by Rosie Thomas
‘Do you think that went the way Jeanette would have wanted?’ Bill asked abruptly.
‘Yes, I do.’
He let his head fall back against the cushions and gave a congested sound that was more a cough than a laugh. Silence fell again, in the muffled depth of which Connie thought she could hear a door closing upstairs, the creak of polished parquet, maybe even a whisper of the barometer’s metal finger creeping from Rain to Storm.
It’s here, Connie thought. Afterwards is now.
And then, I have to get out of this house.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bill said, even more abruptly. He sat up and drained the whisky and then rotated the glass on the sofa arm.
‘What for?’
‘Let’s see. For everything I have done, and also failed to do.’
‘Bill, don’t talk. There’s nothing to be said at this minute. It’s the day of Jeanette’s funeral.’
‘So it is,’ he said, with a hollowness she had not heard before.
For so many years, even when they hadn’t seen each other for months, whenever they spoke the words had been ready and fluent, seeming to spring straight from their hearts. Yet now they found themselves stiffly talking like two actors under a spotlight.
Connie would have gone to him, warmed his hands between hers and tried to offer what comfort she could, but even the way that Bill was sitting told her that he didn’t want – could not bear – to be touched. She sat in her place, her ankles together and her hands folded, and let the silence lengthen. After a moment Bill got up again, with the restlessness of exhaustion, and poured himself more whisky.
‘What were you talking to Elaine about?’
‘She wanted to say she was sorry for telling me I was adopted.’
‘Ah.’
‘Funerals are when people feel the need to confess that sort of thing. And weddings.’
‘Yes.’
This time the silence seemed to go deeper, into the core of both of them. It seemed that unlike other people on this day, they did not have anything to acknowledge or to confess to each other. Bill was staring out of the window into the dark garden. He knocked back another mouthful of whisky and Connie felt the shudder of it chasing through her own system.
‘I think’, she said carefully, ‘I should head back home now.’
‘I miss her.’ Bill’s words cut across hers and they jumped, because this dissonance was new to them.
‘I know you do. So do I. I wish it had been me, not Jeanette.’ She spoke impulsively, out of the whirl of her thoughts, not thinking she should measure what she said. To Bill, she had always spoken what she felt.
His eyes moved from the window and settled on her face. ‘I don’t think you do wish that,’ he answered. There was a thin metal edge in the words.
Connie was lost for a response.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, after a moment.
She got up from her seat and went to stand beside him. The black glass of the window reflected their faces.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘This week, I am going to look after Noah, do paperwork, write letters. Next week, go back to work. Next month, probably also work. Next year? The year after that? I don’t know, Connie. That’s the truth.’
‘You’re wise not to make too many plans. Or to place yourself under any obligations.’
She saw his reflection incline its head. He was so sad that her heart knocked in her chest with pity.
Connie half-turned from the window. She touched her hand to Bill’s arm, then withdrew it.
‘I’ll be at the flat if you need me.’
He came out into the hall, handed her her bag and helped her on with her coat.
‘If there’s anything I can do,’ she began again.
‘Thanks, Connie.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, cold-lipped, as if she were one of the neighbours. He stood in the doorway, his hands at his sides, watching her cross the gravel to her parked car. As she drove out of the gate the door closed behind him and the porch light blinked off.
She navigated the country lanes with furious concentration.
Grief. Everything that was happening to them was a manifestation of grief and it did not have an expiry date, or a set term to run. She was only just beginning to comprehend the pervasiveness of it, but one certainty was growing in her. Jeanette’s death was as much of a barrier between Bill and herself as their marriage had ever been. (Connie made herself articulate these thoughts with cold precision.) And that was as it should be. She had made her own pledge to Jeanette, back in the garden of the Surrey house. The separation that she and Bill thought they had endured for so many years was, in reality, only just beginning.
It was still only the middle of the evening, although it felt to Connie somewhere closer to the dead of night. As she came to the outskirts of London she saw the blue-and-green neon lights of a bar/café that she had often noticed on her route out to Surrey. She was very thirsty, and also hungry.
In a booth in the corner of the bar she ordered a drink and food. While she was waiting to be served she reluctantly turned on her mobile. Immediately it started to ring, and the text-message envelope simultaneously blinked at her.
The first voicemail message was from Angela.
‘Con, I got your email. I’m really worried. Of course you can count on me, whatever you need. Call me when you get this.’
There were three or four others, on similar lines. The last one was from Seb.
‘Connie? What’s happening? I’m in Chicago but you can reach me on this number any time.’
She read through the text messages, and found more of the same. She realised that she had more friends and supporters than she would have estimated, and that was a happy discovery. She didn’t know what was in the email all these people were referring to, but she could make an informed guess.
Blindly, she had put off doing anything about the escalating crisis in her affairs until the funeral was over. She had not been able to find the necessary reserves of energy and application even to think logically about it. But now, plainly, she was going to have to deal with the situation.
A waitress wearing a plastic name badge that read Olga put a bottle of water and a bowl of noodles in front of her. Connie drank all the water and attacked the food. It was, she thought, quite a long time since she had eaten a meal. The hot noodles quickly disappeared. As she ate she was working out what needed to be done.
The text message she sent to Angela read: Didn’t send email. Laptop stolen. My sister’s funeral today. I’ll call you. She dealt with the others in similar fashion. Restored by hot food she drank a cup of coffee, paid her bill with a generous tip for Olga, and headed back to her car.
The apartment was in darkness. Connie glanced out at the diamond grid of the city, then clicked on the lights.
‘Roxana?’ she called.
Roxana wasn’t at home. They had had one difficult encounter on Connie’s return from Bali, when Roxana had handed over keys for the new locks and blurted out apologies that Connie was too distracted to process, but since then she had made herself invisible.
Connie went down the corridor to Roxana’s room and looked in. The bed was made, the beach postcard was in its usual place and Connie was reassured by the sight, but she would have liked it even better if Roxana had been there in person. In spite of the mushrooming chaos the girl had caused, Connie found herself wishing for her company. She didn’t work at The Cosmos Club any longer, and she wasn’t with Noah because he was with Bill in Surrey. She hoped that wherever she actually was, she was safe.
In the room that before the burglary had been her office and studio, she studied the place on the desk once occupied by her laptop. The drawers of her cabinets were closed on the ransacked files; she had done that much after the police concluded their cursory investigations.
The red numerals on her landline’s answering function indicated that she had eleven messages.
Connie sighe
d. She looked at her watch. It was only ten forty.
‘Ange? You’re not in bed, are you?’
‘What? It’s only just past teatime.’ Connie could almost see her I’m-hardcore-me-I-am face, and it made her laugh. Angela was launching into rapid questions and assurances, cutting across Connie’s incongruous giggle.
‘I hope the funeral went all right.’
‘Yes. It was done as these things have to be done.’
‘That’s good, at least. Con, I’m so sorry you’ve got all this shit to deal with as well. I just wanted to say, money’s no problem, I can lend you a couple of grand straight off and if you need more we can work a commission of some sort through the company, I’ve got a commercial coming up that you could…’
‘Angie, Angie, hang on. What are you talking about? Money’s gone out of a couple of my accounts and it seems my credit cards are maxed out, but I’m not quite destitute. Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need a loan…’
‘So what did you mean in that email? You said you were in trouble with money, just cash flow, because you’d been the victim of some fraud, and could I help out for a week or so? You gave the details of a new safe account that you’d set up. Remember?’
Connie sat down.
‘You didn’t transfer any money to it, did you? Please tell me you didn’t.’
‘No. I thought I’d speak to you first. But the money’s yours as soon…’
‘It’s another scam. It’s from them. I think that message has probably gone out to every single person in my email address book.’
‘But the new account’s yours, it’s in your name.’
‘They’ve used my details to set it up, yes, but the access to it will be theirs. As soon as money comes in from anyone I know who falls for it, the account will be emptied and they’ll be off.’
‘You can’t set up an account just like that. Money-laundering regulations.’
‘Angie, I know. But they’ve hacked into my laptop. They’ve got all my account details, all my personal information. They went through my office. They took my UK driving licence with photo ID, they even took my file of utility bills. Of course they can set up another account, that’s the least of it. They’ll probably be in the office tomorrow, trying to sell you the music I was working on. And now it seems they’ve got all my friends and business contacts thinking I’m out on the street, and transferring money so I don’t have to sit on a sheet of cardboard next to the cash machine with a sign reading homeless and hungry. Even Seb got the touch from them.’
‘Shit,’ Angie said.
‘What did the email actually say?’
‘I’d have to go and look, to tell you the precise words. But it sounded just like you.’
‘Clever.’
‘I feel responsible. If Roxana hadn’t met that man in our office…’
‘You aren’t responsible, Ange. Not even Roxana is, really. Any word on Signor Antonelli?’
‘The police interviewed Max. Antonelli was just coldcalling, blagged his way to a meeting, came back a second time on a pretext, and met Roxana in reception. He’s disappeared. No one in Rome knows him, it turns out.’
‘What a surprise. Was Roxana working today?’
‘Yep, she was here. Are you unhappy about that? Because…’
‘No. I’m glad. I’m worried about her. Look, Angie, I’ve got to try to contact people before they deposit money in that account.’
‘How, if they’ve got your laptop and the address book?’
Connie thought rapidly. ‘That’s no problem, I’ve got all my files backed up. I’ll go out first thing, buy a new laptop…’
‘Er, I thought your cards were all duff?’
I have no being, Connie suddenly realised. No ready money, no credit, no way of buying what I need to set myself back on track. As panic seized her she remembered how, when they first met, Roxana had owned no bank account, had no security, and no one to turn to for help except the Buntings and herself.
Angela said, ‘Listen, bring your disks or whatever you’ve got into the office first thing. I’ve got a spare laptop and Jez from IT will do the business on it for you.’
She did have a being. Of course the theft of her credit cards and a few personal details couldn’t undermine it.
‘Thanks, Ange. You’re a real friend.’
‘I’ll see you in the morning, then.’
Connie lay awake until she heard the sound of Roxana’s key in the lock, and her soft footsteps on the way to her own bed. Then she turned over and fell asleep.
‘I’ll come in with you,’ Connie said to her in the morning. Roxana spun round from the sink where she was rinsing her plate and mug.
‘What? Where to?’
‘To Oyster Films. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I still have some work for them, I do not know how long it will last.’
Roxana’s mouth turned down at the corners. Connie noticed that she had discarded her big-buttoned jacket in favour of her old Soviet-style denims, and her crest of blonde hair was showing dark at the roots. All the gleam and bounce had gone out of her. She looked smaller, with the doughy softness of vulnerability about her.
‘Come on then,’ Connie said gently. ‘We’ll get the bus together.’
They found adjacent seats. Roxana stared past Connie at the rush-hour streets and the bobbing heads of people bearing newspapers and Starbucks lattes and shoulder-bags weighted with work towards their desks. To Roxana, the city tide seemed to be streaming away from her and leaving her on an uncomfortable shore.
Connie sent another batch of text messages.
Please DO NOT deposit any money. All a hoax. I will explain today.
Then she stowed her phone away. Roxana’s face was turned aside.
‘Roxana?’
‘Yes.’ The syllable slid out between frozen lips.
Connie told her, ‘No one’s blaming you for anything. I can imagine exactly how it happened. It was a mistake, and you won’t make it again.’
Roxana’s shoulders twitched. ‘I don’t know. There are too many things I do not understand. At first it seems a simple business, that you can step into another country and work hard and make yourself what you want. But that is only what you see at first look, because when you look again there are so many things you cannot see. How can you learn them? Not at English language classes. These do not teach you how to be English, do they? You and Angela, even that Zoe, you would know at once that Mr Antonelli is not a person to trust. But all I see is a man with a fine watch, and charming behaviour and a card that tells me he is in the movie business. So I believe what he says to me, and I take him and his friend as guests up to your apartment because I want to make them think I am someone who matters in this world. Then it turns out that he is not what he says, much more than I am not.’
Her lovely mouth twisted. ‘All I am is a stupid girl with stupid ideas about being an English girl. And this is the way I repay you for your kindness and for pulling me out of the sea. How much money have these men stolen from you, Connie? Because I will pay it back to you. I will do it if it takes me my whole life.’
Connie’s mobile rang in her bag. She thumbed it into silence without a glance.
‘I’m going to show you something, Roxana.’
She reached inside the collar of her coat, searching for where the thin cord lay next to her skin. She drew out a tiny silk pouch that hung from the loop of cord and eased it open, then withdrew the marcasite earring. Since the news of the burglary, she had taken to carrying it everywhere with her. She held it cupped in the palm of her hand for Roxana to examine.
‘Money, credit cards? None of that matters in the least. The bank and the card issuers will be responsible for most of it anyway. What else? Laptop, musical and studio equipment, a few rings and necklaces, a camera, some clothes? All of those I can easily replace. I am insured. Putting my affairs to rights again? That will take some time and a bit of effort, but I’ve got time to spa
re. This earring is the only thing, the one and only inanimate object I possess, that I truly value and could never replace. And I’ve still got it. It’s safe here, in my hand.’
Connie closed her fist over it, and smiled.
A spark had rekindled in Roxana’s eyes.
‘It is pretty, yes, but you have only one?’
Connie craned to see the bus’s whereabouts. They would reach their stop in not more than five minutes.
‘Long story. I’ll tell you quickly.’
Roxana listened. After a minute she kept her eyes on Connie’s clenched fist, as if the bus might give a more than usually brutal jolt and shake the earring out of her grasp.
At the end of the brief recounting, Roxana breathed out through parted lips.
‘If those men had stolen your mother’s earring away from you, I think I would have died,’ she said.
Connie was going to laugh with her, but then she saw that Roxana was serious.
They reached their stop. Connie slipped the earring back into its pouch and buried it beneath the layers of her clothes.
At Oyster Films, Roxana made her way, head down, to her desk where her pre-production legwork for the St Petersburg shoot was waiting. Angela was in her office, on the telephone, with the door shut. Connie collected the spare laptop from the receptionist and carried it off to Jez. He was frowning and clicking at the keys when her mobile rang yet again. Sorry, she mouthed at him, and retreated to a quiet corner.
‘Hello, is that Ms Thorne?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hello there, this is Annette from Harrods’ fine jewellery department? Just a courtesy call to make sure you’re happy with those adjustments to your necklace, Ms Thorne?’
A few questions established that Ms Constance Thorne had purchased a diamond and pearl necklace, had requested that two links be removed to ensure a better fit around her slim neck – urgently, because she was going abroad and wanted to take the lovely necklace with her – and had paid for the item (more money than Connie had ever spent on a single purchase in her life) with her new store card.