by Tim Lott
I’m just a cheerful character.
No one’s that cheerful.
Roxy reaches across the table and takes a Choco Leibniz from the plate.
Maybe there is a reason.
Don’t be mysterious. It doesn’t suit you.
I know you must think I’m a complete idiot. The popcorn. But I’m not. Not completely.
I hate to ask this, Roxy, but didn’t you buy that house in Spain? Because I read that the property market there has gone into meltdown.
No. I never got that.
But you told Frankie . . .
I didn’t want to upset him. You know how fragile his ego is. I wasn’t going to touch no gaff in the Med, though.
You’re still being mysterious.
I want to show you something, says Roxy.
She gets to her feet.
Where are we going?
It’s a secret. Follow me.
Veronica, puzzled, follows her up the steps to her bedroom. It is bare, minimalist, just a framed poster of Kate Moss on the wall.
I know this is a cliché, but that’s me, ain’t it? A cliché.
She takes the picture off the wall. Behind there is a safe. Veronica can’t help laughing.
Like in the movies.
Great, innit?
Roxy is fumbling with the combination. Seems to have found it. Then stops.
I can never quite remember the bloody thing. Hold on a sec.
She gets her phone out and checks.
That’s it. Last four digits of Colin’s old phone number.
She goes back to the safe and swivels the dial again. This time the door swings open.
Go on then. Have a look inside.
Veronica takes a step forward. The inside of the safe is not lit and it is set surprisingly deep into the wall. It is hard to see at first what she’s looking at. There appear to be several large lumps at the back, or something wrapped in tissue paper.
Go on, take them out.
Veronica reaches for them and is surprised by how heavy they are. She peels the tissue paper off.
Inside are thirty ten-ounce bars of gold.
I bought them in the summer of ’05, says Roxy. With what was left after I’d sold the house and invested in the shop. Bottom of the market. They’re worth a quarter again what I paid for them.
Oh, my fucking god.
Told you I liked bling.
The gold bars are exposed now. They are stamped with ‘Credit Suisse. 10 oz. Fine Gold. 999.9.’ And a serial number.
I didn’t want to take all risks, did I? Whatever Frankie said, I didn’t feel gold could be a risk. Every one of those babies is worth about five thousand pounds. Cost me about three and a half K to buy each one. That should see me all right for a little while. Get me a few nice little black dresses.
Veronica bursts out laughing.
Not so thick, am I?
You were never thick, says Veronica. That was what I always liked about you. Smart as a whippet.
And fit as a butcher’s dog, as Colin always liked to say. One thousand per cent.
One thousand and ten per cent.
Veronica strokes a gold bar. It feels soft under her touch.
Shall I put it back?
Shall we just look at it for a little while? It’s pure money, that. Not just some digits on a screen. Not just something someone’s made up.
You’re well and truly middle class now, says Veronica.
No, I’m not. Never wanted to be neither. But I’ve got a few bob. That’s all I ever wanted. A bit of cock and some dosh. I suppose I’m all right for the dosh anyway. But my god, I could do with a shag. I mean, I know sex without love is meaningless. But as Woody Woodpecker said, as meaningless experiences go, it’s one of the best.
Woody Allen.
Whatever. Now I’d just like to have some totally irresponsible sex with a gorgeous bloke who doesn’t give a shit and doesn’t want any ties.
Veronica pauses.
I might be able to help you with that, says Veronica.
Really? says Roxy.
Actually. Perhaps not.
* * *
The phone rings in the office. Frankie picks up to hear an unfamiliar, but unusually officious voice on the other end of the line.
Are you Francis Loftus Blue?
Yeh.
You’re the proprietor of 221 Wendell Road?
Who is this?
You’re the proprietor?
My name is on the deeds, yes.
I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid.
That’s nothing new. Who is this?
I’m from the London Fire Service. There’s been a conflagration at the property.
A conflagurwhat?
A fire, Mr Blue.
Frankie feels a cold churning in his stomach.
What kind of fire?
There’s only one kind of fire. We don’t know how it started. But a fairly extensive one.
What’s the damage? Has anyone been hurt?
I’m pleased to say that the property was safely evacuated. Quite a rabbit warren in there. Quite a crowd living there.
How extensive is ‘extensive’?
It might be best if you came and took a look for yourself.
* * *
When he arrives at the property, he feels panic, then his emotions numbing, a self-protective device he recognizes of old. There are four fire trucks outside and an ambulance. A crowd of maybe fifty people is watching. Some of them he recognizes as his tenants. They include a few of the Polish workmen who dug out his basement, as well as some students and some local authority placements. One Polish workman is holding a few scraps of clothes tightly across his chest like a comfort blanket.
The building is a burned-out shell. There is nothing left of
it. The front of the building has gone entirely, revealing the rotten warren inside. A sad little charred television set sits in the corner of one room in front of a blackened IKEA rug. There is rubble strewn everywhere, shards of timber, piles of plaster. Smoke is still rising from the ashes.
Could you stand back, please, sir? It’s not safe.
Frankie barely registers the fireman who is standing in front of him. He blinks and finally the man comes into focus.
It’s my property, says Frankie robotically.
I see. Could I just have a word, sir? Over here.
Frankie steps over to a quiet space by the fire truck.
He has noticed that one of the tenants is staring at him, the Pole Radowicz who helped dig out his basement. Frankie turns away, but it is too late.
Mr Blue! Mr Blue. Where I live now? You must help me.
Alerted by this, several of the other people, whom Frankie recognizes as tenants, start to join the chorus.
Mr Blue! Everything is lost, says the foreign student. Was he from Iraq or Iran? Or Syria? Frankie can’t quite remember, only that he always paid cash on the nail, in full, no arguments.
I have nowhere to liff. It is the Somalian cleaner. Her face is streaked with grey and blood and tears.
Mr Blue. I need to talk to you. About some of the fire regulations. Were you up to date with your safety certificates? says the fireman.
What?
You are insured, yes? says the Iraqi/Syrian/Iranian. Or was he Egyptian? Frankie struggles again to remember.
Of course I’m insured, says Frankie, almost in anger.
Mr Blue, says the fireman, sternly. You need to contact the police. They have been wanting to talk to you.
Right, says Frankie, automatically. Then he notices the police car parked beyond the fire trucks, a sergeant looking over at him with a questioning gaze.
As Frankie speaks, he moves away from the scene slowly at first, then fast, faster, as fast as he can. Runs for his car.
Mr Blue! shouts Radowiz.
Mr Blue! shouts the fireman
The policeman narrows his eyes and reaches for his radio.
But Frankie is gone around the corner, springing i
nto the seat of his car, accelerating away and driving nowhere in particular.
He circles the streets of Shepherd’s Bush, up the Askew Road, along Uxbridge Road, down Shepherd’s Bush Road to Hammersmith Broadway and back again. He drives without purpose and without direction.
Eventually, an hour later, he decides he has no option but to go home.
* * *
When he gets there Veronica is waiting for him.
What’s that grey stuff all over you?
Ash, says Frankie, in a voice that sounds like it’s been through a wringer.
Ash?
From the fire, he says irritably, as if it makes no sense that Veronica cannot know what he is talking about. Then he registers her bewildered expression and collapses, with a deep sigh, into a chair.
The house. The buy to let in Wendell Road. There was a fire.
Oh my god, Frankie.
I know.
Was anyone hurt?
No.
Thank god for that. That’s the main thing. How badly damaged is it?
Nothing left.
There’s nothing left of the house?
Nothing left. A shell.
He shakes his head.
Veronica does not understand why, but she cannot bring herself to comfort him. She stands rooted to the spot.
When she speaks again, the tone of her voice shifts from vaporous concern to hardnosed pragmatism. This is a manoeuvre Frankie has witnessed many times, but it still unnerves him.
It was insured – right?
Frankie rears up, standing and waving his arms around wildly, as if batting away the doubts in his own mind.
Of course it was insured. I’m not an idiot. Apart from anything else, it had to be insured. Otherwise you can’t get a loan on it.
Well, that’s something. It could have been a disaster. I mean, it is a disaster, but at least it’s not going to ruin us.
Now his voice falls to something softer.
I suppose.
Veronica immediately picks up on the shadow of uncertainty in the tone.
What do you mean, you suppose?
Frankie looks up at her with eyes still red and watering from the toxic fumes escaping from the house. He is tired. He can’t trouble himself to lie anymore.
You know. These insurance companies can be difficult.
Difficult how?
I don’t know. You remember when we had a break-in? And they said that we hadn’t got the window locks fitted properly? And they used that as an excuse to stiff us?
Yes, but something like this! You must have had it nailed down.
No one nails everything down, says Frankie, feebly.
What if they don’t pay out?
They’ll pay out.
What if they don’t?
Frankie despite himself finds himself looking around at the house. Veronica notices it immediately.
The house is safe, right? This house, I mean.
Of course we’re safe! They’re not going to put us out on the street.
But the house . . . our house . . . it’s not at risk, right?
No!
But the way his eyes dart to one side leaves her with a stab of doubt.
Frankie. Look at me.
She forces him to hold her gaze. What’s left of his birthmark – and a shadow still remains after the scar has faded to its full extent – is a shade darker than usual. This, she knows, is usually his only giveaway sign of mendacity.
Is. Our. House. At. Risk?
Frankie summons up what is left of his strength.
It might be I suppose, purely theoretically, but . . .
He can’t finish because she hits him across the mouth. Once and then again.
Fuck! Veronica!
This is where we live! With our daughter!
Frankie holds his face with his hand. Then his head droops towards the floor. He does not raise it to look at her again when he starts speaking.
There’s no need to start panicking. The insurance company will pay out. But on a sum the size of this we’re probably going to have to go to litigation. I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised.
He gradually raises his head, but his eyes do not meet Veronica’s.
How did this house get mixed up in it all, Frankie?
You have to speculate to accumulate. That’s the truth. Right at the beginning of all this. When I started doing the buy to let. Back in 2003. I got a loan against the house.
Why didn’t you tell me?
I didn’t want to concern you.
You didn’t want to concern me. Well that’s nice of you. Not to tell me about a loan against our house. How big?
Quite big.
How big?
I don’t know. Two hundred K?
Veronica looks relieved. The house, she knows, is worth at least £1 million.
That’s not so bad.
There is a long silence, enough space for anxiety to breed and the gap to become unbearable.
Then Frankie finally says, in a very quiet voice:
At first, I mean. I topped up. Had to.
Veronica snaps to attention.
How big is the loan now? Just tell me and tell me straight.
Veronica . . .
Just tell me.
Nine hundred.
What? Nine hundred what?
Nine hundred thousand.
Veronica looks out of the window as if a plane had just crash-landed there.
They won’t put us out of the house, Veronica. It’s too bad for their PR. And that’s all a long way down the line.
She turns.
My mother was right. She was right all along about you. God, I’ve been such an idiot!
Frankie feels a wave of defiance and hurt pride gather inside him like a slow electrical thrum.
Don’t start with the holier than thou crap. You’re not exactly spotless in all this. You saw your chance and took it.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Pathologist on a crummy NHS salary. Nice little wide boy on the make. Nice house in Kensington. Nice house for nice kid. Get yourself up the duff.
I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Any of it.
Want some more?
I don’t think so. Now we’re on the subject though. You’ve done quite well out of me too.
Have I? How’s that? Because I can’t work out what you’ve done for me except sucked money out of my pocket.
Okay. Let’s talk about money. Good call. Where did you get the money to fund FLB Estates in the first place?
What?
You heard me. I said, ‘Where did you get the money to fund FLB estates in the first place?’ When you were sacked – sorry, quit, without asking me – your job at Farley Ratchett and Gwynne.
That was . . . seven years ago! Why are we even talking about it?
Because this other loan. This secret loan. For the buy to let. It’s a repeat offence. Isn’t it?
I don’t see what you’re getting at.
Answer me this. Exactly how did you manage it? Because you were struggling to make even the basics. To cover the bills. I was pregnant. You lost your salary after you quit the agency. The new house was already mortgaged up to the hilt. I was about to lose my salary too. How on earth did you manage to start a new estate agency?
I don’t see why it matters.
I should have asked that question of myself a long time ago. But I didn’t. Because I believed in you Frankie. I trusted you.
Bullshit. You didn’t ask me because you didn’t want to know.
So where did you get the money then? Who lent it to you?
Frankie pulls a cigarette packet out of a drawer and takes one.
You told me you’d given up.
I have, more or less.
He lights up and inhales furiously.
So where did you get the money?
Here and there. You know. Why do you keep going on about it?
Any particular here? Or any particular there?
/> Personal contacts.
Would you like to be any more specific?
Not really. I can’t remember the details.
Personal contacts? Or a personal contact?
Why does it make any difference? Water under the bridge.
Personal contacts? Or a personal contact, Frankie?
A personal contact. Not that it makes any difference.
Now Veronica looks him in the eyes, full on.
Look at me, Frankie. Look right at me.
Frankie reluctantly complies, but blows smoke in between them as if it might mask him.
Where did you get the money? Tell me the truth.
Frankie stares at her. His eyes dart from side to side, once. He scratches at the shadow of his birthmark.
I told you.
No one I know.
No one you know.
Okay.
Now Veronica relaxes.
Let’s play a guessing game. You know that clairvoyant I went to see? He taught me a few mind-reading tricks. Are you up for it?
What?
This personal contact. Was his name . . . Mmm . . . Mmm . . .
Why are you playing games at this moment?
. . . It’s coming to me . . .
Veronica. For Christ’s sake, be serious.
Mmmm . . . Michael?
Frankie feels the black point of light at the heart of him coldly expanding.
Michael?
Michael. Michael Tree? My father, Michael Tree?
Frankie runs dry of words.
That’s right, Frankie. Cordelia told me. In fact, she told me with the greatest of pleasure. I’ve never seen her look so pleased with herself.
When Frankie speaks again his voice is low, and burning with both shame and defiance.
If you know that I borrowed money from Michael, then you know I paid him back years ago. With interest. A lot of interest. He was hardly making an act of charity.
That’s not the point! The point is, you promised me that you’d never borrow anything from my family. Never, never, never.
But I paid him back! And if I hadn’t taken the loan, we wouldn’t be living here. I couldn’t let you down and pull out of the house!
In this house we’re about to lose, you mean? Christ, Frankie. My mother always said that you would come to them cap in hand for money sooner or later. And she was right. She was right, Frankie. You did. But you swore on the grave of your dead father that you wouldn’t.
It’s all just words. Reality has to be dealt with. No harm was done. The fire was just bad luck.
My mother was right all along. You’re a chancer. And a liar. And not good enough for me.