by Jane Bidder
‘He’ll only be around in the holidays,’ her friend Lyndsey had pointed out. ‘Couldn’t you cope with that?’
But no, she couldn’t. The very thought of Mum with a near-stranger in her bed made her feel sick. Besides, Lyndsey was just upset because she was going to do her degree in London too, near St Martin’s where Georgie had a place. She couldn’t bear to be parted from Georgie. Not after being at primary and then secondary school together.
‘I’ll only be a year behind you by the time I get back,’ Georgie had pointed out.
‘If you get back.’ Lyndsey had given her an I-know-you look. ‘You won’t want to return once you get a taste of freedom. That’s what my mum says.’ She put a hand on Georgie’s arm. ‘I’m just upset because I’ll miss you. I’d love to go, to be honest. But Mum wouldn’t let me.’
Won’t want to return? Lyndsey’s mum had been right. From the minute Georgie stepped off the boat (after a long coach trip from Bangkok), she knew she’d made the right decision. Mum and her stupid bloke were another world away here on this remote Thai island, though funnily enough, Dad was closer than ever. She might never have seen him, but he was always with her.
‘I always wanted an adventure,’ he seemed to whisper inside her head. ‘I’m proud of you, girl.’
That was all very well but inside, Georgie was shaking. Where was she going to go now? She’d told her mum it was ‘easy’ to get a job out there and Mum, not knowing any better, had swallowed it.
But here she was, in a line at a bottled water stand, along with loads of other teenagers her age – all chattering in groups – without any idea of where to go.
‘Where are you going?’ asked a voice behind her.
Georgie swung round – and gawped. The girl behind her was so similar they could almost be twins. Same height, around five foot six. Same blonde hair. Almost the same pert noses except that hers had a slight kink in it from a childhood fall on her bike. They were even wearing the same shade of turquoise top, although she’d run hers up on her mother’s old machine and the girl’s looked much better.
‘I saw you on the bus,’ said the girl. Her voice was higher than hers, noticed Georgie. Better spoken too. ‘On your own, are you?’
She nodded, trying to find her voice. Dad had been from London. Maybe that’s why she had always made a conscious decision not to speak like her mother. Anything to bring her closer to him …
‘Where are you going then?’
Georgie took a deep breath. ‘Not sure yet. Thought I’d get my bearings first.’
‘Good idea.’ The girl got out her purse. ‘I’m meeting up with friends on the beach. It’s a sort of commune. We do various jobs and share our earnings.’
Sounded like another world. One she was excluded from.
‘Next,’ barked the small, short-sleeved shirt man at the counter.
Georgie handed over some money and received a cool bottle. She stepped aside to take a drink, which was wonderful.
Her friend, meanwhile, had bought her own bottle and had come back to join Georgie. ‘You can come with me if you like.’
The invitation took Georgie by surprise.
‘Really?’
‘Sure.’ The girl’s eyes flickered up and down. ‘We could do with another pair of hands after Louisa …’
Her voice tailed away.
What happened to Louisa, Georgie wanted to ask, but something held her back.
‘My name’s Georgina,’ said the girl, putting out her hand.
‘Really? Mine too, but they call me Georgie.’
She could have added that a fancy name like Georgina (her great-grandmother’s name) had made one boy tease her at primary school which was why she’d promptly abbreviated it at the age of eleven. But something held her back.
‘Wow. What a coincidence.’ The new Georgina’s eyes sparkled. ‘What’s your surname then?’
‘Smith’.
‘Georgina Smith.’ Her new friend repeated both names as though she’d said something miraculous.
Then she gave a sort of half-laugh. The kind which posh people gave.
‘There’s no need to be rude,’ Georgie heard herself saying.
‘I’m not.’ The girl reached out and touched her arm as though they were already good friends. ‘I’m just a bit taken aback. My name’s Smith too, you see. Well, Peverington-Smith, actually.’
She stepped back as though appraising her. Suddenly, Georgie felt very scruffy after travelling, in comparison with this vision before her. They might look rather similar from a physical point of view but this girl’s confidence and way of carrying herself – such poise! – instantly set her apart. It was the kind of self-belief which money and class gave you, thought Georgie rather enviously.
‘What brings you out here?’
None of your business, she almost said. But partly because of the heat, which made it hard to think straight, and partly because her new friend’s face was so open and kind, she found herself being utterly honest. ‘Mum’s marrying someone else. I just wanted to get away.’
Georgina Peverington-Smith (what a mouthful!) nodded sympathetically. ‘Do you like him?’
‘No.’
‘My parents are both dead.’ She announced this in a matter-of-fact way as if this wasn’t unusual.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘My dad’s dead too. I don’t even remember him.’
But both remarks were lost in a high wolf-whistle that was coming from – goodness! – Georgina’s long, elegant fingers at her lips. ‘Joly! Over here.’
‘Come on,’ she said, grabbing Georgie’s arm. ‘The boys are here. With any luck, there’ll be just enough room in the van.’
The mobile hummed in Georgie’s pocket, catapulting her forwards twenty-two years to her beautiful Smallbone kitchen.
‘Hello,’ she said, in an accent the old Georgie would never have recognised.
‘Georgie?’ For a minute, she thought it was the original Georgina speaking with those assured vowels. ‘It’s Mrs Riches-Romer here.’ The tone was cool. Aloof. ‘Have you forgotten our appointment?’
But it wasn’t until next week!
‘I’ve got 11 a.m. on my iPad.’ The voice spoke as though there was no other possibility.
‘I’ve got 11 a.m. for next week,’ said Georgie hesitantly.
‘Well, one of us is wrong. It’s not me, I assure you.’ There was an irritated cluck at the other end. ‘If you’re here within the next twenty minutes, I’ll make time to see you. Otherwise I think we’d better call the whole thing off, don’t you?’
It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.
Looking wildly round the kitchen for the plans she’d started, Georgie grabbed the car keys. ‘I’ll be there.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone. Either they’d got cut off or the Hon. Mrs R-R didn’t believe in goodbyes.
The phone rang again. She’d spoken too soon. ‘I’m just on my way.’
‘Mum? It’s me. Nick.’
Nick. Georgie paused mid-flight. Nick rarely rang unless something was wrong. His loan had run out. He needed picking up from the station. Or – as on the last occasion – he needed his cricket stuff posted to him by the next day. All the way up to Durham, where he was staying on for the summer holidays to be with friends and then travel round Europe for a month, before going back to uni. It hurt that he wasn’t home right now although Sam, with his years of boarding school experience, said it was ‘natural’.
She could see their boy now. Small and slight in frame, with that blond floppy fringe that he refused to cut. A deliberate way of talking, just like his father. A geek but not in an unattractive way. Someone in the family who specialised in IT would be very useful, as Sam was always pointing out.
‘Darling, may I ring you back?’
‘This is important. Are you near your computer?
Georgie began to feel uneasy. ‘Why?’
‘I got a random email earlier with a YouTube link in it.
I’m sending it to you now. There’s something you ought to see.’
SEVEN
It’s incredible how easy it is to extract bank details if you know what you’re doing. Frankly, I’m amazed anyone’s daft enough to do online banking. It’s like putting all your money outside the door of your flat and asking people to help themselves.
People who know what to do with it, that is.
I was a bit of a loner at school. Don’t mind admitting it. Computers were my saviour. Not that we had one of our own. But there was a teacher at school who let me into the computer room at break time.
‘I didn’t have many friends myself at your age,’ he told me.
Who needs friends when you’ve got something to do all day? There are times when I get so carried away that I don’t know where the time goes.
And to think I get paid for it as well.
There’s only one thing that makes me feel uncomfortable. I don’t know who my paymaster is. I suspect I’m not the only one working on this particular project. When they emailed me my brief, they mentioned some kid who’d pretended to help some woman who’d dropped her stuff and then stolen her key. An amateur, apparently. Someone new to the job.
There are others involved too. Including some bloke who used to work in a betting shop.
That made me feel a bit uneasy. I don’t want to be mixed up with those kind of criminals. We’re a cut above that. Intelligent crime. That’s us. Or rather, me.
Amazing how fast it’s evolving. The buzz word on everyone’s lips is ‘mental manipulation’. We make the victim imagine that the crime is their fault. Take the car, for instance. Someone lower down than me nicks the car key and then calls us. We drive it somewhere safe, copy the credit card, and then – thanks to Sat Nav – drive the car back home.
The important bit (and this is crucial), we don’t do what other gangs do and clean the house out. The boss is really clear on that. Even if there’s a window open, we just park the car nearby and beat it. This is the dangerous bit but so far, no one’s been caught.
‘You’ve got to make it look like no crime’s been committed.’ That’s the golden rule. Engraved right on my wallet, it is.
With any luck, the victim’s family accuse her of imagining she’s driven the car back herself and ‘forgotten’. (I say ‘she’ because this approach works best with women. More emotional, in my view.) Then because the card is still in the bag, the victim is lulled into a sense of false security. This buys us time to use the duplicate before the number’s stopped.
Clever, eh?
Then of course you can embellish it. Put stuff on the internet. Play a few games. It makes it more fun …
You’ll see.
EIGHT
YouTube? Georgie wasn’t particularly technical but panic made her determined to sort this one out. Especially as Nick had rung off with a hurried ‘Must go or I’ll be late for lectures’. Otherwise, she’d have got him to talk her through it.
Google. YouTube. Now what? ‘Check out your name,’ Nick had said.
Georgina Hamilton.
When she’d got married, it had been such a relief to have a new name. A clean slate. A fresh future. But then, however much she tried to stop them, the doubts kept creeping in. Now, as she turned on the laptop which she kept in the kitchen for easy access, she felt wary.
Oh my God.
Mouth dry, she took in the pout. The pert bottom pushed out behind as if she was in a yoga pose. A face that was hers but which didn’t match the said bottom – or the breasts which were voluptuously straining to escape from the kind of low-cut top which she wouldn’t be seen dead in.
Someone had taken her face and matched it with other body parts.
Stunned, Georgie read the text which had emerged and was now swimming down the page.
DO NOT TRUST THIS WOMAN. SHE CLAIMS TO BE AN INTERIOR DECORATOR BUT SHE’S AN IMPOSTER.
Below was a logo.
The same font as hers on her headed paper. The same colours: blue and sage green.
But instead of saying Home with Style, it was Sex with Style.
Thoughts raced round her head just like before. It couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t be. Was it linked to the car; to her bag; to her credit cards? To her stolen mobile?
There had to be someone she could ring. Someone who could make this kind of filth disappear. Oh my God. Nick. He had seen this. What would he think? Was this why he had got off the phone so fast?
And if he had seen it, who else had?
Sam. She needed to tell Sam. But then again, was that the right thing to do in his present frame of mind? He might blame Ellie again. Insist that somehow this was her ‘fault’ too, along with the stolen credit card.
Maybe the computer man might be a better option. But that would mean showing him the image which was – let’s face it – pretty distasteful. Just looking at what her ‘screen twin’ was doing with that duster …
Georgie felt sick. She had to stop this, whatever it took.
His number was actually in the family address book under Comp Help with an exclamation mark. Now the latter seemed stupid. This was serious stuff. ‘It’s Georgie Hamilton speaking. Something rather odd has happened to me and I just wondered if you could talk me through how to delete something on YouTube.’
Miraculously – given that he was usually booked up – he came round within the hour.
Briefly, she explained before turning away. She couldn’t bear to take a second look at this woman, pretending to be her. ‘Is it still there?’
‘Yup.’
To her relief, he didn’t seem as shocked as she’d expected although when she forced herself to turn back – still avoiding eye contact with the screen – she could see he was stroking his beard more than usual.
‘Stolen identity is the modern equivalent of mugging,’ he said, using more words in a sentence than she’d ever heard him use before. Usually the computer man treated the English language with scepticism. Georgie was sure that the reason people like him loved their work so much, was because it was an escape from the real world.
‘Don’t worry,’ he continued, pressing keys that Georgie hadn’t even considered before on the keyboard. ‘I’ve seen worse.’
‘How much worse?’ Georgie wanted to say but then stopped herself. Of course he couldn’t say. It would be confidential. If he did, it meant he might talk about her.
‘I’ve got a customer who discovered someone had made a film of her doing it with a cow. You might know her. She lives in …’
‘I don’t want to know,’ said Georgie quickly, cutting in. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this to anyone else.’
He frowned. ‘’Course I won’t.’
The frown remained. Either she’d really annoyed him or something wasn’t right.
‘You can get it off, can’t you?’ she asked.
‘In theory, no. Not without reporting it to YouTube and that can take them time to contact the person responsible – even if they can trace them. Some are very good at hiding their tracks and just disappear.’ More beard stroking. ‘I’ve tried getting in touch but unfortunately, it won’t let me do it at this moment.’
Why did everyone talk about computers as though they were real, living entities?
Georgie’s mouth grew even drier. ‘My bag was taken recently. I didn’t think anything had been stolen but then someone started using my credit card.’
Georgie glanced at her watch. She should be at the Hon. Mrs David Riches-Romer’s now. Correction. She should have been there nearly an hour ago. ‘Do you know how much longer this will take?’
There was a shake of the head. ‘Nope.’
‘Then do you mind if I leave you to it, then? Only I’m meant to be somewhere else.’
‘Cool.’
No, thought Georgie. It wasn’t cool at all. It was a nightmare. ‘Ring if you need me.’
There was no answer. The computer man was too busy clicking odd-looking icons and bringing up sq
uares of figures she’d never seen before. If you don’t go now, Georgie told herself, you’ll lose a client.
‘This really isn’t good enough.’
Once more, the Hon. Mrs David Riches-Romer was standing on the doorstep, her arms folded as if she’d been waiting there since her phone call.
‘And I thought I told you not to park outside.’
She glared at Georgie’s Volvo, defiantly adjacent to the row of privet bushes, framing the pillar balustrade overlooking the lawn.
‘I didn’t want to park in the lane because my car was stolen last time.’
‘Really?’ Mrs R–R looked mildly interested. ‘How did you get back, then?’
‘I took a taxi.’
Georgie waited for her to say that she should have sought her help back at the house. But she didn’t.
‘Did the police find it, then?’
‘No.’ Georgie began to feel rather silly. ‘It was at home. My home.’
Her new client’s eyes narrowed. ‘How very strange.’
She doesn’t believe me, Georgie told herself as she followed her in. She doesn’t think I’m telling the truth.
‘Right.’ There was a cluck as if there had been enough chit-chat. ‘Take a seat. Let’s look at your plans.’
Usually, Georgie went to a great deal of trouble, drawing the outline of the room and putting pretty swatches and watercolour stripes to indicate different colour-ways. But with the time taken up over reporting the stolen account details, she’d had to rush her presentation.
Fail to prepare and prepare to fail. That’s what Sam always said. Maybe that’s why failure wasn’t in his book.
‘Is this it?’ The Hon. Mrs R-R’s eyebrows rose. For some reason, Georgie wondered if she had them threaded or waxed. The other month, she’d taken Ellie to Fenwick’s in London for the former.
Concentrate, concentrate …
‘… looks more like a kindergarten drawing.’
Georgie’s hands tightened on the piece of paper. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘To be honest, I’ve had some personal problems.’