Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “Go on?”

  “Well I can’t hold it in. So I tell him. Jane and I … I’m going to propose. I apologised for sneaking around and I hope he understood and that we could all stay friends. And he just looks at me. Blank. I’ll never … Just stares at me. I’m waiting for a bear-hug or a handshake or a punch in the mouth. Something. Which is when …” and the words tighten in my throat a little. “On his desk. A velvet box.”

  “Andrew was going to –”

  “Yes.”

  “Jane. Are you sure?”

  “He told me. Said he’d bought it a month ago and was going to wait until Christmas Eve. Said he’d never felt that way about anyone before. Wasn’t sure he ever could again. Had had a sick ache in his stomach the day she’d arrived and it had never gone away. Then he sat on the end of the bed.”

  “You told Jane?”

  “No. Never have. But that isn’t … this is why … he went to the bathroom, washed his face. Came back out and asked me what I was going to say. To Jane. How I was going to do it. Like he wanted to hear the proposal.”

  “A little morbid … ?”

  “I don’t know. But he was my friend. We talked about everything else. So I told him. Gave him my little speech.”

  “His reaction?”

  “He got out his red notebook, turned to a fresh page and we spent the most extraordinary hour. Drinking wine, watching the snow, Andrew helping me write a poem. A proposal. He wanted her to accept. He wanted us to be happy. If he couldn’t have her, he wanted to make sure I did. He put all his feelings aside and … and he brought us together. He’s an extraordinary man.”

  The study went quiet for a while, just the slow ticking of the heavy hall clock.

  “Did he come to the wedding?”

  “No. No, we invited him but … working. Family commitments.”

  “Keatings, you said, wasn’t it? His firm? I’m not familiar with them …”

  “Well they’re about to fire him, if … He needs my help. It would be just for an hour. A couple of hours. Just until Andrew can get to a phone. Just to keep his job …”

  “And the deadline?”

  “Noon.”

  Edward peered at the carriage clock on the mantle.

  “I’ll make a call or two. As he’s a friend of Jane’s. I’ll speak to Greg. Check out this story. No promises mind. Go. Wait for me downstairs.”

  Limp and aching, I pushed out of Edward’s study, taking the wide wooden staircase slowly to the ground floor, passing under heavy oils and chandeliers. I tugged out my phone, scrolling down to Laura’s number. Would she be in the ambulance with him still? Could you use mobile phones in hospitals these days?

  I needed to know where they’d taken him. To know he was okay.

  The phone began the bleep of dialling out.

  Began ringing.

  I reached the bottom of the staircase. There was a muffled slam of a car door in the quiet street, a cab sliding past the large hall window.

  The front door-lock clicked, Jane struggling inside with our daughter.

  Our beautiful daughter. My beautiful, beautiful Jane.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She looked at me, pale and horrified.

  “What are you doing here?” she said. “And Jesus, what have you – ?”

  “It’s all right,” I said, dabbing at my throbbing nose. I leant in a little to the ornate, heavy mirror in the hall. There was purple swelling along the bridge and dry coppery crusts about the nostrils. I dabbed some more, uselessly. “This isn’t as painful as it looks and this,” I plucked at my blood-stained shirt with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Isn’t my blood. However,” and I took a deep, solemn breath. “Well … I don’t know how to begin …” and I reached out for her hand.

  Jane didn’t move. Just stared at me in silence.

  “Your dad’s upstairs in his study. I’m making tea. Then you and I need to –”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Calling? Oh,” and I remembered the phone at my ear. It had cut off. No signal. “Well … That’s kind of … I’ve a lot to explain.”

  “Have you now?”

  “Right. Something’s …”

  “Explain,” Jane said again under her breath. Adjusting Lana on her hip, she pushed past me, not looking at me, moving down the hall to the sitting room.

  “Jane?” I said. I followed her. Warily. “Jane? Is everything … ?”

  When I got to the sitting room, Jane had laid Lana out on a floor rug.

  “Jane?”

  After a moment, Jane got up, turning to me blankly, folding her arms.

  “Always busy,” she said calmly.

  “Look I’ll … I’ll make that cup of tea shall I?” I said, backing away, trying a small smile.

  “Then you’ll explain?” Jane said.

  “R-Right,” I said.

  “Had better be a pot, then. Don’t you think?”

  thirty

  Over the next hour, Edward spoke to Keatings about a transfer of funds.

  Downstairs, Jane didn’t say much.

  No, scratch that. Jane didn’t say a word. Not to me anyway. Once in a while she would look away, break the flat, blank eye contact she was holding and glance down at Lana on the rug, wriggling and contented in her bunny baby-gro to let out a soothing “shhh,” or an “ooze a good girl den?”, a small tender smile on her lips. But the smile would vanish abruptly when she looked back up at me.

  And she said nothing.

  Not a word as I sugared our teas and cautiously began a story of mistakes. The parts she knew: burst plumbing and forgotten insurance cheques. The parts she didn’t: elaborate traps, of car-jacking and burly policemen. Silence as we sipped our tea and I spoke slowly, calmly of an opportunity to put things right. A Claridge’s lunch, an Australian waiter and red cotton underpants.

  I think she may have cleared her throat a little at one point, when I pushed a plate of McVities Boasters across the embroidered rug towards her, draining my cup and clarifying the purpose of the bank withdrawal. The purpose of everything I had done.

  Love. Love for her. Love for our daughter. A frightened husband, a frightened father, trying to make good.

  I tried to reach out and take her hand at this point, but she sat back a little, licking her lips pensively and crossing her legs. Settling in for the end of the story. A story of airports. Of tube trains. Of old friends, hotel rooms and the back of a green Bedford van.

  But as I finally collected the cups and stacked saucers, a delicate clatter in the plush quiet of her father’s Chelsea sitting room, and told her Christopher was dead – that dear Andrew was in hospital, Julio and Grayson were gone and Christopher at last was dead – Jane just looked at me.

  I placed the crockery to one side and sat back down on the edge of the plump couch.

  We sat in sick silence like that for a moment.

  “I was trying to put things right,” I said with a tired sigh, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over me. “For us.”

  “And what did Dad say?” Jane asked suddenly, her voice jarring, out of place.

  “Your dad?”

  “When you told this … this story to him?”

  I sighed again, shrugging a little bit loosely, underarms prickling. The room seemed oddly warm all of a sudden.

  “He … Well, he understood. Friendship, I mean. Trust. He wanted to help,” I said.

  Jane arched a single plucked eyebrow.

  “I-I mean, he understood how I felt. That it was my fault. Julio’s phone. The gun. That I wanted to see him right. Andrew, I mean. Friendship. So …” and it was my turn to raise eyebrows.

  “He … he believed you?” Jane said.

  I nodded dumbly. What did that mean? Believed me?

  “But he’s not …” and Jane’s face went a little slack. She half stood quickly. “He’s not … ?”

  “Upstairs,” I said quizzically, eyebrows knotted now. My eyebrows certainly had their work cut out this aftern
oon. Especially as they then leapt ceiling-wards, Jane jumping up with a scream and thudding past me, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Lana began to cry.

  “Jane? Jane, I … ?” I stood up, lost, bewilderment spinning me like a top. “Jane?” I called out after her. “Shhh, Lana Lana,” and I knelt, scooping up my tiny daughter, head swimming in that cottony milk smell. I jigged her on my shoulder a little, shushing and soothing. Over the tears, I could hear voices, footsteps thudding above and a car honking outside on the street. Lana was doing her best to drown these out. “Shhh shhh shhh,” I said, jigging her into the hall where I met Jane thudding back down the stairs, face tearful, jaw set.

  “Jane?”

  The car honked again.

  “Nice try,” Jane said defiantly.

  “Try – ?”

  “Give her to me,” she hissed, reaching for Lana. “Give her to me!”

  Bewildered, lost, I let Jane take our daughter.

  Upstairs, I could hear Edward. Slamming drawers. Thudding about.

  “Jane, what’s –”

  “Don’t speak to me,” Jane hissed, cradling Lana and barging past me hard, catching me with her shoulder, sending me back against the door-frame. Murmuring, mumbling she thudded into the sitting room, bending to her bag.

  “Jane – ?”

  “Nice try. Niiice try,” she muttered, tugging out a handful of envelopes.

  “Jane, I –”

  Spinning around, she held them out at arms’ length for me, all her weight on one hip.

  “Yours, I believe?” she snapped. Her eyes were shining with tears.

  I could only shrug, so she hurled them at me, a half dozen or so, hitting me in the chest, the lip.

  “Hey – !”

  “Take them. They’re yours after all.”

  I bent gingerly to the floor and retrieved one of the envelopes. It was pink and heavy. Addressed to me via the shop in a graceful hand. Torn open across the top and post-dated three weeks ago.

  “What … what is this?” I said, but as I held it up, I got it. Suddenly. Rushing. Filling the pulp of my nose. My head. My mind.

  Chanel.

  “Did you want me to find them?” Jane snarled, holding Lana to her shoulder, cradling her head, covering her from the blast. “Was that the plan? A stupid cowardly boy’s plan?”

  “I … I don’t know what you think …” I stuttered, suddenly cross, anger caught tight in my throat. “What are these?” and I scrabbled out the letter from within. Another woozy waft of Chanel hit me like a cold breaker on Brighton beach. I unfolded it, getting bloody fingerprints on the edges.

  The handwriting was the same. Leaning, graceful, flowery. Dated October 29th. To my dearest Neil.

  “I’ve … I’ve never seen this before,” I said, head thudding, eyes drifting over the lines.

  … and the more I think about your words Neil, the more I feel the same …

  “What … what are these? Where did you get them? Jane?”

  “Which one have you got there?” Jane said firmly. She was pacing. Pacing, soothing Lana, head cradled gently. “Is she telling you that, what was it, just thinking of you gives her a sick ache inside? A … oh yes, a painful teenage ache? Because that’s how it feels when you’re together?”

  “Jane. Jane wait,” I said, trying to stop her, the world tipping up slowly. Slowly. “I don’t know what you think you’ve –”

  “Painful because she imagines you with me and knows she’ll have to wait so long until she can see you again? Pathetic.”

  “I …” my mouth dried up. “I don’t know what these are. Honestly, I swear …” and I bent, picking them one by one from the carpet, room tipping, twisting. The handwriting was the same. The addresses the same. Only the postmarks differed. Four months ago. Six months ago.

  Outside, a car honked again. Twice.

  Edward was thumping down the stairs, muttering.

  “You thought I was asleep I suppose?” Jane said, face like thunder.

  “Where is he? Where is he?” Edward barked. He pushed himself into the front room, red-faced and juddering. His eyes blazed. “I knew it,” he sneered. “I knew it the day I met you. Your kind.”

  “My – ? Edward, wait. Jane, Jane what are you saying. Everyone, please,” I pleaded, head spinning, hands out trying to keep the world level. My kind? Asleep? What was – ?

  “This morning?” Jane spat. “When you sneaked in and got your clothes? Thought I wouldn’t hear you?”

  “My clothes?”

  A car honked once again, engine bubbling.

  “Don’t say another word, Jane,” Edward said. “Not another word. We’ll let the police take it from here,” and he waddled over to an antique occasional table, grabbing up the handset. “Let the police hear the rest of his lies. Let them decide … Oh for heaven’s sake, what’s that racket?” and he puffed red-faced across the room to the window, cars honking on the street.

  “I see you took mostly T-shirts,” Jane said. “Taking you somewhere hot is she?”

  “Wait, just wait –”

  “It’s a taxi,” Edward muttered, peering out through the window. “Someone’s …”

  “Ha, I mean I say taking you,” Jane laughed darkly. “She’ll only be paying until the shop’s sold I’m guessing? Not a bad valuation you got.”

  “Valuation?!” I said. I wanted someone to yell cut. Anyone. To stop the sound effects, the lighting, the extras. Make everything stop. “This is all … All this is insane! These letters? And what valuation? I never had any –”

  “Came this morning,” Jane said, scrabbling in her bag. “After you’d sneaked out of the house with your clothes. Didn’t plan that very well did we? I took the liberty of opening it.”

  “Someone’s … . someone’s getting out of the taxi,” Edward hummed, still at the window twitching the nets, handset in his fat fist. “A girl …”

  “Here we are,” Jane said, sniffing, blinking. She held it out to me. “Valuation of site for sublease agreement. Estimate based on letting period, week ending November thirteenth.”

  I didn’t need to read it. The letterhead was enough.

  A classy, well-spaced letterhead. Rich navy colour on a weighty cream paper.

  “Not a bad price. Nice to have friends in the trade. Shame he couldn’t help you unload your Superman. No. No you had to …” and Jane was at her bag again. “You had to – here – had to get some other experts to help you there, didn’t you. Dad? Dad, have you seen this?”

  Even from across the room, even sellotaped down the middle and crinkled at the edges, I recognised the Sotheby’s letter. The Polaroid stapled to the top.

  “Hn? Whassat?” Edward turned, attention still half on the street.

  “That … I-I can explain that,” I said, palms cold and shaky. “But I swear I don’t know …” Adrenaline flooded my mouth, bitter and coppery, room spinning. “I don’t know what any of this other stuff is, I-I swear to you. Jane, please, I swear to you.”

  “It’s her,” Jane said.

  But then I realised it wasn’t Jane talking.

  It was Edward, turning from the window, turning to me, puffing out his chest, eyes wide.

  “Her – ?”

  “And she’s got suitcases. Oh you foolish, foolish boy,” Edward snarled, stepping away from the window, fat thumbs jabbing the telephone.

  Nine.

  Nine.

  There was a sharp rat-a-tat on the door.

  The room went quiet, just the faint bubble of a waiting cab outside.

  We looked about each other. Jane, red-eyed, thin-lipped, on the edge of tears. Edward, whispy brows knitted, jowls a-judder.

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  “I’ll go,” Jane said, clutching Lana tight and moving towards me, towards the door.

  “Wait,” I said. “Wait, Jane –”

  “Let me,” Edward harrumphed, bustling past. “Let’s see if she remembers me.”

  “How long?”

 
“How long – ?”

  “How long have you been seeing this …” and she gestured, disgusted, to the letters in my hand. “This Laura woman? Long before Dad caught you with her on the train, that I know.”

  “Please, Jane, I’m not seeing –”

  “The letters go back six months. That’s before Lana was born. While I was still pregnant. Was that when it started?”

  “Jesus … Jesus Christ, no!”

  “I can’t believe I said it. We sat in that restaurant. Not ten days ago. And I asked you.”

  “Jane, for Chrissakes, you have to believe me …”

  “Are you having second thoughts about us? Why are you so withdrawn? Not involved with Lana?”

  “I swear –”

  “Don’t be silly, you said. I’m fulfilling my promise. Looking after you, you said.”

  Voices. Voices in the hall.

  “Coming home to the smell of someone else’s perfume? Hidden bank statements? Mysterious phone calls at all hours? Does she think I’m an idiot?” A silent tear spilled over, splashing Jane’s cheek. She rubbed it away hard. “Neil?” a thin voice said from the hall. A horribly familiar voice.

  “Neil, have … have you told her? Are you coming? The cab’s waiting …”

  Jane’s eyes widened, twitching, mouth falling open.

  “Neil?”

  Laura looked very different to how I’d last left her.

  The cap was gone. The boots and vest and combats likewise. She was in trainers and expensive-looking jeans, a bulging, mumsy handbag under her arm. Her hair was tumbling, shiny and set about her shoulders. Shoulders covered, much like the rest of her body in, regretfully for me, one of the baggy, dark blue Superman T-shirts I’d brought Andrew that morning.

  “So. You … you must be Laura?” Jane said, the tiniest wobble in her voice. She cleared her throat, pulling back her shoulders a little and sniffing. “Sorry. I’m normally in bed or in the bath when you and Neil talk.”

  “Neil?” Laura said cautiously in the doorway.

  “What have you done?” I said flatly, swallowing hard.

  “The cab’s waiting,” Laura said, rummaging in her bag. “I have your passport. You left it by the bed …”