Rich Deceiver

by Gillian White

  Against his father? Ellie frowns.

  Ellie knows how Dick Hughes and Dave Legget perform in bed, and she knows, in spite of that sexy black underwear that shows through Margot’s blouse, how fed up those women are with it all. They’d laughed till the tears ran down their faces, they’d laughed till they’d had to go to the loo and wipe that smudged mascara. ‘When will it end, that’s what I want to know,’ Diana had shrieked fatly from behind the leaking partition, pulling off wads of loo roll to dry her weeping eyes.

  ‘Grunt grunt, on on, off off, snore snore.’ Margot was slumped beside the hand-drying machine, quite drunk by this time, and it looked as if her tears were not tears of laughter at all.

  ‘If you want it done properly you’ve got to do it yourself, with a book.’ The chain would not pull and Di came out, almost too weak to walk.

  ‘D’you think it’s just Englishmen?’

  ‘The cold you mean? Cold bedrooms?’

  ‘A hole in the wall and Dick’d be happy. D’you ever feel anything, Elle?’ and Margot pushed herself off the tiles and held herself upright on the edge of a basin. She ran the tap and flapped water towards her mouth. Her see-through blouse got soaked and her bow drooped undone as she asked again, ‘D’you actually feel anything down there still? Sometimes I think they did something when I had the kids.’ She tapped the enamel in a strangely positive way. ‘See this! See this basin! Those bastards stitched something up the wrong way round and whatever I had, it’s gone in. I could be enamel, down there, I could actually be enamel. Or metal. Or wood.’

  ‘It’s all in your head anyway,’ said Ellie, just as drunk as they were. ‘You’ve got to get it right in your head and be willing to lose control. You’ve got to keep your eyes tight closed and lose control. I read that.’

  ‘And dream about somebody else,’ said Di.

  ‘Gorbachev, they reckon.’

  ‘Gorby?’

  ‘Gorbachev, or somebody like U Thant. That’s what they reckon—power, but I suspect novelty is the answer. The same man gets so fucking boring.’

  ‘Not film stars then… not Robert Mitchum or Dudley Moore? And who the hell’s U Thant? I thought he was dead.’

  Oh yes, Ellie is close to her friends. She loves them in the kind of way she could never love Malc who is always trying, never able to really laugh at himself… not in the same kind of way. When he laughs at himself it’s a cruel kind of laughter, blaming, blaming her, while Margot and Di blame nothing but life.

  The kids, teachers, money, big boobs, small boobs, nose jobs, old prams, head lice, thread worms and washing machines… is there anything she and Margot and Di have not discussed? Ellie looks at them now, sitting round the table together, at ease. They’d even talked about winning money and what they would do with it if they did. She had lied then… but not knowing it was a lie. ‘Big house in the country,’ she remembered saying, with such certainty. ‘A car for each of us, flats for Mandy and Kev, and a holiday home in Benidorm.’

  ‘Think of the clothes!’

  ‘Nothing in the fridge except M&S dinners…’

  ‘No need, you’d have a cook.’

  ‘Would you want servants in your house, then? Listening and watching and probably hating you because you were rich?’

  ‘Everyone’d secretly hate you because you were rich,’ said Margot sagely. ‘Even us. We’d try not to, but we’d be jealous.’

  It was then Ellie realised she was already jealous, of the Leggets’ house and caravanette, of the picture on their wall, and jealous because Dave Legget had just been promoted to under-manager of the local branch of Boots.

  So what does their friendship mean, then? And all that honesty—how real is any of it? Wouldn’t she like to help her friends out, now that she’s able?

  Yes, she’d love to take them to London and treat them to a fabulous shopping spree. She’d love to buy a yacht and whisk them off for a year to the Bahamas, or the Greek Islands, lagooning it. They’d have such a laugh… a laugh… a laugh. She must have drunk too much because tears are stinging her eyes and it isn’t the background song this time although she’s always loved She. She’s always been silly and romantic, a fool really. And Malc and Dick and Dave? Where will they be while the women are tanning themselves on deck? Well, they’ll be standing at the local bar, landbound, knocking back the local brew, swapping jokes and racing tips and mechanical hints. No doubt bemoaning the fact that their wives are not so hot in bed these days. Ellie wonders if they ever confess that fact to each other sincerely, or do they always wrap up their sorrows in jokes, like dirty books in black jackets?

  Malc, with his renewed pride, with his self-respect, will be different. She knows it; as surely as she knows her own name she knows that he only behaves in that way because it is expected of him. She is investing one million, five hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds on the certainty of that in spite of Mr Beasely’s unease.

  And now everyone is suddenly cheering and clapping Malc on the back because, for the first time in his life, he’s won something: he’s gone and won the snowball.

  6

  SO IT WAS WINNING the snowball, really, that gave Malc the courage to say he’d ‘go for it’ as Kevin so subtly put it; it was not the exhortations of his drunken friends nor the quiet, plodding determination of his wife.

  He is sorry the next day. These courageous bouts of Malc’s tend not to last long… scarcely twenty-four hours, and Ellie bleeds for him on the day of the interview when he shouts at her, red-faced, ‘Well, you tell me then. It was your bloody idea, what d’you think I ought to wear? As a potential frigging salesman without a car, what d’you think would be the most fashionable way to go?’

  And when she doesn’t answer he carries on, ‘I’ve never heard of these damn people anyway,’ he curses.

  ‘That’s because they’re a new company starting off.’

  ‘Oh? And how many other new firms round here have started off, all beaming and pushy in the papers and then gone under? If I get this job I’ll be a laughing stock. If they offered it to me on a plate I’d be a damn fool to take it.’

  ‘At twelve thousand a year plus commission, Malc?’ She is strangely shy of mentioning the money.

  ‘Well, I could never go back. Watt & Wyatt wouldn’t take me on again, you know Elle.’

  She longs to tell him it matters not a jot what he wears. As long as he doesn’t turn up dressed like a scarecrow the job is guaranteed his. Nor does it matter that he’s cut himself shaving, and goes round the house with a tissue dot on his chin, bristling with irritation, discarding his white shirt, demanding the blue one, asking her why she’s been married twenty years and has still not learned to iron trousers properly, with the crease where he wants it. ‘Not halfway across my arse like this. It makes me look as if I’m walking about with two hot-cross buns hanging on behind me.’

  She likes to see him in a fuss, she likes to hear him concerned again about how he’s dressed. It makes her feel all sweet inside. Normally he doesn’t care.

  She’d thoroughly enjoyed her lunch at the Red Fox with Mr Beasely. He’d certainly not been idle, he’d done some poking about. He’d told her, while pouring the wine, ‘Watt & Wyatt have never looked particularly healthy, especially now with the Common Market and the decline in farming expenditure. High protein animal foodstuffs and lethally potent fertilizers are luxuries of the past. Keep it under your hat, but that firm is already in trouble, and even if fate hadn’t intervened I think Malcolm would have been made redundant ere long.’

  She hadn’t dressed up like a tart. She’d dressed in a way that she hoped might complement the young, the trendy Mr Beasely, and just about the first thing that gentleman had said when she’d closed the car door furtively in the charcoal darkness of the echoing carpark had been, ‘Why don’t you call me Robert?’

  ‘And the E? What does the E stand for?’

  He’d blushed when he told her, ‘Erskine. It’s a silly family tradition. They call all their firstbor
n sons Erskine.’

  ‘Will you call yours Erskine?’

  ‘I already have a son. He is five years old and his initials are J. P. for James Peter. There’s no E anywhere near, not even lurking on the birth certificate. And maybe I can call you Elspeth?’

  ‘Ellie,’ she said, settling down to enjoy the journey. He was a good driver. He didn’t show off like Dave Legget did in his Cavalier, and the little country pub he chose was just perfect. Perfect for what? Well, for a business lunch, she supposed. Here was she, Ellie Freeman, going for a business lunch, and feeling far more comfortable dressed in her grey Crimplene skirt from Marks with the simple white blouse. She wished Mr Beasely hadn’t seen her in her navy suit and high heels.

  ‘How terrible if anyone should see us,’ she said.

  ‘It would be hard to invent an excuse,’ he agreed. And she wondered then if he’d be appalled if somebody saw them and thought they were having an affair, what with him being so young and she ten years his senior, although she had heard of women having affairs with men much younger than that. She’d read that the arrangement tended to work rather well, what with men wanting mothering like they did and women being willing to mother.

  She suddenly imagined Mr Beasely’s rather attractive mouth tugging on her left breast and she stared hard out of the car window.

  Ellie had had an affair once… that’s what Di and Margot jokingly called it. In fact it was more of a rude incident. It was at the club, on the shiny little bit of dance floor with the sparkly ball twirling above it, a curiously neglected waste-ground of a place except on disco nights. She’d seen the man stare at her the moment she’d got in the door—a jowly, fleshy man, very dark. She’d nudged Margot who’d compared him to Elvis Presley at his worst time, and the white anorak, if you used your imagination, could have been thought of as leather, with tassels across the chest.

  Well, he’d stared at her darkly like that all night, he’d bought her drinks and then, to Di and Margot’s delight, he’d put Are You Lonesome Tonight on the jukebox and asked her to dance. By this time Ellie had been quite tipsy, and oddly excited—she knew he was, as Margot whispered, ‘quite disgusting’, but even so. He’d held her tightly, they’d smooched she supposed, and Ellie had used her imagination, vividly, and she’d felt something stir. Until, all of a sudden, without any warning, this man called Marvin had manoeuvred her into the darkest corner, whipped out his prick and tried to stick it between her legs. Which was insane, really, because she was wearing a tight skirt and she’d have to have slipped it right up to her waist for him to succeed. She’d peered helplessly over his shoulder for Malc, but he’d been concentrating on his next snooker shot, sliding the cue up and down between his hands quite sensually, which is just what Marvin was attempting to do. She’d come down to earth in a rush, feeling dirty. Bristling righteously she’d pushed Marvin off and gone to sit down but Marvin had stayed in the club all night, all manly and proud at the bar, still staring, as if nothing had happened. She’d never been able to explain the sadness she felt about this to Margot and Di.

  She’d never told Malc.

  The Red Fox was dark and beamed and riddled with stone passageways. Every now and then you came upon an alcove, where people sat with candles on their tables. There was something quite secretive about it. It was right that they should be having their business lunch in the Red Fox, and it was ten miles out of town so Ellie felt quite safe.

  He took her coat and went to hang it up for her.

  She said, ‘I suppose you often take clients out for lunch.’

  ‘It’s not often I enjoy the experience quite so much,’ said Robert Beasely, and she felt like a queen sitting there and hoped that whatever Malc turned out to be as a result of all her plotting, he’d make her feel like Robert Beasely made her feel just then.

  ‘Oh, I can’t choose the smoked salmon,’ she said, shocked.

  ‘Of course you can. This is on the bank, and you may choose anything you like.’

  So she started with the smoked salmon and he chose a beautiful wine to accompany it. She knew she must go steady. She was not used to drink at lunchtime, and Malc was disdainful of wine—‘a sissy’s drink’, he called it. He meant that poufters drank it, vegetarians and yuppies. Real men drank only spirits or beer.

  It was between courses that Robert brought out his briefcase and showed her a glossy brochure, and after she’d glanced at that, he produced the figures. ‘These are the predictions for next year, but I personally think the profits are going to far exceed this. It’s working capital these two young men Ramon and Murphy are short of.’

  To her shame she wasn’t really listening. She was watching his face and listening to the nice way he said his words. She was noting how intensely interested he was in his job, how keen he seemed to see this new company succeed, how careful he was to bring to her notice the snags as well as the likely benefits. This is what a man’s work should be, she thought to herself. Not just a slog, day after day, that did nothing but knock it out of you, but something you could involve yourself in, something at which you excelled. She tuned in again when she heard him say, ‘Basically what they are doing is importing garden furniture from Sweden, and what they want at this stage is someone to make local garden centres and shops aware of their existence, to ensure deliveries are promptly dealt with and to get new samples round on time.’

  ‘That’s where Malc would come in?’

  ‘Yes. The basic wage would be paid for by you and he’d receive a percentage of his sales. In exchange for this arrangement you would be made a sleeping partner in the company—in the name of the bank, of course.’

  ‘But what about the future? Malc wouldn’t want to stay just a salesman for ever.’

  Robert nodded. ‘There are already plans for expansion. If this company gets off the ground it’ll happen fast and there will be all kinds of opportunities. Quite apart from Malcolm, your investments would quickly multiply. Neither of these young men want to stay in the area… so they’re going to need a local manager for a start. And if Malcolm’s as good as you say he is… But Ellie, I have to warn you that even if things go well, this won’t be for another year or two. It might take even longer than that.’

  ‘But you think this company—Canonwaits—is the answer?’

  ‘Yes I do. I can’t think of anything more promising or suitable.’

  She sipped her wine quickly. ‘How do we go about it?’

  ‘The only way to do it is to advertise properly.’

  ‘And I’ve got to convince Malc to apply?’

  ‘I can’t see any other way.’

  ‘But what if he refuses? He’s long ago given up trying for new jobs.’

  ‘I have total confidence in your ability to persuade him,’ said Robert, and Ellie caught his eye. She looked down.

  ‘You must think I’m very odd—doing what I’m doing. Making it all so difficult for myself.’ She twiddled the stem of the wine glass before glancing up again. His eyes were still on her but the gleam in them was not for her, it was reflected off the ice bucket on the table in front of him. She wondered if her waistband had rolled over yet, and if that little bit of zip at the top had come open. She’d go to the loo, later on, and check.

  He said, ‘I think what you’re doing is very brave. You’re taking a big chance.’

  ‘I’m not being brave really.’ She decided to latch on to his stare. ‘I suppose that if I was honest I’d admit to being rather cowardly. I could just leave him, find someone else and go off.’

  ‘I would very much like to meet him, this Malcolm of yours. At the moment I’m rather confused about him. You must care a great deal to be taking this trouble, and I don’t think you’re the sort of person to act impulsively.’

  ‘You don’t know me at all,’ she said gently, ‘so how can you say that? Are you classifying me into a type?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that I am.’ And he leaned back to let the waitress in the black dress and white apron take their plates a
way. Ellie thought the woman had broken something by stretching across, as if she’d stuck her arm through a cobweb and torn it. She resented the interruption.

  ‘What am I?’ she asked him. ‘How do you see me?’

  ‘Strong,’ he said, picking up the napkin which he hadn’t yet unrolled. And Ellie wasn’t easy with that. She doubted if Malc would call her strong. Stubborn, probably, but not strong. And she’d been hoping for something a little more feminine.

  Into the silence Robert asked, ‘What kind of life are you hoping for, Ellie, if this all goes well?’

  ‘Nothing extraordinary. Oh, I’d like to be able to buy nice things when I see them, go out for meals, have cream horns in tea shops and visit the theatre occasionally. I’d like to learn to drive, to have a car, to drive into the country at weekends and maybe stay in some of those lovely hotels they advertise… those brochure weekends.’

  ‘What sort of house do you see yourself living in?’

  This was lovely. This was sharing a dream, and yet it wasn’t as silly as dreaming.

  ‘I’d like one of those Georgian houses in Ridley Place opposite the library. I’ve always hankered after one of those. And I’d have it all in wood with rugs and huge pictures and those false gas fires which look real, with canopies.’ She stared at him suddenly. ‘D’you think it’ll happen, Robert?’

  ‘It could happen straight away if you decided to change your mind.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be anything like how I picture it.’

  ‘Because of Malcolm?’

  ‘And me. I’d be different if Malc was different’

  Robert Beasely frowned at her. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Well, of course I would. I’d be more confident. I’d know when I looked nice because he’d tell me so, I’d be able to choose my friends knowing that Malc wouldn’t grumble, I’d read different books and learn to like classical music. I’d improve myself…’