by Simon Brooke
“So what is your dad’s name doing there?” she asks. “Did he invest in 2cool?”
“Perhaps, but if he did why hasn’t he told me? And anyway, I don’t even know that the people on that list are all 2cool investors. It might be something else.”
“What else could it be?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t like the idea of my dad being on a list of names put together by the police.”
“Sure, I can understand that. Oh, by the way, did you ask him about the Guy thing?”
“Yeah, he denied it.”
“Mmm. Interesting. Why would he be lying?”
“I don’t know if he is,” I tell her. “Perhaps it wasn’t Guy.”
“Charlie, you were absolutely certain yesterday.”
“I know, but…oh, I don’t know.”
“Look, I think you should talk to your dad about that list and ask him about Guy again. Go and see him at his office today.”
“Oh, no, I can’t—”
“Charlie, you’ve got to speak to him. You’ve got to warn him about this thing.”
“If he needs to be warned. It might not be anything.”
“He should still know. Tell me who else was on the list.”
I give her the names I can remember: business people, captains of industry, society ladies, a couple of earls, some aging rock stars and a few media barons. She scribbles away.
“Another thing: why do you think none of the investors is suing?” I say. “Why would they suddenly decide just to kiss good-bye to their money like that? Did you see the TV interview with Josh Langdon? He was asked if he was going to take legal action to get his money back but someone had a word with him, some advisor or someone, and he just dodged the question, even though he was obviously really pissed off about the whole thing.”
“Mmm,” says Nora. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter to them. Perhaps if you’re that rich you just think what the heck?”
I think about it for a moment.
“No, that doesn’t make sense. It’s the principle for these people, isn’t it? Even if it’s just the equivalent of a couple of hundred quid for them, they won’t want to look stupid in front of their mates, like they’ve been conned, will they?”
“That’s true. Not with their egos.”
“And you remember when we went to see Piers I asked him about that, and he just sort of smiled, laughed in fact. Odd, isn’t it?”
There is a moment of silence and then she says:
“Okay, you go and talk to your dad while I go and see Piers. I know where he’s staying now. I’ll go down there right away.”
“All right. Can you just leave the office like that?”
“Of course. It’s a story, isn’t it?”
“Nora, I’m not sure that it is.”
“What? With these names? If they’re connected in any way this is huge!” That phrase again. Like when we went to find Piers. A massive story, she said. She obviously realises that she has said it again. “Sorry, but you know what I mean….”
“Yeah, I do but the point is my dad’s on that list and I don’t want to land him in it.”
“No, don’t worry about that, I’ll make sure he doesn’t come in to it. Now go and talk to him and let me know what he says.”
I take a deep breath.
“Okay.”
I ring my dad’s mobile but it goes straight to voice mail. I leave a message asking him to ring me and then ring his secretary’s landline.
“Hi Charlie,” says his secretary, Amanda, a girl too smart to let him fuck her. “He’s in a board meeting now. It should be finished before lunch.”
“Can you ask him to ring me as soon as he finishes, please. It’s important.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Amanda.”
The call comes from my solicitor as Slapton predicted, giving me the all clear from the police. The guy sounds a bit disappointed that there’s nothing more to say on the subject. I’m not.
I set up my computer again and check my emails. One from my mum’s sister, my Auntie Emily, bless her. Hoping I’m okay. “Email Emily,” we call her. She’s got friends all over the world now. I suddenly wonder if she ever looked at 2cool. She must have. Did she see that porn? Did she appreciate the irony? Oh, Emily, irony or not, I really hope you didn’t see it.
I write her a breezy reply hoping she’s well and explaining that the site has closed and that I’m out of trouble now but my mind’s not really on it.
There is only one thing I can think about at the moment—what I’m going to say to Lauren. So I start to type out some thoughts: 2cool is over now and so I’m going stop behaving so selfishly and help her and help with her new TV career but how I think she should spend a little less time with Peter, because much as I like him (and really did warm to him over breakfast), she’s going out with me, not him.
I start writing out what I’m going to say to Lauren: about why I slept with Nora and how it was partly to get at her for sleeping with Peter (as I thought) and partly because I was…was what? Going bonkers? Going on a bender? Trying to hurt the one I love because that’s what you do when you’re angry and confused.
It all looks a bit daft set out on the screen, complete with typos. I find myself checking the thesaurus for another word for “sorry” because I’ve written it so many times, sprinkling it uselessly across the text. I read through my words again.
Not only do they sound daft but I’m not sure whether I actually believe what I’ve written. It feels more like what I should say than what I actually want to say.
Drumming my fingers on the desk as I reread the stuff on the screen, I feel the uncomfortable truth keeps emerging: I didn’t sleep with Nora just to get at Lauren. I did it because I liked sleeping with Nora.
I throw some washing on, change my clothes and put new sheets on the bed. Then I open Lauren’s wardrobe and go to the little bit at the end which is full of her own casual clothes rather than her work outfits. I stick my head in amongst the neatly hanging jeans, shirts, trousers and jackets and breathe deeply, inhaling her, wondering whether if we do get back together things will be the same as before.
Before 2cool.
Before Peter and a career in TV.
Before Nora.
My dad rings at 12:45. He’s in the car.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Sorry I didn’t see you this morning.”
“I’m back in Chiswick at the flat.”
“Made up with Lauren?”
“She’s not here, she’s back tomorrow. She’s been in France with friends. Dad, can I come and see you this afternoon?”
“See me? I’m pretty booked up this afternoon.”
“Tonight?”
“Erm, can’t make it tonight. I’ve got a…a…business thing. What about tomorrow?”
“Oh, never mind.”
“Okay, okay, I’ve got something at fourish that I can move. Ring Amanda and book yourself in.”
“Thanks.”
Dad keeps me waiting until twenty-five past four. I sit on one of the giant black leather Bauhaus-style settees in the lobby, listening to the two receptionists answer the phone.
“Matthewman Kendall Barrett, good afternoon,” “Matthewman Kendall Barrett, can I help you?”
It’s funny to hear my name repeated over and over again. Sometimes there’s a pause as they both stare out of the giant picture windows in front of them or exchange a comment with each other (“Friends on tonight?” “No, tomorrow. Matthewman Kendall Barrett, good afternoon. I’m taping it because we’re going out. Should be a good one.” “See it last week? Matthewman Kendall Barrett, good afternoon. Isn’t Courtney Cox’s hair long these days? Suits her, though. Line’s busy will you hold?”); sometimes they overlap with their greeting; sometimes one follows the other immediately. On a couple of occasions they say it in perfect unison. What are the chances of that?
Unable to take any more MTV I ignore the monitors
on the wall and read Advertising Age and Media Week. I see the name of his agency in a headline and then read the story underneath. Another acquisition. I’m just about to turn the page when I realise that the guy in the photo next to it, moody, unsmiling, his face slashed with light filtering in from the venetian blinds behind him, is my dad. He’s like a stranger.
Finally I go up to the top floor. Amanda asks me to wait again, he won’t be long. We make small talk but my throat feels almost too dry to speak. Then suddenly my dad is waving for me to go in.
“Hiya,” I say, as casually as I can. He finishes scribbling something, shouts to Amanda for some coffee and then gets up and gives me a hug.
“So. Everything all right?”
His office is huge. White walls, black and white prints, Wenge wood furniture. TV screens along one side—Bloomberg, MTV, a scene from the House of Commons. Framed awards along the other. His huge desk is filled with papers. An Apple Mac computer screen faces him. In the corner of the room is a Charles Eames recliner.
“I think so, Dad. I had a visit from the police again today.”
“Yeah?”
“They’ve called off the investigation, well, the fraud bit, anyway.”
“Oh, thank God for that.” He looks genuinely relieved. “Oh, that is excellent news,” he says, accepting a coffee from Amanda. I smile and shake my head in answer to her offer.
“Water?” she asks.
“Oh, yes, that’d be great, thanks.”
“But they showed me this list of names.” I’m trying to read my dad’s expression but, leaning back in his huge black leather chair, he looks slightly quizzical, that’s all.
“And?”
“Yours was on it. Along with a lot of other people, big names, rich and famous people.”
“And what was this list about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t they say?”
“No.” Amanda brings in a tray with a glass, a bottle and a dish of ice. It’s that water again “Glacial Purity.” “But almost all of them, I remember, have invested in 2cool.”
“Sure.”
“Well, have you invested in 2cool?”
When my dad stands up and walks over to the window I know the answer.
“I put some money in, yeah. So did a lot of people as you know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
There is no answer
“That was Guy on your phone, wasn’t it?”
My dad sighs.
“Yes, it was.”
“’Cause you know him, don’t you?”
“Well, I’ve met him a few times.”
I take a sip of water, hoping he’ll say more but he doesn’t. He just stands by the window, his back to me, looking down at the traffic halting and pushing its way round in Berkeley Square.
“Was it your personal investment or was it Matthewman Kendall Barr—?”
“It was my own money.”
“How much?”
“Fifty grand.”
“Dad, that’s quite a lot of money.”
“I can afford it,” he says defiantly, turning round and watching the TV monitors. I give up on the hope that he’s going to answer the big questions unprompted.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He says nothing. I can feel anger and tears welling up inside me but I keep control. “Why didn’t you say when I first got involved with 2cool? You must have been in on the start. You knew all along. Why did you pretend not to know Guy and Piers? No wonder you popped up at the Huntsmans’ thing. You got that first article about it faxed to you in New York. Why have you lied to me?”
When my dad turns to look at me there are tears in his eyes and his jaw is shaking.
“I wanted to protect you. I, I’ve just been caught up in this thing.”
“Caught up in what thing? 2cool? How? Why?”
“Something bigger.”
“What?”
“Charlie, I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask.”
“For God’s sake, Dad, what is it?”
“Never mind. Look why don’t you and Lauren go on a holiday. Get away from it all, now you’ve been cleared and this whole thing is all over. You could go somewhere nice—relax, talk about your relationship—”
“Dad, what’re you talking about?”
“I’ll pay for it.” He opens a drawer and takes out a cheque book. “Remember last year, I went to the Gazelle D’Or with, er…” He starts writing. “With…er…what’s her name? We had a great time. Why don’t you take Lauren there?”
However weird and alien this conversation might seem, I can recognise my father now—practical solutions. Do something. Identify the problem and develop an effective response to it. After all, that’s why those hip funky off-the-wall guys in the offices further down the corridor employed him. That’s why he thought little trips to Thorpe Park would sort out his relationship with his children when his marriage was breaking up.
I watch him write the cheque, tear it out and hold it out to me. It’s for £5,000. Bloody hell, what kind of holiday would that pay for? I look up at him. He has blinked back the tears and his face is set with a positive, upbeat look. It must be killing him. I take the cheque and put it down on the desk between us.
“I don’t want to talk to you again until you tell me the truth,” I say and walk out of the office.
Chapter
29
Out in the street again I ring Nora at the office. Someone else answers, sounding rather hassled, and snaps at me that she’s not there, could I call back later? I end the call without saying anything and then try her mobile. Voice mail. I leave a message for her to ring me immediately.
I walk around the streets of Mayfair for a while thinking. There are smart offices in old houses with brass nameplates below the entry phones. Some of them are just surnames or initials—solicitors? PR companies? Accountants? Others have more obvious names such as West African Oil Exploration Inc. or Anglo American Data Solutions Ltd.
I make my way down to Green Park tube and go home to Chiswick. I potter around trying to decide what to do. Then I pour myself a whisky and then lie in the bath where I can think. A couple of times I think I hear Lauren’s key in the lock for some reason and I sit up.
As well as being angry with my dad, I also feel very sorry for him. Watching your father cry is a weird experience. He’s seen me cry thousands of times when I was a kid. A kid? I bawled my eyes out when I discovered that that cow Karen Sutton was seeing my mate Tony behind my back and I was sixteen then.
Having the roles reversed is strange, though. Like when you realise for the first time that your parents are not the all-knowing omnipotent beings you thought they were, like when you explain to them how some bit of technology works or what something means that they’ve read in the paper or when you say good night to them but they’re the ones who are going to bed.
When the father helps the son, both smile. When the son helps the father, both cry. It’s a Chinese saying, I think. Watching your father cry while you’re dry eyed is even worse.
You sort of assume that a wealthy man behind a big desk is safe but perhaps not. Oh, Dad, what is it? Why can’t you tell me? What have you done? Something illegal? Criminal? No, surely not. Did you just get a bit greedy? Has someone got something on you? If so, what? And what—or who—are you protecting me from? I slip under water and stay there as long as I can manage. When I come up, my mobile is ringing.
I reach across to the towel rail and dry my hands and then pick up the phone. It’s a breathless Nora, obviously out on the street.
“I’ve just been talking to Piers. We’ve had a long, long talk. He’s been talking, really talking. Spilled his guts, man. I had to bully it out of him—told him I’d tell everyone where he was—but, my God, what a story! I know why all those people including your—I know why they haven’t sued.”
“Why not?”
“Because he and Guy have got something on them.”
“Blackmail
?”
“That’s what I said and Piers said ‘What an ugly word’ or something. He called it ‘encouragement.’”
“So what has he got on them?”
Nora laughs hysterically.
“You won’t believe it. Let’s just say it’s about badgers again.”
“Badgers?”
She laughs again.
“Yeah, look, we’re going to a party again tomorrow night.”
“Nora, what are you talking about?” I’m hanging over the edge of the bath now. “What did he say about my dad?”
“He and Guy do know your dad. It most certainly was Guy who rang for your dad.”
“Yeah, I know, I spoke to Dad this afternoon.”
“Oh, right! What did he say?”
“He told me he was involved in something, something more than just 2cool.”
“That would be it!” says Nora. “Charlie, this is huge.”
That phrase again. I shiver in the steaming bathwater.
“Stop saying that. What have you found out?”
There is a rustle of fabric and a muffled cry.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” I hear Nora say. “Are you all right?”
“What’s going on?”
She comes back to me.
“Sorry about that, bumped into someone. So, what else did your dad say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“He just suggested I…Lauren and I go on holiday.”
“On holiday? What? The two of you? Really?” The suggestion seems to bring her down to earth for a moment. “Are you going to?” she asks quietly after a while.
“No, I don’t think that’s very likely.”
“Really?”
“No.” I know she wants me to say more but I can’t.
“Oh, I see.” I listen to hear her walking for a moment—more slowly now.
“Anyway, what’s this party?”
“It’s in Mayfair. Lots of people, famous people,” she says, her excitement growing again.
“What’s it got to do with 2cool?”
“Everything,” she says, the old Nora coming back. I can visualise her wicked grin.