Kismet

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  The Kitchener bloke laughed. “He didn’t need school, he’s got other talents.”

  “Yeah… sure.”

  “Anyway, I’d better get home. Fires to put out, a son to silence, a wife to medicate. You know how it is. Thanks for stumping up for me tonight, you know? Thought I was gonna be in a cell and all.”

  “Sure, anytime.”

  Joey climbed into his Beemer and buggered off.

  There was now Kitchener left in the car park, all alone, or so he thought.

  Then Freya overheard a conversation she definitely wasn’t meant to hear.

  Kitchener made a call and put it on speakerphone, maybe because he was cocky, or maybe because he was old-school and still believed that people got brain cancer from cellular devices.

  “Yeah, boss,” someone answered.

  “I need picking up. I’m at some old pub… a car’s already coming? Great.” Kitchener turned his back to face away from the pub and walked a few paces so that Freya didn’t hear everything. Then, he turned back around and she heard his voice loud and clear again. “It was a disaster. I’m gonna have to write a cheque for that place or else they’ll sue me. Better make it a big one…”

  There was some mumbling on the other end of the line, then more audible decibels from Kitchener again. “No, I don’t know why Freddie decided to spill the beans. No… I don’t know… it’s a headache I don’t fucking need. Laurent’s already fucking high all the time, this is gonna make it all much worse.”

  There was more mumbling on the other end of the line that Freya couldn’t quite hear through the brick, but then she heard a terrible thing she knew it would be better to forget.

  “Well, Laurent’s not the one, anyway. Eldest is fucking minted already, he doesn’t have the motivation. I suppose I had better legitimise Freddie already, hadn’t I? He’s my only hope.” More mumbling, then Kitchener added, “Laurent is gonna be dead before he graduates university. He doesn’t have any self-control. I agree with what you’re saying.”

  More mumbling, and more of Kitchener pacing and turning back and forth, before something loud and clear was decided between the pair.

  “If my son threatens to reveal the truth, I will tell Freddie to take away his supply. Nobody is taking Alexia away from me. Nobody. Not even the other one with his conceited tricks, buying her art and stuff. No way. I could lose everything, but not her.”

  A few seconds later, a car pulled up and Kitchener jumped into the vehicle and Freya heard no more of the conversation. She walked home and made it into bed safely. She felt blessed to have clean sheets and a quiet house. As long as she didn’t pass her dad in the corridors, she was fine. Living this non-life was good, she didn’t have any worries or cares; it was best this way.

  The name Kitchener evaded her, when, a few years later, she met some guy at a wedding with the same name as that troublesome family she once had the misfortune to encounter. Must have been something to do with how dazzlingly handsome he was—last names didn’t seem that important the first night they met. Not that it would have ever entered her mind such a gorgeous man as Ruben would have anything to do with that rabble she once encountered.

  However, as they got to talking that night in a pub down the road from the wedding venue, Ruben found out she was in the hotel trade and she told him exactly which hotel it was she worked in. He asked her what was the most shocking thing she’d witnessed in her job. Of course, she told him about the family brawl.

  Freya’s recollection of the brawl as she told it to Ruben did not include the car-park conversation she overheard. Freya briefly talked about the young guy whose party it was meant to be, and how he seemed devastated about his best mate being his half-brother, but she was especially graphic about the teeth, hair, nails and blood they’d had to clear up—being that those sorts of details seemed to fascinate Freya’s morbid sense of humour.

  Freya never noticed how Ruben reacted as she described the things she’d witnessed. She thought he was just a nice guy, maybe shocked that people actually got up to no good in such a public way. She didn’t interpret his recognition.

  The night Ruben met Freya was the night he got confirmation that his long-held suspicion about Freddie being his half-brother had been right all along. The tale Freya recalled about some rich kid and his dodgy dad added up when Freya mentioned the kid was leaving Eton and going on to Oxford or Cambridge to study architecture. Laurent had sent Ruben an invite to the party but Ruben never even RSVP’d because he’d been too busy playing football and forgetting all about London.

  Up until he met Freya, Ruben had blamed drug dealer Freddie for Laurent’s death and had been planning to fuck up his wedding. Turned out, it wasn’t as simple as drugs having killed his brother, was it? It wasn’t just a case of some careless prick feeding a vulnerable kid drugs—there were other forces at work, Ruben was sure of that now. He’d always thought it was strange how Frederick Kitchener had taken the namesake son of one of his best mates under his wing, even offering to pay his tuition fees for Eton. Ruben had tried to put it down to Fred being flash with the cash, but in his gut, he’d known different.

  Ruben realised Laurent must have been badly affected by what happened at the party. Once upon a time, Laurent would tell him everything, so Ruben knew his little brother had been silenced. He knew Fred Kitchener would judge his own son a threat and would therefore try to eradicate that threat in any way he could. Ruben’s mother was walking a tightrope when it came to her mental health and news of a bastard son might well have pushed her over the edge. Not only a bastard, but one which was conceived around the same time as Laurent.

  He’d suspected for a long time that Laurent’s death stank of something rotten but now he knew more about the specifics. If Fred Kitchener was Freddie’s father, then Fred Snr knew all about where Laurent was getting his gear from and let it happen anyway.

  How tragic to learn the truth from the first girl he’d liked in so very long… and fortuitous, too.

  Funny, though…

  … how people only find themselves… when they meet themselves in another.

  Freya also left out the part where she sent an invoice to Frederick Kitchener a few days after the brawl, itemising furnishings and other items she needed to replace, plus a fee to have the function suite professionally cleaned. Mr Kitchener sent a cheque for the full amount requested but also included a separate one for her. He said she’d know what it was for. She cashed it even though she had no idea why he was giving her £5,000. She vowed never to touch that money until she knew what he intended to buy with it. Perhaps her silence… her discretion… perhaps more.

  When she met him years later as her potential father-in-law, she didn’t recognise the man right away. Not only had he aged a great deal since she last saw him due to a bout of bowel cancer, but perhaps the mind often plays tricks and sees what it wants to. Or it could have simply been the case that a man often looks so much different in the day to how he looks at night.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Florence

  The day after our escape from London, I wake to find myself wrapped in clean, crisp white sheets, a cool breeze drifting in through an open window. It feels like spring in Florence and I’m in heaven. I’ve been sleeping on my front, facing away from Ruben’s side, but somehow, I know he already left the bed. A sixth sense or something, but I know he’s elsewhere. Hopefully, he’s gone out to get breakfast—preferably those sugar-dusted little cakes, great for dunking in strong coffee. I visited Florence a few years back and he must have been listening when I told him this is one of my favourite places in the whole world. The manner of our alleged escape aside, I don’t care how we got here, only that we did.

  Rolling onto my back, I have my suspicion confirmed when I discover it’s just me in the bed. His jeans have gone from the floor, too and it’s clear he opened one of the many suitcases dotted around to pick out a clean shirt.

  When we arrived yesterday, Roy dropped us off in the centre of t
own while he took our luggage on ahead. Ruben and I ate Italian food last night, drank Italian wine and walked back here, where we made love for hours, fuelled by alcohol and adrenalin. My body is truly no longer my own, it belongs to him.

  I slip out of bed and drag one of the cases towards me, hauling it onto the mattress. Inside I discover a huge amount of new clothes—all in my size. I rush across the room and the case Ruben opened earlier is full of new clothes for him, also with the tags still on. He made such detailed preparations… but why? For what purpose?

  I’m desperate to find out more and hope I might get answers soon when I hear the front door slam shut on our rental apartment. I grab the bedsheet and wrap myself up in it like a mummy, scuttling down the corridor towards him.

  Before I have chance to ask him anything, he sweeps me up into his arms—sheet and all—his face buried in my hair, my arms tight around him.

  “I missed you,” he whimpers.

  “It’s not that late, surely? I haven’t slept all day.”

  “I can’t be apart from you,” he tells me, “not anymore.”

  We share tender little juvenile kisses, like we’re two pups and not ourselves. It feels too good.

  He lowers me to my feet and we seat ourselves on the balcony which overlooks an alley below. Few people are home at this time of day, unlike us, a couple of unemployed slobs. Anyway, it means we don’t have to worry about people staring at my garb.

  Thankfully, there is a brown paper bag with my name on it, containing strong espresso and chocolate brioche.

  I’m starving and give no thought to anything else but devouring my breakfast before I even let myself consider where to start with the whole escapade yesterday. Maybe last night I was running on adrenalin, but today I’ve crashed back down to earth.

  When the last of the brioche has been washed down my throat by the rich espresso and a glass of water, I draw the sheet tight around me and wait for him to notice that I’m staring at him.

  Recognition eventually sets in and he sets down his own espresso. “Freya. You have questions.”

  “And a little bit of whiplash, actually.”

  A grin threatens to change his face but the more he sits there thinking, the more he starts to pout.

  “Is this where you need punishing again? For your mistrust.”

  “No, actually. This is where my mind is completely clear and focused and I have questions.”

  He couldn’t look more defensive if he tried, with his back up and his fingertips tapping against the balcony railing beside us.

  “Ask away,” he says.

  I clear my throat. “Are we staying here indefinitely?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs, thinking it over for a second. “We could. I just thought this was a good place to start.”

  “Since you quit football, how have you really employed yourself?”

  In response to this question, he appears embarrassed and burns red. “Clever girl.”

  His compliment would usually please me to the point of painful smiles, but I’m in actress mode at the moment and looking at things as if I’m not really me—not connected to him. Gentle interrogation is the only way to get things out of him, and my emotions aren’t part of this scenario, not right now.

  “You used the charity to fool your father.”

  “Yes,” he admits, sighing with relief.

  I’ve figured it out, Ruben and I’m still here, but that doesn’t mean to say I don’t have an escape route.

  I might still get away… one day.

  “I quit football and said it was because of what’d happened to Laurent… that I couldn’t play, blah blah blah, and then I pretended like I’d set up the charity to make amends and all, but the truth is… well, actually, I employed a team of people… small-time investigators who wouldn’t draw too much attention… to seek out the truth. You met those people at Laurent’s Legacy. I used the charity to cover up what I was really doing, and it worked. The only person to ever see through it all was you, and that was only because you bothered to walk through the front door of the place. Few really care about charity, you know? They may say they do, but when faced with families broken by addiction or cancer or abuse, few really have the nerve to withstand the hardcore reality of it all.”

  I nod fast. “I get that.”

  “My father thinks I’m beset by grief, desperately trying to honour Laurent with the charity, but he doesn’t know it’s a guise. I’ve invested… doubled, sometimes tripled, my money. I’ve done some deals, all to get myself into a position where I never have to fear him again.”

  I shake my head. “But your football career got you money, so you must fear him enough that you feel you need oodles more. Otherwise, why the stunt yesterday?”

  “I don’t want him to know where we are. He will struggle to locate us this way. He doesn’t know what airport we used, whether we even left the country. He knows nothing. In fact, I left farewell messages with different friends telling them we might visit Paris, perhaps Rome… Istanbul… Montenegro… Venice. He won’t find us.”

  “Says the famous footballer.”

  “I played with short hair and without a beard. Plus, I was lighter and even more tanned back then. Nobody recognises me anymore, Freya. It’s been three years since his death, since I quit. Three years since I left behind who I used to be and became this. If Laurent met me now, he wouldn’t recognise me. His big brother has changed beyond all recognition.”

  I frown and lean forward to look him in the eye. “In France… at the hotel restaurant… why was everyone looking at us? Hmm?”

  Ruben chuckles and covers his mouth as he does. “Because of you. How you look. They were looking at us because of you and trying to figure out who the lucky cunt was who’d bagged you. Trust me.”

  I wish I could believe that, but right now it feels like we’re clinging onto a bit of a wing and a prayer.

  “I want you to tell me everything, Ruben. When I say everything, I mean everything. Your logic behind yesterday, why you employed investigators… all of it. What you think Fred did… what he might do. Leave nothing out.”

  He nods slowly. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’d better get dressed then, honey,” he says, taking himself inside to splash water on his face at the kitchen sink.

  I do as I’m bid and head for the en suite shower.

  Water never felt so good.

  I find him in the sitting area as I walk back into the open-plan living room, dressed and presentable. The benefit (or con, depending on your outlook) of this apartment is that the rooms are separated by partition walls, no doors, and so from virtually anywhere in this place you can hear any conversation or observe anybody doing anything without so much as creaking a door open. Maybe this design allows air through in summer, or perhaps it’s just the home of some exhibitionist, I don’t know.

  Anyway, I can tell he heard me coming because he has his hands steepled in readiness and he’s psyching himself up to get it all out of his system. He’s seated in one of four wicker armchairs surrounding a coffee table with glass top and matching wicker bottom, so I take the seat opposite. To our side are the sliding doors which open to the balcony, but he’s shut them completely now we’ve brought our party here. This apartment isn’t his style or mine but works as a pied à terre to chill out in. I guess that’s the whole point.

  “It all started with you,” he begins, glancing at me before staring at his own hands. I’m trying to rein in my shock, when he continues talking, giving me no time to react or let it sink in. “The night we met.” I’m afraid he’s going to connect my past to Laurent somehow… I’m afraid of so much, in fact… but I need to wait for him to tell me more and not get ahead of myself. “I guessed that you were in the hotel trade, and a few sips of wine later, you were telling me all about the things you’d seen in your job. It was enlightening.”

  My heart’s racing and I’m imagining the worst. I stand up and pull the door
open, needing some air. I let the gentle breeze whirl around me and cradle me until I feel alive enough to return to my seat, leaving the door open just in case.

  “I was tipsy the night of the wedding.”

  “You told me about this brawl, remember? About the violence… the destruction it had caused… how people were arrested and all sorts. Remember?”

  “Your brother’s party?” It suddenly clicks.

  “Yes.”

  I look up and see him relieved, vented of his concerns. Perhaps he felt the same way that night we first met.

  “I haven’t been playing around in the two years since we met, Freya. Ever since that night, I’ve been plotting my route out. I can’t live my life or truly love anyone with my father around. You don’t understand what he’s really like.”

  Another memory pops into view…

  Me, hiding, eavesdropping on his father.

  Shit.

  I stand up and pace in front of the veranda doors, catching the breeze occasionally to revive me.

  “We’d only just met, at Freddie’s wedding I mean, but there’s something else… about the night of your brother’s party.”

  He sits bolt upright in his seat. “Yes?”

  I continue pacing, gathering my thoughts as I go. “I’d worked late because of the whole fracas. It was a warm summer’s night so I walked home, nothing unusual, I’d done it a hundred times before. I was minding my own business, I promise, walking briskly along the path that runs by the river… then I saw your father with some goon in the empty car park of the Harvester pub. I didn’t bring attention to myself even though I recognised your dad’s voice and demeanour from our interaction back at the Claremont. I walked right past them and continued on until cutting through one of those gated walkways between houses so I could come back on myself to hide around the corner from them. I overheard bits of conversation as your father ordered himself a ride home, then called up a mate on his mobile and mouthed off about what’d happened.”