The Fixer

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘It’s a lovely offer . . .’ Harriet begins to say, but just then, right under her nose, she starts to notice something. Down at the winner’s podium on the stands below, the crowd has started slow handclapping, as if they are waiting for something or someone, and are beginning to get a bit fed up. The clapping filters right the way back to where she and Freddie are sitting – when suddenly Freddie jolts straight up, as if there is something very, very important he’s only just remembered.

  ‘Oh, golly gosh!’ he says, slapping his hand off his forehead. ‘That’s me they’re waiting for. Oh, I’m such an idiot!’ He’s up and already on his way. ‘Just got to present the old trophy to the winner, you know how it is. Stay right where you are, I’ll just be a sec!’

  In a couple of long, athletic bounds, he’s already at the bottom of the steps that lead down from the grandstand to the parade ring. Harriet watches the top of his bright red head fondly as he works his way through the crowds and onto the winner’s podium, to hand over a trophy to an owner and trainer who’s been patiently waiting for him.

  The whole evening has turned out to be absolutely lovely, she thinks, hugging her knees in close to her with a little smile. Freddie seems utterly unchanged; the same adorably scatty, all-over-the-place Freddie, but with an absolute heart of gold. Tim Nice-But-Dim, her brothers call him, and although it’s a bit mean, she knows it’s a nickname that they’ve bestowed affectionately.

  I’m so glad I came home when I did, she thinks, pulling her jumper tightly around her, as the night grows cooler. It feels right, on every level. The only blight on an otherwise sunny horizon is the worry over Meg.

  ‘Just want to say, well done on winning the championship race,’ Freddie’s voice comes back to her, via the park’s deafening, whistling PA system, as he hands over a trophy that is almost the same size as himself to the winner. ‘And now, here’s a fine bit of tin for your sideboard, so you can show off to all your friends. Right you be, well, enjoy the rest of the evening and see you later!’ he says cheerily, before bounding off the winner’s stand and making his way back to where Harriet sits waiting.

  Harriet’s mind drifts a bit, as she thinks some more about the generous offer Freddie has just made to her. Why not do as he suggested? Why not meet with this solicitor’s firm and see what can be done to help Meg?

  Harriet’s whole career has been devoted to helping others. But sure what use is that, she thinks, if I can’t help my very best friend?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Meg

  6.30 p.m.

  I hear the door close as Harriet finally leaves. Not allowing myself to worry about where she’s going or who she’s seeing, I slump back against the pillows, as my head starts to pound.

  Look at me, I think. In bed. In the daytime. As the sunlight streams in on top of me, my temper flares. I’ve never been unemployed in the whole course of my life. Not once, not ever. As a teenager, I’d slogged and sweated in that stinking burger joint, and went straight from there to working at Sloan Curtis. Then of course, out of a clear blue sky, my golden chance presented itself. The opportunity to work for myself for a change, because, after all, I found I was a far fairer and more amenable boss than anyone I’d worked for up till then. Lovely, beautiful money, undreamt-of sums, had begun to roll in, and from that day to this, I was doing something I enjoyed, something I was good at. And I’ve never looked back. Haven’t the time.

  What I do is for the good of all concerned, I remind myself every single day. Like a mantra, like a form of meditation. I’m actually performing a sort of public service. In the long run, what I do is always, always for the best.

  So is it fair that with the merest click of Ellen de Courcey’s fingers, I lose some of my juiciest and most high-profile clients? And she thinks she can threaten me out of this flat, where I’ve lived in peace for a full year now? Because if that’s the way it is, then I’m not bloody well having it. Not for one second will I allow myself to be airbrushed out of existence so abruptly.

  Well, certainly not without a fight.

  This is just a hiccup, I tell myself, sitting bolt upright up in bed and feeling some of my energy beginning to fizz back. It’s temporary and it, too, will pass.

  OK, so now, Ellen is effectively blackballing me among some of her well-heeled friends and contacts. But surely there are other clients out there who’ll approach me independently of Ellen de Courcey?

  Her party is this Friday, so I’ve got a shot. If I can just sort out the Harriet situation, then I’ll be back on track by Monday. Of course, it’s an impossibly tight deadline to deal with, but deal with it I will. I’ve done the impossible before, and I will again. Watch me.

  I retrieve my phones from the bedside drawer I’d shoved them in when I first got home, and my mood brightens further. The Katherine Sisk case seems to be ongoing – thankfully. Not only has the Good Lady Senator not called to cancel, quite the contrary. In fact, judging from the flurry of texts and voice messages I’ve had from her in the last hour, she actually seems pleased with the way I’m slowly steering her case towards a satisfactory resolution for all concerned.

  I finally get to speak to Katherine and grab the bull by the horns.

  ‘So . . . you and me are OK?’ I ask tentatively, wondering if Ellen de Courcey has done a number on me behind my back, and if so, exactly how much damage she has done?

  Katherine is both direct and to the point, speaking good and low, so there’s no danger of her being overheard.

  ‘If you’re referring to our . . . mutual acquaintance – then you don’t need to be concerned,’ she says, which is music to my ears.

  I have a pre-prepared little sound bite all ready to go.

  ‘This particular person,’ I say, ‘appears to have put word out concerning an unforeseen twist in her case, which, of course, I’m working around the clock to rectify . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ says Katherine. ‘She certainly did. The lady in question is one of our biggest political fundraisers, you know, and while ordinarily I would pay attention to her, in this case, I’m very happy with your progress, Meg. I’m happy for our arrangement to proceed as planned.’

  Bingo. Katherine has to rush off the phone then, but here at least, I know I’m safe and my gig is secure. But still, I need more work, more clients, more, more, more.

  The rug may have been pulled from under me temporarily, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the street smarts to haul myself back on top again. Onwards. Like a shark, I just need to keep moving onwards.

  With a spring in my step and feeling far more invigorated, I jump out of bed, stride through the living room and make straight for my desk, firing up my computer and avidly scrolling down through a clatter of emails I barely had time to glance at earlier.

  It’s in here somewhere, I think, furiously reading and scrolling and clicking. The solution to everything. Just a few fresh clients who can get me back on track again. Back on track and back on top.

  It doesn’t even take me that long, really. Scrolling down through the dozens of emails that I’ve been ignoring for so long is hearteningly reassuring. There’s still a strong demand out there for my services. Maybe not clients who’d be able to pay the kind of fees I’ve been used to, but still. Work is work and money is money.

  Some of the cases here I instantly dismiss as being too low- budget for me, viz: ‘Help! My boyfriend is back with his ex, can you make her go away? I’m still in college, but I’m working in a supermarket part-time, and I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay you very much . . .’

  Next, I think coldly, still scrolling down.

  Other cases I dismiss as being too uninteresting, because being brutally honest about it, I still have my own professional standards to think of, thanks very much.

  ‘Dear Meg, I’m seventy-nine years of age and I’m writing to you about my young next-door neighbour-from-hell, who’s in the habit of having late-night parties several nights a week and whose drunken friends are cons
tantly throwing empty beer cans and cigarette butts into my front garden. It’s too disgusting for words, especially seeing as my roses have won two rosettes and one trophy in the annual parish flower show. Can you please make this neighbour go away? Now, as I’m an old-age pensioner, I couldn’t afford to pay very much, but maybe you do reductions for the over seventy-fives? I would of course include you in my daily prayers and novenas.’

  Next, I think, getting up and taking a cool bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, snapping it open and gulping it back.

  Something jammy is what I need here. Challenging. Lucrative. And, above all, with a client who has the power to recommend my services to their other affluent friends and colleagues. Word of mouth is my best friend. And good word of mouth is like oxygen to me.

  I sit back down, scroll through some more emails – and then finally my eye falls on something that piques my interest. I go back and forth over the email to be certain, before making up my mind. Then I pick up the phone and dial the contact number that’s been given.

  ‘Hi there,’ I say crisply, ‘am I speaking with Raymond Sandros? Good evening to you. My name is Meg Monroe and I’m calling in connection with an email you sent me—’

  I break off there, to double-check the date on the screen in front of me. ‘Some two months ago,’ I add. ‘Forgive my tardiness in getting back to you, but, as you can appreciate, there’s high demand for my services.’

  ‘Right, I see, OK,’ says this Raymond Sandros, speaking good and low, as if he’s anxious not to be overheard. ‘Well, thank you for responding, Meg. You were recommended to me by a close friend of my mother’s, and yes, I’m at my wits’ end here. So if you wanted me to talk you through the problem—’

  ‘Not over the phone,’ I reply briskly, knowing I’d get far more information in person. ‘Let’s meet up and you can tell me everything then. How’s first thing tomorrow for you? Maybe breakfast at 8 a.m.? That good for you?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Raymond says, sounding deeply grateful, like someone is finally listening to him. ‘Name the place and I’ll be there.’

  A huge surge of relief washes over me. Meg Monroe is back and calling the shots.

  ‘And one more thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ I ask politely.

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad you got back to me. Hearing from you is probably the best thing that’s happened to me all day.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ I smile, genuinely touched. ‘And don’t worry, from here on in, I can promise you, everything is going to be so much easier.’

  You see, I think, closing my laptop, sitting back against the desk chair and feeling pretty pleased with myself, actually. It’ll take a lot more than Ellen de Courcey to put me out of business.

  I take another sip of water, then think, to hell with this. So I go back to the fridge, take out a snipe of champagne that’s been sitting there for months, open it and treat myself to a glass.

  Why the feck not? Because I’m celebrating. Tonight, I’m celebrating me.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harriet

  It has been such a magical evening, Harriet thinks, as the night’s racing finally comes to a close and she and Freddie stroll out of the park grounds together, completely caught up in the swell of the crowds.

  ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a little nightcap?’ Freddie asks her, with a big, boyish grin. ‘I mean, the night is still but a pup. Why not, eh?’

  ‘I’d love that,’ she says. ‘Because, as it happens, I’d really love to talk to you about your kind offer to help Meg. Do you think there’s someone at your family solicitors who I could have a chat with tomorrow? Someone who might be able to advise me on how best to help Meg? It goes without saying, I’m not looking for any special favours here,’ she adds hastily. ‘All I’m trying to do is buy poor old Meg a bit of time. She’s my friend and she’s in trouble and she needs help.’

  ‘Of course, dearest one, that’s not a problem at all,’ he says affably.

  Dear God, Harriet thinks fondly. Jack and Terry would make mincemeat of him for coming out with a public schoolboy phrase like ‘dearest one’. Was that really what they taught you at those schools that charged about twenty grand a term?

  With that, Freddie whips out his phone and scrolls down through his contacts. ‘I’m delighted to be able to help. Our solicitors will definitely be able to do something, I’ll warrant. Jolly nice people too. They’ve got me out of more than a few scrapes in my time, I can tell you.’

  He shares the contact with Harriet and she saves the number, resolving to chase it up first thing in the morning.

  ‘Thank you so much, I really appreciate this—’ she tries to say, but then Freddie slips his arm around her waist and pulls her in a little tighter to him.

  ‘Just in case I forget to tell you, Harriet,’ he says, leaning in just a little bit closer to her, ‘I’ve had a wonderful time with you this evening. I so enjoy spending time with you.’

  ‘Oh . . . that’s so lovely . . .’ she says, taken off guard a bit. But still. Pleased to hear it. More than pleased.

  ‘You always make me feel so good about myself,’ he goes on. ‘And you never talk down to me. Golly, you’d be amazed at the number of people who do. Absolutely amazed.’

  ‘Is that right?’ she says and this time, there is no mistaking it. Freddie is definitely moving in closer to her.

  ‘I’ve thought of you so much in the last year, you know. I often wondered how you were getting on out in Africa, working with . . . water and . . . latrines . . . and so forth.’

  Harriet wants to say, so did I. She wants to say I thought about you when I was out there too. She could have done without the latrine reference, but other than that, she and Freddie are very much on the same page.

  But then he kisses her lightly, and everything else that has been on the tip of her tongue goes clean out of her head.

  THURSDAY

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Meg

  He’s punctual to the dot, I note with a tiny smile. Good. That augurs well, I invariably find. Not only that, but he’s already seated at a tiny table for two, to the back of the café, where there’s some degree of privacy. I grab a coffee and head straight over to join him.

  ‘Raymond, I presume?’ I say brightly, recognising him instantly from his LinkedIn profile, although he looks younger in real life. Normally, it’s the other way around.

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed, nice to meet you,’ he says, sounding jittery, as he gets up to shake my hand, but ends up clumsily spilling a jug of milk over the table. ‘Oh my God, oh I’m so sorry, forgive me . . .’

  ‘Not a problem,’ I smile, efficiently pulling a packet of Kleenex out of my handbag and starting to mop up a bit.

  Meanwhile Raymond continues to faff and apologise, giving me the chance to really scrutinise him from top to bottom. Do my thing, in other words.

  Age: Raymond is pushing forty, about thirty-eight, thirty-nine, I guess. He’s got the unlined, fresh face of a teetotaller but has clearly been under a lot of strain recently. The giveaway being two bloodshot eyes and tiny cuts on his chin, where he’s obviously nicked himself shaving. Only distracted men or those under intense pressure ever do this, I’ve always found. Any guy in control of himself can generally take care of a Gillette blade.

  Appearance: fusty. A young fogey. The suit he’s wearing is cheap, M&S at a guess, and immaculately well pressed and washed, but it’s showing its age, judging by the sheen at the knees.

  You’re a civil servant, I think. Low-paid, but with high ambitions. The notes on the table look like college notes. The only possible conclusion? Raymond is studying at night, doubtless in the hope this will lead to promotion, down the line.

  His email had interested me, but now that I can get a good look at him, this case is beginning to intrigue me more and more.

  ‘Well, can I first begin by saying congratulations on your recent engagement,’ I say, pulling out a chair and sitting
down opposite.

  ‘Indeed, thank you, yes, thank you very much,’ Raymond says, speaking quickly and gabbling his words.

  You’re such a bag of nerves, I think, almost feeling the stirrings of pity for him. So why is your fiancée straying? Or was it her undoubted infidelity that turned Raymond into this jittery, edgy shell of a man?

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, if I may,’ I begin, taking out my phone to make notes. There’s two missed calls flashing up on my screen, both from Katherine Sisk – calling from her private mobile. Well, the Good Lady Senator will just have to wait in line, I think, quickly turning my full focus straight back to Raymond. ‘You’re engaged and now you have some concerns of a personal nature about your fiancée,’ I say, matter-of-factly. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Norma, that’s her name,’ says Raymond, checking over his shoulder, lest he be overhead, even though there’s no one sitting even close.

  ‘Tell me all about Norma,’ I say encouragingly. ‘Give me everything you’ve got. The more information I have, the faster I can get to work for you, you understand.’

  With that, Raymond passes over his phone, where his screensaver is a shot of his fiancée. I take a glance and immediately see what the problem is here. Because Norma is drop-dead gorgeous, smiley and fresh-faced, a bit like Taylor Swift, with croppy blonde hair, wearing a polka dot dress and a slash of scarlet lipstick that makes her look to be one of those cool women who only ever shop in vintage clothes stores. She’s a good bit younger than Raymond too; thirty, tops.

  ‘So that’s Norma,’ I nod, taking it all in closely. ‘She’s very attractive.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, yes, thank you,’ Raymond fusses, as if he’s somehow responsible for her good looks.

  Meanwhile, I take a tiny sip of coffee as my mind begins to whirr away.

  Norma, whoever she is, clearly settled for someone like Raymond, doubtless because he’s Mr Boring but Reliable, with a good, steady, pensionable job, who’ll be kind to her and who’ll be there for her in her dotage. The usual ridiculous reasons why people rush into engagements in the first place.