But life had other plans for Megan.
‘You’ve already got a perfectly good job at that law office,’ her mum said, out of her mind with worry and exhaustion. ‘Sure what use is college to you? We need you out earning – badly. You can’t give up the kind of money you’re making at that office to flounce off and be a student for four years. I’m sorry, Megan, but it’s out of the question. Scholarship or no scholarship. Your grandad’s more important than any poxy law degree, isn’t he?’
She was right, of course, but still, for Megan, it was like all her hopes were instantaneously crushed and all her dreams of a better life sent clean out the window. The day of her scholarship interview, she took a rare sick day from work and spent the entire day sitting quietly on a bench by the sea, just staring out at the ships going by. Her mobile rang non-stop, with half her school, not to mention the principal, all wanting to know how the big interview went. Even the university rang, wanting to know had something happened to her? Why hadn’t she turned up?
But Megan ignored every single call.
Not now, she thought. It’s not my time right now.
But, by Jesus, one day it would be.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Harriet
‘There’s something very weird going on with my friend Meg. I mean, like, really, seriously weird.’
‘Really? Is that right?’
Harriet is with Freddie. Really, actually, properly with him. Like a proper couple again. Almost. Sort of. At least, that’s what she’s starting to think. A bit. Maybe.
He’d called her earlier in the day and asked to meet up that same evening, and she, of course, presumed he meant for a drink or a bite to eat, as they had done so many times, back in the day. But Freddie, she knew of old, was not a man you could second-guess. Once he’d asked her to lunch and it turned out he’d meant at a fancy restaurant called Maxim’s in Paris. Actual Paris.
‘And I was only in my runners and a hoodie!’ she’d wailed down the phone to her mam afterwards.
There had been a private plane and everything, with just the two of them on board and one, lone flight attendant, who Harriet had felt so sorry for, she’d spent the whole flight including him in their conversation, then of course, inviting him to join her and Freddie for the gorgeous lunch that was laid on at Maxim’s. The minute she found out said flight attendant was gay, she’d even promised to set him up on a date with another guy she knew who was always in and out of Dead Old Lady Dresses, and who she knew for a fact was looking for someone to use a spare ticket he had for Kinky Boots.
‘I love that about you,’ Freddie had smiled at her at the time. ‘I love that you really do care about other people. I’ve seen so many women, friends of my grandmother’s, you know, on the old charity circuit, who don’t give a fiddler’s about the actual cause they’re meant to be fundraising for. All they really want is to have a night out at some charity auction or other, so they can virtue-signal. You’re so different, though. You can’t pass someone homeless on the street without buying them a sandwich and a coffee. Never change, Harriet Waters, do you hear me? Never, ever change.’
This particular day, however, Freddie had called her out of the blue and said, ‘Do you fancy going for a walk later on? Be so lovely to see you and just chat. Wouldn’t it?’
While Harriet was delighted, she was a bit surprised that Freddie wanted to go out walking at seven in the evening. It was even odder still that he wanted to meet at Buckley Park, which was way out in the suburbs.
‘But won’t the park be closed?’ she’d asked him worriedly.
‘No, no, golly, no, not at all, that won’t be a problem,’ Freddie had said, tripping over his words, the way he did. ‘You’ll like it. In fact, you’ll love it. See you later – can’t wait to take you for a proper night out, it’ll be such fun!’
Harriet dearly wished Meg had been around, so they could have picked it all over together, but there was no sign of her. Well, she’s got to be busy, Harriet assumed. I’ll catch up with her later on, she thought, when she finishes up work for the evening. Mind you, given how flat out Meg was with that new job of hers in waste management, she mightn’t be back till all hours.
But then, something even stranger happened. In the middle of the afternoon, way earlier than she was usually home, Meg let herself into the apartment, looking ashen and white-faced and as quiet as a mouse. Not like her normal, high-octane self at all. Harriet could barely get two words out of her.
‘Are you all right, hon?’ she asked worriedly.
‘Hmmm,’ was the only muttered reply she got though, as Meg came into the flat, grabbed the phone she’d left behind, kicked off her shoes and padded straight into her bedroom. No hello, no how are you, nothing.
‘You’re home so early!’ Harriet said. ‘I didn’t expect you back for hours.’
No response.
‘Would you like to eat something? I was just going to run down for a few messages. I could rustle us up a grand little vegan curry?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Are you sure?’ Harriet persisted. ‘They have a special offer on vegan food in Aldi?’
But Meg just shook her head.
‘Meg? Are you OK? You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m OK,’ she muttered. ‘Just going to lie down for a bit.’
‘You feeling all right?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Because if you’re not, I could do you one of my dad’s special home punches to cure you? All I need is two paracetamol and a drop of whiskey.’
‘No thanks,’ said Meg. ‘I just need . . . to think for a while, that’s all.’
And with that, Meg had closed her bedroom door firmly behind her and pretty much stayed holed up there.
Well, the poor girl is shattered tired, Harriet thought. No harm for her to have some time out and a bit of a nap.
By the time Harriet needed to think about leaving, Meg still hadn’t surfaced from her room. Not only that, but when Harriet gently rapped on her bedroom door, there was no response at all. Nothing. Not a single sound. Not even the smells of a delicious Aldi curry could rouse her out of there.
Very, very strange, she thought. I mean, who wouldn’t want a lovely microwaved curry fresh out of Aldi?
But Harriet had a date to keep, so with a spring in her step, she let herself out of the apartment, glued to a Google App on her phone to help her find this Buckley Park place, wherever the hell it was.
*
Turns out, she realises a very long bus ride later, that it’s actually a huge greyhound racing track, and when she gets inside, there is Freddie right inside the entrance gates waiting for her, dressed head to toe in a slightly crumpled work suit, with his red hair blowing upwards in the wind.
‘Wow, this is so not what I expected!’ Harriet says, as she looks around in awe. ‘I’ve never been racing before – this is amazing!’
‘Oh, it’s the best fun imaginable,’ says Freddie, bending down to kiss her lightly on the cheek. ‘I hoped you’d like it – it’s something different, anyway. Bit of fresh air, bit of a stroll, all pretty great, really, isn’t it?’
Harriet smiles, but then that’s one of the cutest things about Freddie, and one of his characteristics that makes him so easy to like; that boyish enthusiasm he has for absolutely anything and everything. Nothing ever seems to get jaded for Freddie, and it’s just so endearing. They stroll into the arena, where it’s packed to capacity, with punters jostling to get the best seat at the parade ring, while bookies cluster in another ring, all touting for business and shouting out the various odds on dogs with names like A Sky Full of Stars and Jumping Jack Flash.
It’s only when Freddie hands her over a form sheet that the reality begins to dawn on Harriet.
The de Courcey Stakes, is the name of the championship race. There it is, printed in bold black and white.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus, Freddie,’ says Harriet, ‘you never told me this was some posh work thing for you! And lookit, I�
��m only in my jeans and a jumper.’
‘Oh, that’s absolutely OK,’ he insists politely, ‘I promise, tonight’s nothing formal at all – really, trust me. It’s just some old sponsorship thingy, you know how it is. All I need do is be here, hand over some old trophy, pose for a few photos, all terribly boring. Much more interesting catching up with you, don’t you think?’
Yes indeed, Harriet thinks, smiling happily. Because this is just like old times. It’s as if, after a full year apart, she and Freddie have managed to pick up the threads of their relationship exactly where they’d left off. All the warmth, the friendly banter and the affection that used to be between them still seems to be there. It’s wonderful, she thinks. It is a kind of little miracle, and every time Freddie shares a joke with her, or tells her a funny story about the day, or asks after her family, it really does gladden her heart.
The only time Harriet gets a teeny bit wobbly is when Freddie guides her up to a corporate hospitality suite on the very top floor of the stadium grounds. Heavy double doors lead into a private function room with a discreet sign outside that reads, ‘DE COURCEY ENTERPRISES. STRICTLY BY INVITATION ONLY.’
‘It’s no one scary,’ he rushes to assure her, clocking how uncomfortable she’s suddenly become. ‘None of my family are here. Just work people, all quite boring, if I’m being perfectly honest.’
One peek inside the door, however, and Harriet knows she’ll be like a fish out of water in there. All the de Courcey guests are assembled inside for a huge, full-on shindig, with a free-flowing bar in full swing and a groaning buffet on offer, as wait staff discreetly circle the room with loaded champagne flutes on silver trays.
‘Oh Jeez, Freddie, look at those women, would you?’ she hisses at him. ‘They’re like some kind of Charlotte Tilbury-ed army! They’re all in heels, and here’s me in an old pair of hiking boots. I’ve never seen so many curly blow-dries under the one roof.’
‘Not a problem,’ Freddie smiles. ‘Curly blow-dries be damned, eh? Just let me say a few lightning-quick words and I’ll be straight back to you, OK?’
Harriet waits just inside the door, watching Freddie as he strides across the room, shaking a few hands en route, as every eye gravitates towards him. He beams at the room, runs his fingers through that shock of red hair and waves for a tiny bit of quiet so he can do his thing.
‘So sorry to interrupt the old bun fight,’ he grins cheekily. ‘Just wanted to say, emm, well, thank you all for coming. Enjoy the races. And if I were you lot, I’d stock up on the free booze while you can, because the bar closes at 10 p.m.! So carry on, everyone – and if any of you have a half-decent tip for the Championship hurdle, I’d very much love to hear it.’
There is a polite ripple of applause, and Harriet notices more than a few puzzled looks. She even overhears one WAG saying, ‘Is that it? Is that the sum total of his speech?’
‘All right then,’ says Freddie, bounding straight back over to Harriet, all beaming bonhomie and good humour. ‘So that’s the boring old official bit done. How about you and me go for a stroll and see if we can win a few quid while we’re at it, eh?’
‘Don’t you need to stay?’ she asks him worriedly. ‘Don’t you need to mingle and talk to people?’
‘There’s only one person I want to talk to and that’s you,’ he says, with a defiant shake of his head. ‘Besides, as long as the free grub holds out, that lot will be happy, trust me. So, come on, what do you say we go down to the tote and stick a few of the old readies on some mutt we like the look of?’
So that’s what they do. For the next hour, they wander in and out among the rest of the punters, chatting and laughing, easy and relaxed in each other’s company. Just as they’d always been. They try to watch one or two races, but they’re just over so fast, Harriet finds it impossible to see much more than a line of four-legged blurry shapes crossing the finishing line. Freddie even buys the two of them kebabs from a catering truck that has been set up not far from the parade ring, so they grab seats at the back of the grandstand, eating and talking and trying not to let hot chilli sauce dribble all over themselves.
‘So, tell me how long you’re in town for?’ he asks her, in between big mouthfuls of the kebab.
‘Well, Mam and Dad are still in New York,’ Harriet smiles back. ‘But they’re home tomorrow, so we’ll have a family reunion then, and the twins are having their stag night on Saturday, so that’ll be brilliant fun. I’m dying to see them all again, as you can imagine.’
‘And how are your brothers?’ Freddie grins. ‘As mad as ever?’
‘Worse,’ she says, with an eye roll.
‘And your parents are going to the stag night too?’
Harriet nods, with her mouth full.
‘Well, certainly at the dinner part before it,’ she says, wiping sauce off the side of her mouth. ‘The soakage bit, as the boys are calling it. Dad says the chances are good he’ll end up having to bail the twins out of a prison cell the next day, so he might as well be close at hand to get it over with.’
‘It’ll be some wedding,’ Freddie whistles. ‘Golly. I hope the brides-to-be are all geared up for it too?’
‘Well, according to Mam,’ Harriet says, ‘Sofia and Alisha are going to drive her to distraction before the big day. They’re two lovely women, don’t get me wrong, but there is a whole lot of talk about whether the toilet rolls at the reception exactly match the shade of peach the bridesmaids are wearing.’
‘Really? Is that so?’ says Freddie, looking bewildered that there were people out there who actually thought like that.
‘I’ve just come back from Kenya,’ says Harriet, ‘where the toilets are basically a hole in the ground. And that’s if you’re lucky. I just can’t wrap my head around the whole concept of coloured toilet roll. Did you ever?’
‘It must be something of a culture shock for you,’ Freddie nods understandingly.
‘So that’s why it’s been great being able to stay with Meg,’ Harriet adds. ‘She was always such a good pal to me.’
‘Yes, indeed. I remember.’
‘Even though . . .’
‘Even though what?’
Even though she was certainly less than welcoming when I first arrived, Harriet wants to say, except that it sounds a bit disloyal.
‘Is Meg quite well?’ Freddie asks.
This time Harriet just shakes her head.
‘No,’ she says, looking straight ahead to where punters are clustered expectantly around a trophy stand, as the results of one of the big races are announced. ‘No, I don’t think she is, really.’
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Freddie asks, ‘she’s not ill, I hope?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ Harriet says, thinking aloud as she stares straight ahead at the racetrack. ‘But I do think she’s in way over her head with something.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, take that ridiculous apartment, for one thing. I mean, Meg claims she has a great job and that she works all hours, but no one our age lives like that – no one. And her job doesn’t match up, either. Do you know, I went to call her office, and it turns out the company doesn’t even exist?’
‘Really? So what does she do all day?’
‘It’s a mystery,’ says Harriet. ‘She’s out day and night and yet she lies about her job. But then, why would she lie to me? I’m her friend, I’m on her side no matter what she’s got caught up in.’
Drug, dealing, Harriet had thought at one point, but then abandoned the thought. No. Whatever is going on with Meg, it’s certainly nothing like that. Harriet knows for a fact that she hates needles, for starters. The girl doesn’t even smoke, for God’s sake. Then there are all those weird-looking charts and Post-it notes that completely clutter up Meg’s desk at the flat, which she’d stumbled across. All those names and dates and appointments – even Senator Katherine Sisk’s name was there, for God’s sake. What was that all about?
‘Then today,’ Harriet goes on, �
��Meg came home early from work, which she never does, and she took straight to her bed. And that’s it: I haven’t had two words out of her since.’
‘So Meg’s job doesn’t seem to exist, and yet she’s living the life of Reilly?’ Freddie says. ‘Blimey. How strange.’
‘I know,’ Harriet sighs. ‘My guess is that she got way in over her head with debt and now it’s all piling up on top of her. She’s been living well beyond her means for a long time now – for the last year, it seems. And you’d want to see some of the stuff she has – sure it’s all worth a fortune.’
Harriet thinks back to all the trappings of wealth just lying around that flat, and her mind boggles at the sheer scale of it. The boxes and boxes of parcels that seem to stream into the flat for Meg on a daily basis. The designer clothes, the LK Bennett shoes, the handbags with labels and logos plastered all over them. The expensive paintings that are dotted throughout the apartment – it seem as though Meg is really living the high life and spending like there’s no tomorrow.
And now it has all come crashing down on top of her.
‘Well, perhaps there’s something I can do to help,’ Freddie says thoughtfully.
‘What’s that?’
‘We’ve got a wonderful family solicitor’s firm who deal in debt management and restructuring. I could set up an appointment for you to pop into them and have a chat, if you like?’
‘But . . . wouldn’t that be going behind Meg’s back?’ Harriet says doubtfully.
‘It would be entirely confidential, of course,’ says Freddie. ‘Just tell them you’re concerned about your friend and maybe get a few suggestions on how to help, that’s all. You could chat to the lawyers about debt resolution and what’s possible. So when Meg feels ready to tell you, you’ll have a much clearer idea of what can be done to help get her out of . . . well, whatever it is that she’s got herself into.’
The Fixer Page 19