ‘A bit like you.’
I could feel the bile rising in my throat.
‘He told me he’d left you,’ I said.
She shook her head and gave a world-weary smile.
‘I threw him out when I found out about Lucy… or Lottie or Laura. Told him he needed a few months on his own, to get stuff out of his system before he could come home. I love it when he’s not around. Gives me breathing space.’ She sighed. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m dreading having him back but the kids miss him so what can you do? I’ve said he can come home in a few weeks, in time to put up the Christmas tree and play happy families.’ Candida got to her feet, folding the glossy magazine into a roll and tucking it into her Louis Vuitton bag. ‘What did you say your name was?’ I opened my mouth to speak but she beat me to it. ‘Don’t bother. You’ll always be “Lexus” to me.’
She headed for the door. I called her name.
‘Candida.’
She turned.
‘Yes?’
‘What did you do to them?’
She frowned.
‘To who?’
‘Your parents.’
The frown deepened.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘They must have hated you,’ I said. ‘Why else would they name you after a yeast infection?’
She opened her mouth to speak then changed her mind. The best she could muster was pursed lips and a middle finger. Then she was gone.
The whole thing – the showdown I’d been rehearsing for months – no, years – had lasted less than two minutes. She hadn’t even finished her coffee.
I sat for a while, feeling poleaxed, then felt a surge of white-hot anger coursing through every fibre of my being. By the time I walked out of Starbucks I was seething, fit to burst AND I COULD PUSH THAT WOMAN AT THE BUS STOP UNDER A BUS, AND HER UGLY BABY TOO!
* * *
The journey back to Soho passed in a blur. It was nearly eleven-thirty by the time I got to the Silk FM office. Pam said Richard was back from breakfast and was recording trailers in studio B. I waited till the red light was off then pushed open the soundproofed door and went inside. He looked surprised by my reappearance.
‘How was the doctor?’
‘I didn’t go,’ I said. ‘I went to see Damian’s wife instead.’
‘And?’
I took a deep breath.
‘I’ve changed my mind. About making him pay towards the baby.’
H
e smiled. ‘You’re sure?’
I nodded, fighting back tears.
‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.’
TOM
I have only one childhood memory of ‘Gorgeous’ George. A rainy Sunday afternoon spent sitting on his lap, eating Maltesers while watching The Sting. Bored by the movie (I was five), I remember George punching the air in triumph as the grifters played by Paul Newman and Robert Redford pulled off their elaborate con and netted a fortune.
That was the last I saw of him until the day he arrived at my flat and fell asleep on the sofa. After his disappearance from family life, I remember quizzing Mum and Dad as to his whereabouts but they were always tight-lipped and quick to change the subject, so I stopped asking, sensing a no-go zone. Exactly why the man had become, like, persona non grata I had no idea. I’d assumed it was because of the way he lived – bed-hopping from one rich widow to the next, lotus-eating his way around the world. But now he was back. And determined to make his presence felt.
The scam to gain entry to Damian Vance’s flat wasn’t on a par with The Sting but its simplicity was pretty cool. Harriet had mentioned the rented North Audley Street apartment during one of our FaceTime chats and I ‘just happened’ to cycle past on a couple of occasions, at different hours of the day and night, glancing up to see if the lights were on.
Okay, I was seething with jealousy, unable to resist the temptation to check on her whereabouts and tormenting myself with visions of the woman I loved undressing before Vance’s hungry eyes. And perhaps I went too far but anyone who’s been under attack from the green-eyed monster will understand. Won’t they?
Earlier in the day, George had done what he called ‘a reconnaissance op’ outside Damian’s apartment then insisted on the face-to-face meeting with my father so we could figure out how to get inside.
My grandfather seemed nervous in the Uber that took us from Camden to Belsize Park. A muscle twitched repeatedly under his eye, something I would come to recognize as a sign of stress.
‘We won’t mention Rochester House to Richard,’ he said. ‘As far as he’s concerned I’m living the life of Riley. Wine, women and song.’
‘Whatever you say.’
Dusk was falling as we arrived at the white stucco building that housed Dad’s apartment. I pressed the buzzer on the intercom. The door clicked and opened. George ushered me inside then followed me up the staircase in silence. He exuded an air of solemnity, as if something momentous was about to happen. When I look back at that father–son encounter – their first after a twenty-year estrangement – I can only imagine how he must have felt. Into the lion’s den…
Dad was waiting at the door, his expression betraying no hint of how he was feeling. I’d been expecting some acknowledgement of what was a highly significant reunion but there was nothing, not a handshake or a smile and certainly nothing resembling a hug, which wasn’t unusual as far as Dad was concerned. He’d never been one for showing physical affection, at least not to me.
‘Bonjour,’ said George blithely. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Let’s get on with this,’ said my father.
The surprise came when I walked into the living room. Sitting on the sofa, holding a mug of tea, was Harriet. I’m ashamed to admit my first impulse was to jerk my head towards the door to Dad’s bedroom, to see if the bed was rumpled. How exactly had they spent the afternoon? No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I told myself off for being so suspicious. In the first place, I had no reason to believe she was sleeping with my father. In the second place, she was pregnant with Damian’s baby. The important question was: what did my suspicions say about me? I didn’t like the answer.
I’d taken to listening to their show, searching for any telltale change in the nature of their banter – something to suggest they were growing more intimate – but there was nothing I could pinpoint, just Dad’s banal babble leavened by the warmth and wit of his ‘second banana’.
The bedroom door was closed. I smiled at Harriet.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Richard invited me,’ she said, smiling. ‘I told him I’ve changed my mind. About Damian and the baby. Turns out he’s a bigger bastard than I thought.’
She put down her mug and got to her feet as Dad gestured towards George.
‘Harriet, I’m afraid I’m going to have to introduce you to my father.’
George took her hand. I thought he was going to raise her fingers to his lips but he settled for a twinkle-eyed smile.
‘Enchanté. Now I understand why Tom is so eager to help.’
Dad puffed out his cheeks, cleared his throat and gestured towards the coffee table. Two bottles of wine – one red, one white – sat next to a sad-looking platter of vegetarian canapés from Marks and Spencer. I cottoned on to his game immediately.
‘No cocktail sausages, Dad? I thought they were your favourite.’
He ignored me, filling his glass and leaving me and George to serve ourselves. We made stilted small talk – traffic, the weather – with Dad showing zero interest in how his father had passed the two decades since they’d last met. He seemed ill at ease, as if trying to keep a lid on his temper.
‘So, George,’ he said, ‘why are you here?’
My grandfather sat next to Harriet and smiled.
‘I put the word out about Jack Vance. Two sources say he’s left his son set up for life.’
‘Anything more specific?’ said Harriet.
‘Diamonds. A lot of them.’
Her eyes widened.
‘So now what?’
‘The simple approach is best,’ said George. ‘The apartment Damian is renting is up for sale. I’ve made an appointment to view it tomorrow lunchtime. Tom and I will go together. I’ll distract the estate agent, leaving Tom free to search the place and find whatever there is to be found.’
Dad frowned.
‘Where do I come in?’
‘You’ll stay in the street, keeping lookout. We don’t want Damian showing up out of the blue.’
‘Won’t he be working?’ said Harriet.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ said George.
I saw Dad’s jaw tighten.
‘Thank you for that blindingly original observation.’
My grandfather let the put-down pass. I had the feeling he was determined to stay on, like, best behaviour, no matter how severe the provocation.
‘Surely it would make sense for me to go inside, too,’ said Harriet. ‘I know where Damian keeps stuff.’
‘Bonne idée,’ said George. ‘In which case, why doesn’t Tom act as lookout?’
I shrugged.
‘Cool.’
George turned to my father. The muscle beneath his eye twitched again.
‘It seems we don’t need you after all.’
But Dad had other ideas.
‘I said I’d help and I will.’
‘There’s really no need,’ said George.
A testy tone entered my father’s voice.
‘Tom and I can both keep lookout.’
George gave a resigned shrug.
‘If you insist.’ He got to his feet. ‘Mind if I use your bathroom?’
Dad gestured towards the hall.
‘Second on the left,’ he said. ‘As if you didn’t know.’
He waited until George had left the room then turned to me and whispered, ‘Have you given him money?’
‘He hasn’t asked for any.’
‘He will.’
We turned to watch George walk along the hall and disappear into the bathroom. I’ve never claimed to be on the same wavelength as my father but in that moment I had the strangest feeling we were both thinking the same thing.
What the hell is George up to?
RICHARD
It was all I could do not to punch the man in the face.
Good to see you… As if we were old friends meeting at a party.
Un-fucking-speakable.
U
n-fucking-forgivable.
As for Tom, I could tell he was taken aback to find Harriet on my sofa. At the risk of sounding uncharitable: tough. His feelings on that score were the least of my worries (although on another matter they were the greatest).
If my father opened his big mouth – if he dropped the slightest hint about the secret I’d nursed since Tom’s sixth birthday – I would not be responsible for my actions. Allowing him into my home was no prelude to reconciliation, let alone forgiveness, it was a case of ‘keep your friends close but your enemies closer’. I needed this enemy in plain sight, where I could keep tabs on him and make sure he wreaked as little havoc as possible. As I watched him slip into my bathroom, a series of lurid headlines flashed into my mind’s eye.
dj murders father
20-year-old family secret leads to murder
gigolo killed over skeleton in family closet
It’s an odd thing, coming face to face with someone who, not to put too fine a point on it, ruined your life. Okay, I was far from destitute and Bonnie and I had managed to muddle through, against all odds – but the combination of love, apathy and guilt that had kept us together was no recipe for happy ever after. As for Tom, had he been mine – properly mine – it was hard to imagine how different our lives might have been. It crossed my mind that had the boy’s very existence not soured every waking moment, I might have backed down when it came to pursuing my one shot at late-life happiness in the shape of Harriet Brown. But as the poet says, ‘Shit happens’.
* * *
Needless to say, neither Harriet nor I mentioned George’s master-plan the following morning, while we were on-air, our conversation inhibited by the presence of Pam and the rest of the team. We did the show as if it were just a normal day.
At this point, I need to make a confession. Knowing of Harriet’s interest in astrology it’s possible that I may have accidentally-on-purpose tampered with the forecast for her sign, intercepting the email from our ‘official’ astrologer (puh-leeze!) and adapting his mumbo-jumbo to suit my agenda. Avoiding Harriet’s gaze, I switched on the mic and addressed the listeners.
