by Simon Booker
‘A girl’s best friend?’ said Imelda, waggling a diamond-ring-laden hand and raising a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Not this girl, unfortunately,’ said Harriet, her expression unreadable. ‘George conned my Nan out of a lot of diamonds. They belong to me.’
‘Is that so?’ Imelda’s lips twitched with amusement. ‘Or would it be more accurate to say they don’t officially belong to anyone – with the possible exception of anonymous holders of safe deposit boxes in Mayfair?’
Georgie Boy, it seemed, had told Imelda everything. And if her teasing remark about her paramour’s ‘grandson’ was anything to go by, the woman couldn’t be trusted to remain discreet about anything.
As though reading my mind, she turned to Tom and fixed him with an alcohol-addled smile, her talons poised to mime another set of quotation marks.
‘So,’ she said, ‘what do you make of your “grandfather”?’
HARRIET
What was the creepy old cow playing at?
As if being on Planet Posh wasn’t unnerving enough, the weirdo in the Chanel suit seemed to be involved in some kind of game with Richard and Tom – like she was talking in code. And why did she put everything in quotation marks?
They talked about George a bit longer – his track record with women didn’t seem to faze Mrs Shine. But I had the sense that she was toying with Tom’s dad, talking in a secret language only they understood. Richard seemed on edge and desperate to change the subject, tapping his fingers on the table and looking relieved when the woman got to her feet.
‘A pleasure meeting you all,’ she said. Her champagne was unfinished. It was clear we were being dismissed. She turned to me, giving me the once-over.
‘What about you?’ she said.
‘What about me?’
She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow.
‘George tells me these two chaps have been making a play for your affections. I’ve heard of “keeping it in the family” but don’t you think you’re taking things a little far?’
I blinked.
‘We’re just good friends.’
She gave a knowing smile.
‘In my experience, there’s no such thing – not between men and women. May I ask how old you are?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘And Richard is, what, fifty?’
‘Forty-nine,’ said Richard.
‘And Tom?’
‘Twenty-five,’ said Tom.
The woman’s lips twitched in amusement. She turned her gaze to me.
‘And you’re leading them both a merry dance.’
I felt a stirring of anger.
‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ I said, ‘but I’m pregnant. The father isn’t in the picture but Tom and Richard are being very supportive.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yes.’
She arched her eyebrow once more, looking at the two men, both of whom were now on their feet, eager to leave.
‘How droll,’ said Imelda, staring at the three of us. ‘A very modern ménage a trois.’
‘It’s not like that,’ I said. My cheeks were burning, my pulse quickening. She gave me a pitying look.
‘If you say so. But this has nothing to do with diamonds, does it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.
She gestured towards the men at my side. Her voice was slurred.
‘I know about Richard and Tom from Georgie Boy. As far as these two chaps are concerned, this isn’t about jewels.’ She leaned forward; I could smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘It’s about you. A father and son with scores to settle, and they’ve made you piggy-in-the-middle. It’s “eyes on the prize” – that’s you – and winner takes all.’
Tom’s brow was furrowed. ‘What “scores”?’
His father cleared his throat, glancing anxiously towards the barman. He kept his voice low.
‘Let’s not make a scene here.’
Imelda’s eyes widened in mock horror. ‘A scene? At the Savoy? Heaven forbid!’
Tom was still frowning. ‘What “scores” do we have to settle?’
The woman jabbed a finger in his chest.
‘You’ve never forgiven your father for being a cold fish. And he’s never forgive you for not being—’
‘MRS SHINE!’ Dad’s shout made the woman jump. She blinked twice in quick succession, swaying slowly on her feet. Then she picked up her clutch bag from the banquette.
‘I may need a lie-down before dinner.’
She headed for the door, weaving her way across the bar in a pair of impossibly high heels. I called after her. ‘Mrs Shine?’
She stopped and turned.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you sure you don’t know where George is?’
She hesitated then shrugged her shoulders.
‘Try Paris,’ she said. ‘And remember what they say: “Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner”. “To understand all is to forgive all”.’
Then she turned on her Louboutin heel and was gone.
TOM
The encounter with Imelda Shine was weird not least because of the way she kept, like, staring in my direction and miming finger-quotes every time she referred to my ‘grandfather’.
Outside in the hotel’s courtyard, Dad gave what sounded like a sigh of relief then climbed into a taxi, the door held open by a doorman.
‘Anyone need a lift?’ he said.
I ignored the question.
‘What did she mean about settling scores?’
Dad gave a small shrug, feigning nonchalance. ‘Probably the booze talking.’
Perhaps – but the woman had been right about one thing: I would always find it hard – no, impossible – to forgive my father for being so cold and behaving as though my existence was a slap in the face. But maybe Imelda had a point about that saying: ‘to understand all is to forgive all’. If I could understand why Dad was the way he was perhaps I could meet him halfway.
The cab driver was growing impatient. ‘Where to, mate?’
‘Let me guess.’ Harriet turned to my father. ‘You’re going to suggest we all go to Paris to find George.’
‘Actually,’ said Dad, ‘I was thinking of getting something to eat.’
I looked at Harriet. She was shaking her head, as if unable to comprehend his peculiar behaviour. Then she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself.
‘Are you okay?’ I said.
She chewed on her lower lip and took a moment before opening her eyes.
‘Was that woman right?’ she said. ‘Is that how you see me? Both of you? Some kind of “prize”?’
The taxi driver was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. My father ignored him and stepped out of the cab.
‘This is not the time or the place,’ he said to Harriet. ‘I can’t speak for Tom but I think you know how I feel.’
‘Do I?’ said Harriet. ‘Or am I some kind of sports day “prize” in the father–son tug-of-war? Is that why I got the job at Silk FM? Is that why I’m helping with Tom’s musical? Is that why you’re both offering support for the baby? Are you both patronizing me just so you can get into my knickers?’
I saw Dad wince at the vulgarity. ‘Again, I can’t speak for Tom, but—’
She held up a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence.
‘What a family,’ she said, shaking her head from side to side. ‘Grandfather, father and son – birds of a feather.’
Dad flinched, as though he’d been stung by a wasp. ‘I am nothing like my father.’
‘Makes two of us,’ I said.
She stared at us for a moment then her face, like, crumpled and she began to cry, shoulders heaving, tears trickling down her cheeks. The doorman stared in horror then moved away, ushering another hotel guest into the waiting taxi. The driver had given up on my father.
‘I don’t know why I’m crying,’ said Harriet.
‘Probably something to do with hormo—’ began Dad, but she cut him sho
rt.
‘If you say “hormones” I’ll kick your head down the street.’
‘I only meant—’
‘I know what you meant,’ said Harriet, fumbling in her pocket for a tissue. ‘I’m pregnant so obviously I’m over-emotional and yes, you’re right – I probably am hormonal – but has it ever occurred to you what the last few months have been like for me?’ She blew her nose as the tears continued to fall. The seconds ticked by as Dad and I waited for her sobs to subside. Then she blew her nose again and took a deep breath.
‘Before I met you two,’ she said, ‘I worked in a café then watched films with Nan – end of story. Yes, it was boring and the money was crap, and yes, I really want to act and sing for a living, but at least life was simple. Now I barely sleep. I’m on the radio, I’m on the tube and I’m on the buses. Meanwhile, my ex – the man who promised “happy ever after” – lied through his teeth then broke my heart. He whooshed back into my life for a few weeks then whooshed out again, leaving me up the duff. I’ve had a showdown with his wife who told me I’m just another “bit on the side”. I’ve also helped a con-man to burgle my ex’s flat, so we could steal God knows how many stolen diamonds – and now “good old Georgie Boy” has seduced my grandmother and buggered off to Paris.’
I drew breath to speak but she wasn’t finished.
‘Meanwhile, throughout everything that’s happened, you two have been sweet and supportive – or so I thought.’ Her face darkened as she looked from my father’s face to mine then cast a glance at the small crowd that had gathered in the queue for taxis. ‘But maybe that old sourpuss was onto something. Because right now I’m being stared at by a load of posh people, crying like a baby and feeling like piggy-in-the-bloody-middle – and you know what?’ She paused for breath before delivering her parting shot. ‘It feels like shit.’
She walked off, heading for the Strand. I was about to call her name but Dad put a hand on my shoulder.
‘Let her go,’ he said.
For once, he was probably right.
RICHARD
After she’d gone, I turned to Tom and composed my features into a smile.
‘Hungry?’
‘Starving,’ he said.
‘Good. The Milky Bars are on me.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Whatever that means. Can we go somewhere non-posh, somewhere normal?’
‘Define “normal”.’
‘Burger and a beer?’
‘A burger? Would Harriet approve?’
‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’
We exchanged half a smile then made awkward small talk as we walked into Covent Garden and found a table in Joe Allen’s diner, a basement relic from the eighties. The encounter with Imelda Shine had left a lingering ‘bad vibe’, leaving us both on edge. There was no mention of ‘eyes on the prize’ or, thank God, Imelda’s near-catastrophic indiscretion.
Tom ordered a cheeseburger, I chose swordfish and a bottle of house white; my Amex had taken enough of a hit at the Savoy.
The restaurant was busy with late-afternoon drinkers making an early start on the weekend, a relief from the stultifying atmosphere at the American Bar. I remained on high alert, waiting for Tom to raise the subject of Imelda’s remarks about his ‘grandfather’. Was the whole fragile edifice of what passed for our family life about to come crashing down?
Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive…
‘Heard from Mum?’ he said, slathering ketchup onto his plate.
‘Not for a few days,’ I said. ‘I imagine we’ll be communicating through lawyers from now on.’
‘Does it have to be like that?’
‘Divorce doesn’t bring out the best in people.’
I pushed the swordfish around the plate. My appetite had dwindled to the point of no return. Briefly, I considered going back on the antidepressants, but the thought didn’t last long.
‘What happened on my sixth birthday?’ said Tom.
The question caught me off-guard. I almost choked on my wine.
‘I expect you had a party,’ I said, trying to sound calm despite the sudden fluttering of my heart. ‘Cake, balloons, the usual stuff.’
‘Not much of a party,’ said Tom. ‘You stormed out.’
‘Did I?’
He met my gaze. ‘And you stopped speaking to Mum – for a year.’
I forked a piece of fish into my mouth as my mind worked overtime, groping for a plausible explanation.
‘I had a lot on my plate,’ I said, lamely. ‘Working hard, bringing home the bacon.’ A feeble response but it was the best I could do.
‘So you were busy and decided to take it out on me and Mum?’
I took a moment to consider my answer. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never claimed to be Father of the Year.’
He chewed on a chip. ‘When Harriet has her baby let’s hope I do a better job.’
I stiffened. ‘Assuming she chooses you,’ I said.
He gave me a sideways look. ‘Is that what this is about?’ he said. ‘You’re hoping for a second chance?’
‘At what?’
‘Being a father. Bedtime stories, sports day, school plays. All the stuff you never did with me. Redemption.’
I stifled a sigh.
Walk a mile in my shoes then tell me about how to behave…
‘There was always food on the table,’ I said. ‘Clothes on your back, a roof over your head.’
‘You sound like something out of a Charles Dickens novel.’
‘Mum was always there. You were never starved of affection.’
He shook his head from side to side, shooting me a disdainful look.
‘Wow,’ he said softly. ‘Larkin was bang on. Your mum and dad do fuck you up.’
‘You seem pretty well balanced to me.’
‘So you’re not going to back off?’
I took another sip of wine and considered the question carefully. I’d never been one for falling in love every five minutes and I was hardly ancient but how many chances at love were likely to come my way? Tom had his life ahead of him. Even if Harriet did upset him by choosing me, he’d bounce back. There would be other women, other chances to meet his Ms Right.
‘She’s a grown-up,’ I said. ‘Perfectly capable of making her own decisions.’
‘And you see nothing wrong in competing with your own son?’
I sighed. ‘The heart wants what the heart wants, Tom. It’s unfortunate that we both seem to have fallen for the same woman but I can’t help how I feel any more than you can. The bottom line is this: I have no choice in the matter. The choice is Harriet’s. If she chooses you then so be it. I’ll take it like a man and move on. I hope you feel the same.’
He was about to reply when our mobiles beeped simultaneously. He checked his message. I checked mine. A text from Harriet.
Nan’s gone! SO HAS HER PASSPORT!
HARRIET
There was a note on the kitchen table in Nan’s handwriting.
Off for a dirty weekend. Don’t wait up.
A weekend in Paris with the man who’d ripped us off? What was she thinking? Okay, so she’d bought his record, ‘The Days Are Long’, but that was a lifetime ago. Wasn’t she a bit old to be acting like a groupie?
I texted Richard and Tom then got busy with the hoover while waiting for them, my guilt about involving them in yet another drama competing with my concern for Nan. I hadn’t asked them to come to my rescue, like cavalry riding over the hill to save a damsel in distress, but Nan hadn’t travelled further than Southend since about 1832, so if she was gallivanting around Paris with a con artist, something had to be done. Who knew how low ‘Georgie Boy’ would stoop? Her life savings? Her house?
In the event, only Tom showed up. I answered the doorbell and stood in the hallway, arms folded.
‘Where’s your dad?’ I said.
‘Guess.’
‘Paris?’
He nodded.
‘He’s on the last Eurostar. I
told him he was overreacting but he said he didn’t trust George not to…’
He tailed off.
‘Not to what?’
‘Lead Nancy a merry dance.’
‘You mean, rip her off – again?’
‘Yes. But I think he’s being melodramatic. George doesn’t prey on people without money.’
‘Who says Nan doesn’t have money? She’s got savings and jewellery and a house worth half a million quid. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to sweet-talk her out of every penny. Besides, I think your dad is being a hero.’
Not what Tom wanted to hear. He scratched his chin.
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure George is going to give Nancy the time of her life, not rip her off,’ he said. ‘According to Dad there’s only a handful of luxury hotels in Paris. He’s going to try them all. Does she have a mobile?’
‘It’s switched off,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what to think. It’s not as if she doesn’t know he’s a crook. So why has she gone off with the man who stole from us?’
Tom cleared his throat then put a foot on the doorstep, clearly angling for an invitation to cross the threshold. I wasn’t in the mood for company.
‘How about a veggie lasagne?’ he said. ‘I could get the stuff from Tesco.’
I shook my head.
‘Not tonight.’
His face fell. Sensing him plucking up courage to press the point, I felt on the back foot, like that awkward moment when someone’s about to move in for an unwanted kiss.
‘I thought…’ He tailed off then made a second stab. ‘We could have a quiet night in. Sofa. Telly. Bottle of wine.’
No mistaking what he had in mind. Netflix and chill… I tried to let him down gently. He deserved that, at least.
‘I appreciate you coming but it’s been a hell of a week and I’m knackered.’
His smile faltered then he did his best to rally.
‘No problem. Anyway, I should get some work done.’
‘How’s it going with Zara?’
‘She’s doing okay,’ he said. ‘And Paul Mendoza’s PA says he wants to see the show as soon as possible. I’ll book a room upstairs at my local pub. A week tomorrow, if you’re free?’
