Lie For Me Page 7

  “I know, Em. But you’re still young. We can see the best doctors. We can try.”

  A sob catches at my throat. Every time we speak about this an invisible barrier appears between us. Jeremy is 36 and I am 34. He’s being generous when he says I am still young. I know the clock is ticking. Loudly.

  I grip the glass and take a long sip. Jeremy reaches out across the table and I let him hold my hand. His touch is warm and strong, a touch I have learned to trust. Jeremy has always been stout, resilient without being flashy. He is just what I need. We are happy. Now this new house will uproot us, and make changes when none were necessary.

  Am I being unreasonable? Wouldn’t most women be ecstatic at the chance of living in a nice, big house with a garden the size of a football field?

  But I have lived in a large farmhouse at our farm, and I know how much it costs to maintain it. Dad did most of the work when he was younger, but Jeremy wouldn’t be able to do it now, not with his demanding job. Which would mean spending loads of money.

  I tell him this. He considers it. Jeremy is reasonable. He says, “I know, but the place will also go up in value. That’s good for the long run. And you don’t want to move again, do you?”

  “Why can’t we look for something smaller?”

  From the look in his eyes, I can tell he has his heart set on this place. “OK,” I admit defeat. “I’ll think about it.”

  His eyes brighten. “You will?”

  “Yes, I promise.” I smile, and he walks around the table. I move into his embrace and we hold each other for a while.

  “How was Molly’s school today?” he asks.

  Memories of our stressful day at school come flowing back. “Not great. Molly’s doing well, but this girl has accused her of bullying.”

  “What? Our Molly?” Jeremy leans back, disbelief in his eyes.

  I nod. “Crazy, I know. This girl was shoved, and then kicked. Poor child had a bruise. But fancy accusing Molly. I asked Molly and she denies it totally.”

  “Does Molly know who did it?”

  I shake my head. “No, none of the children saw anything. Which makes it worse, because there’s no one to back Molly up.”

  “Stuff like this doesn’t normally happen at the school, does it?”

  I shake my head, finishing my glass of wine. “No. And you should have seen the parents. Pompous gits. Mother seems to have made her mind up about Molly already. Bloody cheek.” I am seething again, remembering that woman’s attitude.

  “Who are they?”

  “Woman’s called Joanne Burton-Smyth. Does some big job in an insurance firm. Thinks that gives her the right to talk down to me.”

  Jeremy is giving me a funny look. After a few seconds he says, “Is the husband called Tim Burton-Smyth?”

  I widen my eyes. “You know them?”

  “Not sure if it’s the same family, but I know Tim’s daughter goes to the same school as our Molly.”

  I think fast. As far as I know, there isn’t anyone else with that last name. Maybe Eva will know more.

  “How do you know this guy?”

  Jeremy has a troubled look on his face, and his eyebrows are knit together. “He is the senior partner in our law firm. He decides who gets paid what.”

  It takes a little while to settle in my mind. Molly has my last name. Dixon. So Henrietta’s parents wouldn’t be able to identify Molly on that basis, and in any case, there could be a number of Mansells.

  “How well do you know them?” I ask.

  Jeremy shrugs. “Not that well. Played golf with him a couple of times. Nice guy. We spoke about the girls but only briefly. Talked about work mostly.”

  It occurs to me this man could be behind Jeremy’s promotion and bonus at work. I slump back into the chair.

  “Great.”

  Jeremy massages my shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’re going to find the boy or girl who did this. These things happen at school.”

  I shake Jeremy’s hands off my shoulder. “Before they find out, they’re busy accusing my daughter!”

  Immediately I feel bad. It’s just bad luck that he is now involved in this. “I’m sorry,” I say, standing up.

  “Don’t worry. I can see how it can be stressful. Like I said, I think this will blow over.”

  “I hope so,” I sigh.

  CHAPTER 19

  Eight years ago

  Days passed into weeks. The summer of 2008 was hot and flustered. The banking crisis was sending quakes all across the world, cracks appearing in the safe and secure grounds everyone took for granted.

  Sales in the estate agency had dwindled to almost nothing. We had fallen back on what agents relied on during a housing crisis – the rental market. My new role was to show as many people the flats we had for rent. Occasionally, we had problems getting people in and out of flats as well.

  In a smart apartment complex in Putney, we had the misfortune of having a young man who was falling in arrears over his rent. It had only been a month, but our finances were tight as they were. And I had found someone new who was interested in the flat. A professional couple who, unlike many, still had their jobs intact.

  I arrived at the flat and rang the doorbell. I knew the guy was inside as his car was there in the parking lot, and the newspapers and bottle of milk had been removed from his door. I waited but he wouldn’t answer. I could hear someone moving inside as well.

  Exasperated, I rang Clive. He said he was coming over. I didn’t want him to in fact, because although he had apologised over the way he had treated Jim, his stress levels weren’t doing him any favours. But it was too late. He was in charge of the business, and I didn’t have any option but to call him.

  Within minutes, it seemed, I saw his black BMW had pulled up downstairs. He came up in the lift, his face calm.

  “Pretty sure he’s in there,” I said. Clive put his ears to the door. He looked at me and nodded. He banged heavily on the door.

  “Mr Dobson. Please open the door. We have to call the police if you don’t.”

  There was no answer. Clive tried a couple more times, and with each effort, I could see he was getting more worked up. I caught the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Let’s leave this, Clive. You are right, call the police.”

  Clive’s face was slowly turning purple again, the colour I had learnt to be wary of.

  “And what will they do?” He sneered. “Take four weeks to get a warrant, during which time this moron will have missed another month’s rent.” He looked at me with hooded eyes. “We need to take matters into our own hands.”

  Fear caught in my chest. What was he going to do?

  “No, Clive,” I said quickly. “Just leave it. It’s not worth it.”

  He came close to me, his face calm again, the scent of his aftershave cool and fresh. He stroked my left cheek. “Hey, don’t worry. Problem with guys like these is that they need to be taught a lesson. Once it’s done, he won’t bother us again.”

  Before I could say anything, Clive had turned, and fished out a jangle of keys from his pocket. He tried several in turn. I watched, mystified. I had no idea all these keys existed in the office. We had a well-organised keyboard which was kept in his office. I had never seen this assortment before.

  Clive tried several, till one clicked. He smiled at me, but the smile faded on his lips as the rattle of the chain lock sounded. He stood up wearily. He shot me a look.

  “This never happened, alright? And I have to do this because there’s no choice.”

  Clive took three steps back. I watched in disbelief as he rushed forward, and kicked the door with all his strength. The chain snapped off, and the door banged against the back of the frame. Clive barged in. I didn’t know what to do. I waited outside, heart beating rapidly, as I heard sounds of crashing and breaking inside. After a while, Clive emerged, holding a straggly, thin young man with long hair and tattoos. He pushed Mr Dobson against the door, fist on his collar.

  “Tomorrow, did yo
u hear me? Either that, or you clear out from here. If I come back here and see you here, you know what’s going to happen.”

  “I’ll report you to the police,” Mr Dobson gasped. “This is assault. You can’t get away with it.”

  “Oh yeah? Who’s going to believe you? I haven’t left a mark on your body. You kicked in the door when you were drunk. And there are no witnesses.”

  Mr Dobson’s eyes flickered over to mine, and I looked away, embarrassed. Without saying another word, I went down the stairs as fast as I could.

  I was lighting up a cigarette when Clive joined me. I stood well away from him. I didn’t know this person he was turning into. Everything about him was suddenly alien, strange.

  He brushed a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m sorry you had to see that. But now he knows. He won’t try to mess with us again.”

  I gave him a withering look. “Is this what you’re going to do to everyone who goes into arrears? Go round their flat and beat them up?”

  His expression was pained. “Darling, be reasonable. I didn’t beat this guy up. It was just…”

  “Just a friendly kicking down his door and gripping him by the throat, was it?” I threw the cigarette on the floor and stamped on it with my heel. “Jesus, Clive, will you look at yourself? What is happening to you? You have changed. You’re not the man I…”

  The sudden hurt in his eyes made me look away. I was angry, and I had to let him know. I heard him sigh.

  “You’re right,” he said. I glanced at him, and his face was pointed downwards. “I built this business up from scratch, Em. It’s all the work I did. And now it’s falling apart.” He looked at me intensely, and my heart skipped a beat. His devilish good looks still took my breath away.

  “I am good at my job, you know?”

  “You are, Clive. But there are things beyond your control.” I softened my voice. “When bad things happen we have to compromise. There’s always a deal around the corner. Who told me that?”

  He looked at me with a rueful smile on his face. “I know. And you are right. I cannot do what I just did. I think I should go back and apologise to him.”

  That made me happy. “I think that’s a really good idea. I’ll see you back at the office.”

  He turned around. “Why don’t we go for a drink after? Just at the local pub, The Pig and Whistle. A couple of my old friends are coming down.”

  I stopped. “What friends? You never told me.”

  “Oh, just some of my friends from school. They called this morning and said they would be in the area. We’ll have a couple of drinks and then be on our way. Nothing special.”

  Despite feeling slightly uncomfortable, I thought I would sound rude if I refused the offer. After all, I hadn’t been out with Clive for weeks now. This didn’t sound like a romantic night out, but it would still be social. I nodded. He beamed back at me.

  *****

  Clive and myself were the last ones to leave the office. I left first and walked over to the pub which was five minutes away on foot. There were some people at the bar and sitting around, but no one I recognised. I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t like coming to this place because I didn’t want our co-workers finding out about us. I would tell them in due course.

  I felt someone at my back and turned to see Clive. He gave me a peck on the cheek, and pointed to a table.

  “My friends are sitting there. Why don’t you take a seat with them and I’ll bring the drinks over. Double gin and tonic?”

  I nodded, looking at the table. The two men who sat there wore suits, but they looked nothing like Clive. They were both bald, and there was a hardness in the angles of their faces, and in the way they looked around the pub. Their eyes alighted on us, and one of them gave a grin. For some reason, it made me shiver. The guy had a gold tooth.

  “Who are they?” I asked without leaving his side.

  “We go way back. Schooldays.”

  “Where from?”

  “Dagenham. You know I grew up there.”

  I did. Clive did his best to hide the East End twang in his accent now, rounding it out with the mellow South London suburban vowels, but I could see through it. I stared at the two men, and noticed the gold chains that hung from both their necks. They looked like cockney gangsters.

  CHAPTER 20

  Present day

  The next morning I have a nice surprise. I have come back home having dropped Molly off and make myself a coffee. I plan to have a morning at the easel and canvas, doing some abstracts. With what has been happening in my life at the moment, I have gone off figures and landscapes. I shut the door of the studio, and turn on the wireless doorbell for the front door in case someone knocks.

  I take out my paints, and spread them in front of me like a fan. The sky is the colour of gunmetal grey, low-bellied clouds grazing it like dark thoughts. My mood is also dark, and I am in a closed, reclusive place. I mix brown with red, and black with dark blue. I start with bold lines, framing them out like the bars of a jail cell. Inside I flow softer colours, the morsels of my mind that evade expression. I pour in the anxiety and pain I have been living with the last few days.

  It is strangely therapeutic. Painting gets me relaxed. I am in full flow when the bell rings. I look through the eyepiece to find a woman who looks familiar, with a baby. I open the door immediately to find Suzy Elliot standing there, with a grin on her face, and holding baby Margaret to her chest.

  “She wanted to say hello,” Suzy said.

  It’s really nice to see them. I hold little Margaret, and she is sound asleep. Only ten days old now, and strange to think that I found her the other day, abandoned in the park. I brush the thought away. She is safe now, and always will be.

  Suzy goes to her car, and comes back with a bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates and a thank-you card.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Suzy,” I say, and she shushes me.

  “Nonsense. I owe you everything.” She gives me a meaningful look. “I just came from the council house.”

  I waited for her to elaborate. Suzy said, “We made a change in her birth certificate and changed her name. From now on her middle name is not Louise. It will be Emma.”

  It takes a while to sink in. Then I am overcome. “No, Suzy. You really don’t have to do that.”

  “I have already spoken to Paul. He agrees, too. Both of us really wanted to do this. Without you, I wouldn’t have a daughter today.”

  Her eyes are burning brightly, and I feel a strange emotion wash over me. A week ago, I didn’t know this woman. Now life finds us bound together inextricably, like links in a silver necklace.

  Suzy says, “Her full name now is Margaret Emma Elliot. The initials will be MEE.”

  “Hope she doesn’t grow up obsessed with herself,” I say, and we both laugh.

  “Tell me what happened at the police station,” Suzy asks.

  My face falls. I tell her the best I can. “They think it’s all too convenient, the way I found her. As if I could have planned all this.”

  Suzy shakes her head. “Unbelievable. You would think the cops would be thanking you for making their job easier. They don’t have to keep looking now. The massive search operation got called off only due to you.”

  I want to tell her about the man in the park, but I hold back. I don’t want to cause her undue stress. This is my problem, and not hers. “Is your mother still here?”

  “No, she’s gone back.”

  I indicate the sleeping Margaret. “How is she?”

  “All intact, nothing missing.” Suzy grins. The freckles on her nose are so profuse they almost make the skin brown. Her red hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she has no make-up on, but she still looks pretty.

  “Nice house you have here,” she says, looking around our messy living room. Although there’s only three of us, this room gathers a lot of junk. I have some of my paintings on the wall, the TV hangs next to them, and with the L-shaped sofa the room can look small. Molly a
lso uses this place to dump her stuff after school. It’s polite of Suzy to pay the compliment.

  “Jeremy wants a bigger place,” I confide in her. “But I’m not sure.”

  She nodded. “So does Paul. But I don’t think we can afford anything around here unless we move further out.” Her eyes become hard, and she looks away from me. “To be honest, not sure I want to live here anymore. Don’t feel safe.”

  I nod, not knowing what to say. She has a point. If that had been me…I get up and smooth my jeans down, feeling restless all of a sudden.

  “Do forgive me,” I said, “haven’t offered you tea or coffee. What would you like?”

  “Some coffee please.”

  We move to the kitchen and I brew some coffee for both of us. Suzy says, “Who would do something like that?”

  I stir the milk in her coffee, head bent. “Someone who’s twisted and depraved,” I say, handing the cup to her. Margaret is now in her travelling cot on the living room floor, fast asleep.

  “Have the police got in touch again?” I ask Suzy.

  “Not yet. They said they will only if new evidence comes to light.”

  I sip my coffee, wondering what that new evidence might be. It’s hard to forget the interrogation Rockford and Ingram subjected me to. I hope they don’t cross my path again. At the same time, I cannot help thinking if I will need their help one day. Will they see me as more of a suspect then?

  “How is Molly doing at school?” Suzy asks, interrupting my thoughts, which I am grateful for. These morbid daydreams are becoming more frequent for me, and I don’t like it.

  “She’s doing great, she loves it.” I debate whether to tell her about the bullying allegation, then decide there’s no harm. Her daughter is not in the same year as Molly anyway. I know that during playtime all the children run around in the same ground, but that is most of the contact they have. More importantly perhaps, the parents don’t mix, unless they have daughters in different years. In addition, Suzy will now be busy with little Margaret to socialise too much. I know how the rumour mill works, and I think I can trust Suzy.

  “A child said Molly had bullied her,” I say. Then I tell her the whole story. Suzy thinks for a moment, then her eyes light up.