Three's a Crowd

by Simon Booker

  After some discussion, we agreed to think things over and talk again the next day. As my father and Tom were saying goodbye to Nancy, I took Harriet to one side.

  ‘Do not let George take the diamonds to a fence,’ I whispered. ‘Warn your grandmother too.’

  She frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  I nodded. ‘What did your horoscope say?’ Her frown deepened as she tried to remember. I jogged her memory. ‘ “You’ll prosper as long as you put your trust in an older, wiser advisor.” ’

  ‘Meaning you?’

  ‘Could be.’

  She thought for a moment, chewing on her lip. ‘But what if the advisor is George?’

  Hoist by my own petard…

  ‘You cannot imagine what that man is capable of,’ I said.

  I could see she thought I was being melodramatic but I didn’t care. I couldn’t trust the bastard, especially where money and women were concerned. Turning to go, I was tempted to kiss her on the cheek but I caught sight of Tom glaring in our direction. Or perhaps it was just my imagination.

  GEORGE

  Let’s be clear: love turns the brain to mush. Even the sharpest mind can be blunted by a weakness for a pretty face. A shy smile, the curve of an ample bosom, the shape of a delicate ankle. Ask Antony and Cleopatra. Or Bill Clinton and ‘that woman’.

  All my life, cherchez la femme had been a code to live by, a means to a mostly enjoyable end, but time was fast running out and there was an increasingly urgent need for the wherewithal to see me out in the style to which I had become accustomed. I’d never taken the long view, preferring to live in what a long-dead Buddhist lady-friend had insisted on calling ‘the now’. The fact that her ‘now’ had been an eighteenth-century palazzo in Venice was neither here nor there. I’d accumulated neither property nor cash and my line of work had never come with a pension.

  Ever since Imelda had declined to invest in my invisible friend’s non-existent Peruvian gold mine, my sleepless nights had been troubled by a sense that I’d been looking in all the wrong places. How many times had I dined at the Savoy or the Carlyle or the Hôtel de Paris courtesy of a platinum Amex belonging to a woman whose generosity was matched only by her means? How many nights had I whispered sweet nothings into expensively perfumed ears? How often had I turned left upon boarding a plane, settling into a soft leather seat thanks to the widow of the week? As the saying goes, there are two kinds of class: first-class and no-class. Yet how many times had I popped the cork from a bottle of Cristal only to find myself bored witless by the benefactress du jour, eager to move on to the next conquest, the next ‘eternal’ love?

  In my eighty-first year, I’d come to a conclusion that I should have reached decades earlier: the life of the lotus-eater was fine as far as it went, which, it turned out, wasn’t very far at all. You can take the boy out of Walthamstow… etc.

  Now here I was, George Brocklebank aka ‘Lord Anthony Buckingham’, in a two-up, two-down, making a pot of Typhoo for a woman my own age – ‘Nancy With the Laughing Face’ – and feeling more at home than I had in years. It was a sobering realization. Had I not fallen prey to delusions of grandeur and a determination to live the high life, Harriet’s grandmother (a fellow Walthamstownian) was just the sort of woman I might have made a life with. A little life, perhaps, but would it have been so bad? My father had been a butcher, working six days a week to put food on the table and a roof over our heads. He never took a holiday. His one pleasure was his allotment, his life’s companion my mother. I’d aimed higher and travelled further but had I been happier? I doubt it. Yet still I remained hungry for one final victory, determined to go out with one glorious last hurrah. And those diamonds in Nancy’s kitchen were dazzling…

  HARRIET

  I stashed the pot of Nivea under my mattress and hardly slept a wink. I’d never stolen so much as a Mars Bar let alone jewels. What was I supposed to do now? What would be the repercussions of stealing Cockweasel’s twenty-two-carat ‘legacy’? What about Richard and Tom? And Nan and George? Had I dragged them into a situation that could backfire any minute? Or was it the other way round? Had these three men steered me along a treacherous path I should have avoided?

  In the meantime, what the actual eff were Richard and Tom playing at? Was either of them seriously still hoping to be more than ‘just good friends’ or had they resigned themselves to being friend-zoned by a preggers nut-job? The more I thought about my horoscope, the more it made sense. ‘You’ll prosper as long as you put your trust in an older, wiser advisor (George, obvs). But there had been more – something about now not being ‘the time to rely on people younger than yourself – especially those born under the sign of Libra’, which must surely mean Tom, the only Libran on my radar.

  As for the diamonds, what options did Damian have? To call the police and report that his father’s ill-gotten gains had been stolen? As if! He’d be charged with handling stolen goods. I knew George had given the estate agent a phoney name (Lord Somebody-or-Other) backed up by a fake passport and contact details that didn’t exist. The likelihood of Damian tracing the theft to Brocklebank Senior or his ‘granddaughter’ seemed non-existent. Would there be a midnight knock on the door? Unlikely. Could I be sure there would be no repercussions? Nope.

  Tossing and turning at 2 a.m., I came to the conclusion that any guilt I felt was down to having helped out with George’s scam. But did I feel bad about ripping off Cockweasel? No way. The confrontation with Candida still rankled every time I remembered her smug smile – the way she’d taken pleasure in making me feel so shabby.

  There’s usually more than one on the go…

  * * *

  I can’t have slept more than two hours so it was no surprise that I felt crabby throughout the show with Richard, although I did my best while we were on-air. For obvious reasons, he didn’t mention the previous day’s escapade while we were in the studio – even when the mics were off – and neither did I, but as we emerged at nine o’clock he ushered me into an empty office and closed the door.

  ‘Have you decided what to do?’

  I shook my head. ‘I hardly slept. I feel like shit.’

  He smiled. ‘You look gorgeous.’

  I felt a flicker of irritation. Seriously? Flirting? Now? Acting like everything was normal?

  ‘How did I get myself into this situation?’ I said. ‘The diamonds. The pregnancy. The everything.’

  He spread his hands. ‘As John Lennon said, “Life is what happens while we’re making other plans.” It’s too late for second thoughts.’

  ‘I’m not sure I was having any thoughts at all. I’m not a criminal mastermind, I’m just trying to do what’s best for my baby and now I’ve got a tub of stolen diamonds under the mattress. I wish I’d thought this through. Or someone had.’

  Richard looked away, sidestepping the implied accusation.

  ‘Promise me you won’t let George con you into letting him help,’ he said. ‘Trust me, the man is only interested in helping himself.’

  My irritation cranked into top gear. Was that all he could say? If ‘Gorgeous’ George was so untrustworthy why had Richard allowed him to get involved in the first place? I could feel myself starting to simmer…

  ‘I need to go,’ I said, opening the office door and heading out into the corridor. Richard called after me as I walked towards the staircase.

  ‘Fancy a bite of lunch? My treat?’

  I pretended not to hear.

  * * *

  The tube journey to Nan’s took half an hour. Exhausted, I dozed off a couple of times, zoning in and out of consciousness. The sound of my voice on the tannoy had already ceased to be a novelty. It now seemed to blend seamlessly with The Thoughts and whatever surreal nonsense was swirling around my head, producing a hallucinatory effect.

  This is the Victoria Line to Walthamstow Central…

  Just as well Mum and Dad are away…

  THAT MAN IS SO UGLY AND HIS BABY IS EVEN WORSE

  Next stop:
King’s Cross St Pancras…

  They’d be so ASHAMED of you for stealing…

  Doors will open on the right hand side…

  I COULD JUMP ON THE LIVE RAIL AND FRY!

  How will you tell them you’re pregnant?

  * * *

  Nan was in the bath when I got back, singing ‘Nancy With the Laughing Face’ at the top of her voice. I made tea and toast and sat at the kitchen table. When she came down she seemed surprised to see me.

  ‘Oh. You’re back.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How was the show?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She sat at the table and poured herself a mug of tea, still humming under her breath.

  ‘You’re in a good mood,’ I said.

  She smiled and buttered a piece of toast. Everything that happened yesterday seemed to have slipped her mind.

  ‘What am I going to do, Nan?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The bloody diamonds, what else?’

  Her smile vanished. She fixed me with a glare, picked up her mug and got to her feet.

  ‘I’m not psychic, Harriet. I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. And judging by what’s been going on lately, neither do you.’

  She left the kitchen and went upstairs. I tried to finish my breakfast but I’d lost my appetite.

  I decided to count the diamonds. Maybe I could google what they were worth. If I knew how much they’d fetch, the future might begin to take shape and maybe I’d feel better. I took the colander from the cupboard and went up to the spare room where I’d passed the semi-sleepless night. The bed was unmade, as I’d left it. I closed the door and knelt down, stretching my hand under the mattress, feeling for the tub of Nivea. For one horrible moment I thought it had gone. My stomach gave a lurch. I explored further, my hands stretching as far as I could reach. I felt a surge of relief as my fingers made contact with the plastic pot. I drew it out and unscrewed the lid. The peach yoghurt smelt sickly sweet.

  In the bathroom, I closed the door and placed the colander in the basin. I upended the plastic tub. The yoghurt oozed out. I turned on the tap, watching the gunk wash away. My stomach plummeted.

  The yoghurt had disappeared.

  There was no sign of the diamonds. Heart hammering, I frantically scraped the inside of the tub with my fingers. Still nothing. I could feel the blood thudding in my ears. I stared at my reflection, trying to think straight, but my head was filled with white noise. And that was when I saw it, reflected in the mirror.

  The toilet seat. It was up.

  I flung open the door and stood outside Nan’s bedroom.

  ‘Nan?’

  She sounded apprehensive.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has someone been here?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I said: has someone been here?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘A man.’

  Another pause. I heard the bed creak then the door opened. She emerged from her room, eyebrows arched, fists on her hips. Ready to do battle.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because the loo seat is up.’

  She looked away. A sheepish note entered her voice.

  ‘He forgot his glasses.’

  I frowned.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘George. He came back for them. About half-seven, while you were on the radio.’

  I felt as if I was about to throw up. Looking past Nan, I could see her dressing table. Amid the clutter of creams and lotions, above the open drawer that contained her collection of dildos, sat a vase filled with white lilies – an expensive bouquet from a posh florist. There was a pencil sketch on a page torn from a notebook. It captured Nan’s face perfectly and made her look beautiful. She turned and followed my gaze.

  ‘Been a long time since a man gave me flowers,’ she said. ‘Such a gent.’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘Christ, Nan. What have you done?’

  TOM

  As soon as Harriet called I dropped everything and headed for Walthamstow. Sitting in the Uber I tried George’s mobile.

  Number unobtainable.

  I closed my eyes trying to calm my racing mind. How had life become so complicated? A few weeks ago I’d had a job, a flat and a cat. Now I was unemployed, battling my own father and racing across London in response to Harriet’s SOS because the granddad who’d disappeared when I was six had conned his way into a stash of diamonds bequeathed by a career criminal to his philandering son, a maxillofacial surgeon who had impregnated the woman my father and I both adored.

  Was this Chaos Theory in action? I had only the vaguest idea what the term meant – some branch of mathematics beyond my understanding – but it seemed to fit. There are times when life feels like you’re at a rodeo, riding a bucking bronco and all you can do is try not to get thrown off and trampled underfoot. This was one of those times. But it had never been about the diamonds. They were just a means to an end – winning Harriet’s heart – and retrieving them seemed like the most important thing in the world. It may sound melodramatic but sitting in that car I felt as if I was embarking on a mission, a knight on a white charger determined to prove his worth to the woman he loved. Win the treasure, win her heart.

  I called Rochester House and asked to speak to George or Paddy. A bloke told me they weren’t there and had no idea when they were likely to return.

  I was on the verge of phoning Dad but something held me back. I wish I could say it was something more noble than feeling chuffed to bits that Harriet had reached out to me, not him, in her hour of need, but that would be a lie. It’s not that I wasn’t taking seriously the fact that George appeared to have ripped off Harriet and Nancy, but in spite of the circumstances, I took her call as a positive sign. Perhaps I was finally moving into pole position.

  Which is why my heart sank when I arrived at Nancy’s house only to find my father clambering out of a black cab. Paying the driver, he caught sight of me and frowned.

  ‘The man’s a snake,’ he said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  I felt a rush of anger.

  ‘You’re not seriously blaming me?’

  ‘Who brought him on board?’ said Dad. ‘Who insisted on playing happy families? You think he’s a harmless old goat but he’s nothing of the kind.’

  I drew breath to answer but Harriet appeared at the door, glaring. She ushered us into the hall then folded her arms.

  ‘Tell me you’ve found him.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No answer from his mobile.’

  ‘Probably a pay-as-you-go,’ said Dad. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the last we hear of him. Once a shyster, always a shyster – as I’ve warned Tom many, many times.’

  Nice. Blaming me for his father’s behaviour. I knew why, of course – anything to make me look bad in her eyes.

  She stared at him.

  ‘That’s all you have to say?’

  He blinked, taken aback by the hostility in her voice. Then he cleared his throat and peered over her shoulder, into the kitchen.

  ‘Can we have a word with your grandma? Perhaps she can shed some light on what happened.’

  ‘We know what happened,’ said Harriet, her voice rising in anger. ‘Your thieving bastard of a father came when he knew she’d be alone. He sweet-talked her into bed then stole the bloody diamonds.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘He seduced her?’

  Harriet held up an empty foil blister pack; the pills had been removed. ‘His Viagra. It was in the bin.’

  My father closed his eyes and let out a slow exhalation of breath. ‘Did he tell her where he might be heading? Any clue at all?’

  Nancy’s voice came from upstairs. ‘Stop asking daft questions.’

  I looked up and saw her on the landing, twisting a handkerchief in her hands, a picture of anguish.

  ‘If I knew where he was going I’d have told Harriet. O
r the police.’ She descended the stairs and fixed my father with a glare. ‘He’s your bloody father. You’d better find him.’

  Dad gave a pained smile. ‘If only it were that simple.’

  Nancy shot him a dirty look. She turned to me. ‘Have you got his address?’

  I sidestepped the question. ‘I’m going to do everything I can to find George and get those diamonds back.’

  I saw a flicker of relief on Harriet’s face. She seemed mollified.

  ‘At least there’s one person I can rely on.’

  I could feel Dad seething. Time to press my advantage and present myself as a man of action.

  ‘This isn’t over,’ I said, opening the door. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  Dad looked bemused. ‘Where are you going?’

  I ignored him and stepped outside. Walking in the direction of the tube station, I wondered if it was a mistake to leave him behind. Would he try to ingratiate himself with Harriet, to smarm his way back into her affections? Judging by her frame of mind he’d have an uphill struggle. And while he was launching another charm offensive, I was the guy with a head start. The one doing something. Trying to make things right.

  * * *

  Sitting on the tube, I listened to Harriet’s voice on the tannoy, counting down the stations from Walthamstow to King’s Cross St Pancras. Was it my imagination or did I detect something different in her voice – a note of irritation?

  As I changed to the Northern Line and waited for a train to Camden Town, I had the strangest feeling that I was under observation. I scanned the platform but there was no sign of anything untoward, just the usual gaggle of tourists and commuters. Once again, I heard Harriet’s voice boom from the station’s speakers.

  The train now approaching is to Edgware. Please stand back from the platform edge.

  Emerging into the fading light of a gloomy north London afternoon, I turned my collar against the drizzle and made my way to Rochester House. To my relief, Paddy had returned. He was in the office, drinking tea and doing the Evening Standard crossword.