“I’ve got everything I need, darling,” she lied.
Anna did not reply. She knew her mother well enough to hear the artificial tone. Anyone else would have missed it. She also knew what her mother wanted for her birthday, she just wanted to hear it for herself.
Helena sat on the steel chairs of the balcony sipping a neat whisky. The ice rattled each time the tumbler was picked up and she inhaled its alcoholic potency in a continued bid to calm herself, although she knew it would take more than a fiery shot of liquid to nullify her actions.
Sophie sat opposite her. She was angry at her friend. More than angry, and she wasn’t giving her an easy time.
“Tell me again, Helena. I want every detail before I give you a fucking penny.”
She leaned back with her arms folded and legs crossed. The sun shone directly at her and she squinted, shifting her chair to an angle where she would not be blinded nor induce premature ageing.
“It started with Nathan. He kept putting pressure on me, telling me I could buy him time . . . but we could barely afford to eat let alone buy him anything –”
“The lazy bastard,” Sophie butted in.
Helena knocked back the remaining contents of the glass.
“I kept thinking of a way – any way – to make money and then one day a customer, an old lady signed her withdrawal slip in the wrong place so I got her to sign another,” she said, barely able to look Sophie in the eye. “And then it came to me . . . that if I could get some of the others to think they too had made a mistake, asking them to sign another withdrawal slip, it would allow me to withdraw cash from their accounts too . . . only with a clear audit trail. My tracks were covered. They had all signed the slips so it was their word against mine.” Helena wiped a tear from her face as it rolled down. Her fingers trembled as another rolled down her other cheek. “It was only supposed to happen once or twice, I swear, and the plan was to pay it back before anyone noticed. . .” Helena took in Sophie’s look of disgust. “I’m not a criminal, you know I’m not, Sophie . . . it was a desperate move to get us out of a ho–”
“The problem was that you couldn’t stop it, could you? You loved having the cash to throw around – the new clothes, the champers, the social life . . . etcetera, etcetera.”
Helena nodded. “But I only borrowed from the people who had shedloads of money, not the poorer ones . . . I didn’t think they’d miss it.”
Sophie jumped from her seat. She had heard enough.
“Oh, well, that makes it alright, doesn’t it!” she snapped angrily. “Karl is at the bank now, Helena, cashing a cheque for you and do you know what you’re going to do with it?”
“Yes,” she whispered shamefully. “Pay it all back into their accounts.”
“Indeed. You are going to find a way to pay every penny back before you get caught and end up behind bars which is exactly where you belong.”
Sophie stormed from the balcony into the living room. She screwed the cap back on the whisky and slammed the bottle into the cupboard against the other spirits. Grabbing her phone, she typed a message with nimble fingers and impressive speed: ‘Get 5k. Don’t know full damage but not good. X’
As Sophie picked up her bag she shouted to Helena.
“Don’t come home until you can prove to me that you’ve paid back every last dime. And then we’ll sort out how you are going to pay me back.”
Sophie left, slamming the door behind her. This had to be the longest day of her life.
“I thought my life was fucked up!” she snarled, racing down the communal steps of the luxury apartment block. Everything she had achieved in life had been done with integrity and hard-earned cash. It wouldn’t do to cheat or take something belonging to someone else and Sophie’s candid approach had worked wonderfully. No-one else could ever take the credit for her achievements bar her. She was one of life’s survivors, a woman of action and she could sleep at night while those around her lay awake, crippled by contrition.
As she fled to her car, Sophie cast her mind back to that night in Jude’s garden where she had coaxed the women to join the Curry Club, to forge their friendships by a unique approach which hadn’t been done before. As she opened the low-hung door of the TT and sank into its leather seat, slamming the door to a close, she whispered: “Be careful what you wish for next time.”
Sophie hadn’t bargained for the darker side of people’s lives. She thought it would be fun, interesting, with a measure of sex thrown in here and there. She hadn’t bargained for confessions of a criminal nature, nor an adulterous nature – although that one had been put to bed – nor had she reckoned that she herself would cheat in order to help out a friend blinkered by coercion from a mother and a husband who should have been pursuing her dreams with her.
Sophie thought about the secret she too had lived with for so long. A secret which she had the willpower not to share with the club, but a secret which had come out regardless. Strangely enough, she woke each morning feeling light and happy. The noose which had hung loosely around her neck had freed itself, falling down, and unknowingly she had stepped out of it leaving it like debris to be swept up amongst the garbage.
Roni splashed about in the pool, alone but for her thoughts. Just a week ago she was making love in the lustful waters to a man who was not her husband. She, the woman who thought that just thinking about adultery made someone guilty, and yet she had gone against her own standards casting them aside for a young man who came into her life and left it in a flash. But Darren Ford had left her with a legacy. He had given her the oomph in life to get up and go, to start living before it was too late and while Roni was still struggling with the guilt of what she had done to Peter, she knew that she would be a better person because of it. She had been saved in many more ways than she thought possible and Peter had already noticed her new approach to life, her change of image, improved energy levels and calmer disposition. His wife had been reborn.
Roni ripped at the piece of paper she had carried in her purse since the last Curry Club event. She was relieved when she found out it was a couples’ night – ‘The Comedy Club’ – which meant she wouldn’t have to put in her own question that had a one-in-nine chance of being pulled out.
‘Can having an affair save your marriage?’
Helena pulled out the list of account numbers which she kept in the zip compartment of her handbag. Next to them were the amounts and dates of all the withdrawals she had made – taken illegally. In her other hand she clutched five thousand pounds worth of fifty-pound notes which Karl had slipped her as he waited on Sloane Street for her to return to work. The money would soon be gone, rehoused where it belonged and her mind would be an easier one to live with from that point onwards.
But there was something else she had to do first.
Helena knocked on the door, willing her knees to stop trembling.
“Come in.”
She pushed open the door to be greeted with a welcoming smile.
Inside, Maggie bounced around on the unstable chair as she moved papers from one place to the next in an attempt to clear the over-kill of paperwork which seemed to be going nowhere.
“Just the girl, Helena. Sit down, won’t you?”
Maggie pulled out a blue folder from the bottom drawer of her desk. The drawer creaked as she tried to slam it shut.
“Bloody drawer’s stuck. Does nothing work in this place?”
Helena managed a smile. She had to be brave, pretend that nothing was wrong as she broke the news to the woman who had been one of her closest allies throughout her journey with Northern Direct. This place had been the making and then the failing of her.
“I found out what happened to Mr Peters’ account,” Helena looked Maggie in the eye. It was killing her but she had to be conniving if she didn’t want to end up behind bars. “My float was carrying an extra £500 that I’d clean forgotten about. I reported it to the Audit Team the other week but the discrepancy wasn’t picked up . . . but it’s all sorted no
w and the money has been recredited to Mr Peter’s account along with a manual application of interest and a twenty-five pounds ex-gratia payment by way of an apology.” Helena handed Maggie the complaints form. “It’s all documented in here.”
Maggie smiled as she took the paperwork from her to counter-sign.
She scribbled her name next to Helena’s without bothering to read it, handing it straight back to her. She trusted her.
“Good girl. I’ll leave you to post that to Head Office if you would?” Maggie suggested, pulling a batch of CV’s from the blue folder and plonking them on the desk in front of Helena.
“These are the new graduates, Helena. I need you to go through their CV’s and interview test results before putting together a formalised plan of ac –”
Helena interrupted. “Wait . . . there’s something I need to tell you first.”
Clive wrote the last of the invitations to Jude’s party, blowing the gold ink dry before slipping the thick cream card into its envelope.
His secretary had offered to both write and deliver them for him but Jude was worth far more than to cast off the importance of her birthday and Clive insisted on doing as much as he could by himself. The children were helping too, Anna by distracting her mother with trivial conversations about what she might like for her birthday and Tom by designing the invitations at school as part of his GSCE Graphic Design coursework. He had gone for comedic effect by designing a caricature of Jude with a ball and chain shackled to her feet. On the rear the design was of a different nature and Tom couldn’t wait for his mother to see it. He had printed two A3 size posters, one of the front and one of the rear and was planning on decorating the party room with them. He was sure his mother would see the funny side – once she understood what was happening to her, of course.
The party was very much a family effort and Clive couldn’t wait to see Jude’s face as she entered the room to see her nearest and dearest there to celebrate the past forty years of her life. It was a last-minute affair though. He hadn’t expected that Jude would like a party – she hated being the centre of attention – but what Clive had planned was about more than a party and everyone but Jude knew of it already. The invitations were late, he was hopeless, but the event had been put in people’s diaries the minute the idea came to him, with a little help from Sophie, so they were more of a formality really, a keepsake.
He smiled fondly as he picked up a framed photograph from the dust-free window ledge. It was a photo of their wedding day eighteen years ago and his wife hadn’t changed a bit – she was as stunning now as she was back then and Clive bit his lip as he recalled this young, determined woman intent on setting the world of interior design alight. It had been shortlived.
He pressed the intercom, scoring a line through Invitations on his indecipherable To-Do List.
“Shirley-Ann, would you mind contacting Veronica Smyth and reminding her to check the catering company are still on for tomorrow night, please?”
“It’s already been confirmed, Clive. You asked me to do it yesterday.”
Clive tapped his pen nervously. Beneath the table his foot tapped with agitation.
“I know . . . but would you do it anyway, please, and check that the hired glasses are definitely crystal. Jude doesn’t like drinking from thick-lipped flutes.”
“No problem,” her tinny voice rang out. “Will that be all?”
“Erm . . . did you fetch her dress from the dry-cleaner’s?”
“Yes, it’s hanging on the inside of your door.”
Clive looked up to see the green silk Karen Millen shift dress hiding behind a thin coating of plastic.
“Sorry, Shirley-Ann . . . I’m just a bit stressed. That’s all from me . . . and thanks for everything . . . appreciate it.”
Clive stared down at his watch.
“I’m off out to collect Jude’s present.”
Kath sat on the usual bottom stair as she opened the handwritten envelope. That stair could account for so much in her life. She had made love on it, taught the children to tie their shoelaces on it and cried on it when the going got tough. And tough it had been.
Kath unfolded the sheets of paper as she raced through line after line, keen to get to the end to evidence details of the sender because she didn’t recognise the handwriting. But Kath need not have read past the first couple of lines to see who the letter was from. It was the content which threw her. She fled through the rest of it, wide-eyed and incredulous at the speed at which the news had come. And good news it was. She just hoped James would see the news as good too.
She blinked repeatedly as she folded the letter carefully back into its envelope, leaving it on the hall unit for James to pick up on his return from work. Their world had been a paradox lately. A wayward son who was on the verge of becoming a criminal and all because he couldn’t find a way to deal with who he was. It had taken the burial of his estranged grandmother and the alienation of him from the rest of his family to give him the wake-up call that his life was for living and for accepting. Now they had something else to deal with. When did it ever end, Kath wondered as she sat alone in the sanctuary of her favourite place in the house. It didn’t, she answered her own question . . . it was called life.
“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Mummy, Happy birthday to you!” Tom and Anna yelled raucously at Jude who was delighted at the fuss.
Clive walked into the kitchen holding an enormous topiary of calla lillies with tropical leaves folded artistically among them. It was clear to see the weight was killing him.
“Happy birthday . . . again . . . darling.”
Jude opened her arms wide enough to secure the bouquet, breathing in its familiar scent. Her green eyes welled to a glaze and Clive cleared his throat with manly effect in an attempt to steer off the emotions he was battling with at the sight of his beautiful wife in her silky green dress.
“You look amazing, Jude,” he whispered in quivering tones.
Jude stared down at the bouquet before setting it at the kitchen table which was decorated with a plastic purple tablecloth with the number 40 printed repeatedly in bold red. She shook her arms out with relief, freeing herself from the weight of what appeared to be half a florist’s. However many flowers were there, they weighed a ton.
“My wedding flowers . . . you remembered.”
Clive pushed his fringe back from his face. He was finding it harder than he thought and Anna laughed at her parents’ mushy exchange.
“Pass me a bucket, Tom!” She mimicked being sick, ignoring Tom who lighltly tapped her upper arm.
“Behave. It’s called being romantic.”
“Of course I remembered.” Clive ignored his tittering children who were very much acting kindergarten age as the excitement took over them. “I stare at that picture every day, Jude, pinching myself . . . I’m the luckiest man alive . . .” He turned abruptly, scanning the kitchen for his keys. Anything to distract him from his unusually volatile emotions. “We’d better go now.”
Jude stood in the kitchen, the hub of her family home, surrounded by flowers, birthday banners and an array of pink and purple balloons. She giggled away counting the number of times she could see the number 40.
It was the thought which touched her the most. The effort they had gone to and she had been so busy finishing off the upper floor of Sophie’s new venture that she hadn’t had the time to notice anything suspicious going on.
“You still haven’t said where we’re going to.”
Clive stood back from the kitchen door, bowing as she passed him. He pinched her bottom playfully.
“I saw that!” Anna squealed.
Tom called out as he rushed outside to open the passenger door of the recently valeted Jaguar. “Your chariot awaits, my lady.”
Anna tied the blindfold across Jude’s eyes. She doubled it and then trebled it, anything to make sure her mother had absolutely no idea where she was going and Jude suffered the entire journey in a
cloud of blackness.
“We’re here!” she cried with teenage excitement. “Don’t move a muscle, Mum.”
Jude felt a light breeze and heightened noise as the car door was opened and a hand grabbed hers, squeezing it tightly.
“Watch your head, darling,” Clive told her, placing a protective hand over it.
As Jude bent forward to exit, he caught a glimpse of her pert breast in the Victoria’s Secret lingerie he’d had shipped in from the USA and he felt himself twitching down below. Jude preferred the American stock to the British stock and he was glad he remembered that. His wife was a vision of extraordinary beauty, compelling talent and wearing underwear which he would have preferred to see on the floor.
“Keep hold of my hand, Jude. You’re not allowed to touch anything other than me. Okay? I mean it . . . not a thing.”
Jude felt a little nervous. She had assumed she would be taken to L’Escargo for dinner perhaps with pre-dinner cocktails at the trendy new cocktail bar, Shakers. Obviously not. She was clueless as to where she was headed and the drive had been longer than normal so she doubted she was anywhere local.
Clive dished out silent orders to Tom and Anna, pointing to the door which was opened and ready for her to cross by the time they reached it. He put his finger to his lips, non-verbally sending Anna to tell everyone to remain absolutely silent as they approached. Anna removed her shoes, taking her muted role seriously. She didn’t want her mother to hear the route she was taking.
Tom stepped in close to his mother, taking her other hand. It was crucial she touched nothing and guessed nothing and kidnapping her temporarily was for her own good.
“One . . . two . . . three!”
“Waahh!” Jude shrieked as she was lifted into the air by the two men in her life. “What are you doing?”
Clive and Tom snorted as they hoisted her up the stairs, setting her down when they were safely at the top and through the frameless glass door which Anna had pulled back and was leaning against to keep it open.
Some Like it Hot Page 32