Pitiful, I can clearly remember thinking. It was pitiful, just how easy it was to influence a mind weaker than your own. All I needed to do was play on Harriet’s many, many social insecurities when it came to the de Courcey family, and I was home and dry.
There was just one tiny fly in the ointment.
Tiny. Barely even noticeable. Nothing that I was convinced would become a problem. Back then at least.
The issue was that in spite of everything, in spite of my callous determination to keep all emotions out of my work, when it came to Harriet, for some reason I found it so much harder than I’d have thought. Up till then, ninety per cent of the clients I’d worked for had wanted inconvenient third parties airbrushed out of their relationships. Cheaters, I could deal with dispassionately, almost cruelly at times. Well, would you blame me? And did anyone messing around on a partner behind their back deserve anything less?
This particular situation, however, was different. Mainly because the more I got to know Harriet, the fonder I became of her, in spite of myself. Here, I fast realised, was a good person, a genuinely open-hearted, lovely, kind woman, who wasn’t cheating on anyone. And nor was Freddie de Courcey, for that matter. Did they really deserve his family, and particularly his grandmother’s, machinations, just to keep him on the straight and narrow until he ended up with a partner of her choosing?
I said as much to the mighty Ellen de Courcey during one of her ‘checking up on me’ phone calls.
‘You know, if you just gave Harriet Waters a chance . . .’ I tried to say, but she cut me off mid-sentence.
‘I’ve no doubt that’s true, Miss Monroe,’ she’d said, addressing me formally, as always. ‘But it’s quite beside the point. You must understand that, in time, Freddie is expected to spearhead the entire Connair family, which amounts to over eleven thousand employees worldwide. He needs a life partner fluent in several languages, someone well travelled, artistic and cosmopolitan, who will be able to take on the mantle I myself will one day have to relinquish. Being part of the CEO’s family is an onerous job and one that requires a high degree of intelligence, ambition, business acumen and people skills. Someone who understands our world. We need the sort of woman who regularly appears on the Fortune 500 list and who’s been featured in Forbes magazine.’
Message received loud and clear. Not someone who works for a CRAP store and who could tell you to the nearest pound, shilling and pence exactly how much you’d get for a knackered tea towel souvenir of the Pope’s visit back in 1979.
By then, after a few months spent worming myself into Harriet’s life, we’d grown close. She and I had become, dare I even use the word, friends. Not that I knew a whole lot about friendship. I had acquaintances before, many of them, but never an actual friend. Not since school. Not once. Not like this.
That Christmas, Harriet went ‘down home’ to her own family in Limerick, and I went back to my mother and Nana. Where I did nothing more than scrap with Mum and deal with all her low-level passive aggression, while trying to curtail the worst of Nan’s dementia episodes. This was the Christmas when Nan started escaping from the house and warning the neighbours that if Hitler didn’t come to get them, then Stalin surely would. Mum blamed me – because, of course, her having a few too many ninety per cent of the time wouldn’t unsettle Nan at all, would it?
So when Harriet invited me to stay with her family for New Year’s Eve, I jumped at the chance.
‘The twins have gone skiing, and Mam and Dad would love to meet you. Just say yes and hop on a train!’ Harriet had squealed excitedly down the phone.
Her parents, Carole and Sean, turned out to be lovely too. Carole was almost like a fifty-something version of Harriet, with poker-straight fair hair chopped into a neat, efficient bob. She dressed in outdoor, practical clothes for her job as a vet; chunky, warm jumpers along with comfortable jeans and sensible wellies. Sean, on the other hand, was hale and hearty, red-faced and florid, a retired bank manager who now lived to bake and cook and who happily told me his lifetime’s goal was to represent Limerick on The Great British Bake Off. ‘I’d love Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith to get a load of my home-made beef and ale pie – it’d knock their socks off . . . star baker, here I come!’ he’d proudly boasted.
But one night sticks out clearly in my mind.
It was New Year’s Day, when Carole and Sean went out to visit neighbours, and Harriet and I were left alone in front of a cosy fire in the warm, welcoming living room of their Victorian farmhouse home. A sprawling, shambling, welcoming home too, with the kids’ bedrooms still exactly as they were the day they all left home, right down to Harriet’s wall plastered with ancient Zane from One Direction posters and with various trophies and medals still proudly displayed on walls and mantelpieces everywhere. So unlike my own house, I thought, where every ‘first in class’ prize that I brought home was met with a disinterested shrug, and where you microwaved your own dinner to eat in silence in front of the telly.
The chat turned around to Freddie, as I made sure it did.
‘He gave me this before I came home for Christmas,’ Harriet smiled, her pretty face flushed from the warmth of the fire, as she proudly showed off a delicate filigree gold pendant that hung around her neck. ‘And he says he’ll see me just as soon as he’s back from his holidays next week.’
‘Lucky him,’ I said, gazing into the flames as the fire snapped and crackled and those gorgeous turfy smells filled the room. ‘I wouldn’t mind being whisked off to Mustique with my grandparents for two weeks. Christmas on the beach? What’s not to like?’
There was a long, telling pause before Harriet spoke again.
‘You know something?’ she said, looking at me and tilting her head quizzically. ‘We always end up talking about my love life, don’t we? Never, ever yours. So come on, Meg, what’s the story with you? Any men you’re interested in at the moment? Are you seeing anyone?’
‘No,’ I said flatly, after a pause. ‘No interest, you see.’
‘Oh now, come on,’ she insisted. ‘Look at you, you’re a fabulous human being! Surely you must have fellas queuing up to ask you out? Have you ever tried online dating? Lots of my friends are on Tinder and they swear by it . . .’
‘Not for me,’ I said bluntly.
‘I don’t get it,’ Harriet said, staring thoughtfully across at me.
‘Because—’ I told her after a lengthy pause, as I weighed up whether to confide in her or not. And decided, yeah, go for it, why the hell not? Harriet was a good soul and probably the last person on earth who’d ever judge me. ‘I’m not interested in men,’ I said truthfully. ‘Never really was. Never will be. Fact is that ever since I was a teenager, I’ve pretty much identified as . . .’
‘You’re gay?’ Harriet asked gently.
I nodded and smiled shyly – a strange, new emotion for me. ‘Not that I’m seeing anyone, or even interested in anyone just now,’ I replied, ‘but yes. For a long time now, I’ve realised that I’m attracted to women.’
She got up from the armchair and walked over to where I was sitting, plonked down on the armrest beside me, slipped her arm around my shoulders and gave me a tight, supportive squeeze.
‘I’m honoured you told me,’ she said simply. ‘That’s wonderful news. She’ll be a very lucky woman who gets to be with you, you know that.’
And that was it. I’d never come out to anyone before, not even my own family. That’s the moment I knew that Harriet was a true, genuine friend. Possibly the first real friend I ever had.
And that’s when I knew I was in trouble.
And now to the shameful part of my tale. The bit where I sold my soul.
Early in January, refreshed and invigorated from her Caribbean holiday, I had a call from Ellen de Courcey. Just to check up on me, just to see what progress was being made.
I tried to tell her that Freddie and Harriet really did seem to be falling for each other. I tried again to say that if she just gave Harriet half a ch
ance, she might actually grow to see, over time, that here was no gold digger out for what she could get. I even tried to say that with someone as caring and warm-hearted as Harriet, from such a grounded, rock-solid, united family, Freddie might actually have a shot at happiness.
But no sooner had I formulated the words in my head than they withered on my lips.
‘I have a list for you, my dear,’ Ellen interrupted me, in that whispery, papery voice that I had to strain to hear from the other end of the phone. ‘My private secretary is emailing it over to you as we speak.’
A list?
I raced to my laptop and refreshed my emails and, yes, there it was. Right in front of me, in bold black and white. A long list of clients, and a lot of well-known, high-profile names they were too.
‘A lot of these people are close personal friends,’ Ellen whispered down the phone. ‘And all, I regret to say, are in need of your services. Should you succeed regarding my grandson and this . . . person he’s apparently fallen for, naturally, I will be most happy to recommend you. It goes without saying that all would be prepared to pay premium prices for a discreet, speedy service.’
My head spun as I scrolled down through the list. Jesus, there were literally dozens of names here – household names, a lot of them. If I pulled this off, it would set me up for years to come. This would mean I could properly look after Mum and Nana. I could pay off Mum’s mortgage, maybe even save a bit for a care home for Nana, should she get to the point where she couldn’t live at home anymore. In time, I could put a bit by and maybe even get to go to college as a mature student, something I’d always dreamt of, but had never been able to.
I could do a whole lot of things.
‘There’s more,’ Ellen whispered. ‘You will recall that we discussed the apartment block currently under construction? Well, it’s almost completed, I’m reliably informed, and my property agent will be more than happy to meet you at the site at your earliest convenience. Just to make sure you’re quite happy with all the fixtures and fittings, my dear. I never go back on an agreement, you know. You take care of this matter for me, and it’s yours.’
There comes a point in every life where two roads fork in front of you and you have to choose one. And so I chose.
Well, you don’t need to be Miss Marple to work out the rest. The de Courceys would never have accepted someone like Harriet anyway, was my justification, then as now. I was actually doing Harriet a favour in the long run. Fond and all as I was of Harriet, our whole friendship had been based on a deception. Should she ever find out I’d been employed to get rid of her, what hope was there for any kind of latent friendship anyway?
Besides, you know. Morals are an expense that some of us just can’t afford.
I redoubled my efforts and really knuckled down to it – then, a lucky break. After a lot of exhaustive research online and a significant amount of preliminary enquiry, I came up with the perfect solution to everyone’s problem. The parent company of the CRAP store where Harriet worked coincidentally ran a clean water charity and were actively recruiting a new team, to head up a water aid project . . . all the way out in Mombasa, Kenya.
I already knew Harriet’s direct boss, who was called Mona, and who Harriet said was so terrifying, she should come with the background sound of thunderclaps, dressed like the baddie out of a panto. I contacted the CRAP head office and made a point of speaking to this Mona directly.
‘Now, of course, Harriet doesn’t know I’m reaching out to you like this,’ I’d said, ‘but the thing is, I’m her best friend and I’m sooooo concerned about her. She’s having a bit of man trouble, you know how it is.’
Yet another role play I was getting very good at. Another one for the repertoire; that of Miss Hypocritical Two Faces, Liar of the Century.
‘Really?’ said Mona, sounding confused. ‘Because Harriet Waters always seems so chirpy to me. She’s forever in good form. In fact, I can never get away from her when I call into that shop. Tell me this, does the girl ever stop chatting?’
‘Puts on such a brave face,’ I said, thinking fast. ‘Trooper that she is. But just between us, she really could do with a distraction. A brand-new project, a challenge. Like your clean water charity out in Kenya, for instance?’
Seed sown.
Convincing Harriet was that bit more difficult, but with perseverance, I set out a case. Slowly and methodically, I went to work on Harriet, just like water wearing away at stone.
‘Now, I know the last thing on your mind is an open-ended trip to Africa,’ I’d said, using a combination of reverse psychology and good old-fashioned emotional blackmail. ‘But that boss of yours, Mona, really seems to have earmarked you for great things in the voluntary sector and I know you’d hate to let her down. Just think what a fantastic work opportunity it would be for you. A whole year running your own NGO, Harriet, just think! You could travel anywhere in the world with that kind of experience under your belt – you’d never look back!’
We were sitting up on high bar stools in a cheap local pizzeria, where we’d been sharing a margherita pizza between us because it was as far as our budgets stretched, back in those days. But then Harriet, who had a huge appetite and who’d been horsing into her pizza up till then, suddenly stopped eating.
‘Well, it’s so kind of you to say so,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And of course, it’s flattering that Mona is even thinking of putting me up for a huge job like that . . .’
‘After this, you could walk into the United Nations and get any job you like – can you imagine? They’d be fighting over you!’
‘It’s a wonderful job offer,’ Harriet sighed. ‘But you have to understand. It’s not about ambition for me, and it never was. Beware anyone who works in the charity sector when they’re motivated by money, because it’s coming from the wrong place. I do this job because I genuinely do want to help people. Not because I’m after some fancy job title with a flashy salary.’
‘Is it because of Freddie?’ I asked her directly. Fuck it, it was what we were both thinking. Might as well be upfront about it.
‘I could be away for a very long time,’ Harriet said wistfully. ‘And you know how close I am to my family. I’d miss everyone. The twins, even though they’d drive you nuts half the time, and my folks too. There’s Freddie, of course . . . but then there’s you too, Meg. I’d miss you.’
The guilt felt like battery acid in my throat. But I’d made my choice, so I put on my big girl pants and got on with it.
‘The time away will be nothing,’ I said, dismissing all her concerns with a wave of my hand. ‘It’ll fly! And as for me and your family? We’re all here, and none of us are going anywhere, are we? We’ll stay in touch via Skype and WhatsApp. What’s wrong with that? Friendships like this don’t fade because of distance.’
I’d deliberately omitted Freddie’s name. Just to see what the reaction would be.
But none came. Instead Harriet just continued to stare out the window of the pizzeria onto the sleety, wet street outside, lost in thought.
‘Look,’ I said, playing my trump card, ‘just think of Freddie’s family and friends and that terrifying grandmother of his, who’s acting more and more like the dowager on Downton Abbey every day, as far as I can see. You’ve always felt they looked down their noses on you, haven’t you?’
‘Since day one,’ Harriet reluctantly had to agree.
‘But just think. Word will get back to them, one and all, that you’ve landed this huge job as an NGO heading up a fantastic charity like the Clean Water Initiative. Don’t you see how much they’ll respect you for this? How this could change everything for you? Particularly with someone like Ellen de Courcey, who’s always in the papers banging on about how important her charity work is to her.’
‘Hmm,’ said Harriet, and I began to sense I was on the home stretch here. Her back straightened up and she was starting to look interested.
‘Besides,’ I said, really pressing my case. ‘Think of wh
at you’d be achieving out there. Bringing clean water to those who need it most. Harriet, to be perfectly honest with you, I can’t understand why we’re even having this discussion. In your shoes, I’d already be on my way to the airport, dying to start the work. I’d have my flights booked and I’d be off organising a load of malaria and cholera shots. It’s a complete no-brainer, if you ask me.’
*
It was almost touching to see how upset Harriet and Freddie had been at this separation. There were plenty of tears and farewell dinners together, and late-night texts from Freddie along the lines of I’LL MISS YOU SO MUCH!
But every single time Harriet had a wobble, I was there beside her, with a sympathetic ear, a large bottle of Rescue Remedy and an industrial-size packet of Kleenex.
‘You’re doing the right thing,’ I kept reiterating over and over. ‘Wait till you see, this will be the making or the breaking of you and Freddie.’
With the emphasis on ‘the breaking’ part of that sentence – though of course, I kept my mouth shut about it.
‘It’s just so much tougher than I thought it would be,’ Harriet kept snivelling. ‘Saying goodbye like this.’
‘Of course it is, honey,’ I’d say soothingly. ‘But remember, any fella that isn’t prepared to wait for you, really isn’t worth the bother at all, is he? Plus I really think this is the real deal. When you think about it, time abroad won’t seem all that long if you plan to spend the rest of your lives together now, will it? So come on, refocus. Regroup. Think of why you’re getting on that plane in the first place. People’s whole lives will change – hell, you’ll save lives, because of the wonderful work you’ll be doing. How many of us get to say that in their whole lifetime?’
Freddie de Courcey, for his part, seemed genuinely sorry to see Harriet leave too. Yet again, I found myself thinking that this was a real pity, actually. Here was a young couple, deeply fond of each other and who, in spite of all the odds, and the whole world seemingly stacked against them, seemed terribly upset at this forced farewell.
The Fixer Page 16