I spent the next few hours in a very unfamiliar fashion. First I managed to secure a walk-in, as I now know it to be called, at Michaeljohn in Kensington High Street. There I had a wash and blow-dry. Then I had a leg wax in Valentino’s opposite. Next I went to Zara and bought something totally unlike me but oh so Claudia. It was in the palest pink silky material, a shift dress, summery, slight – so slight I shivered but, boy, it felt good – and I had my nails done too, what was left of them. Obviously the whole thing cost a small fortune and I shut my eyes and prayed every time my debit card was sucked away, expecting ‘transaction denied’ with every nervous tap of the digits, but miraculously, it all went through smoothly. I then had a teeny-weeny lunch as befitted the teeny-weeny person I was about to become, shivering slightly, perched on a bench in Holland Park. It was a minuscule tub of sushi from M&S and naturally as I raised the first peck to my lips, a slimy slick of salmon slopped straight into the lap of my new dress. I limped to a handy water fountain and mopped it feverishly with a tissue which left a mark and some bobbles of tissue. No matter, I decided, it would dry, and I walked back to Essex Villas, shaking my dress periodically to air it.
By now it was about two o’clock but I’d deliberately left it late, not wanting to appear back at the homestead before Paddy. It wasn’t that idle chit-chat with the Campbell parents should they materialize made me nervous – OK, it did a bit – it was more that I wanted to breeze in after him, looking great. Naturally I’d been anxiously checking my phone all morning, but to no avail. No message. Although this was understandable, I decided on reflection. Paddy was not the sort of man to text blow-by-blow updates as I would – ‘just arrived’, ‘plan in progress’, ‘going well’ – no. Unlike me, he’d execute a plan, return and deliver a verdict in a concise, non-pejorative manner. I’d already become far less nervous about the actual outcome of the plan and had barely given it a second thought this morning for two reasons. One was the pressing business at the nail bar and Simone’s tutting over my disastrous cuticles, but the other was the fact that the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I hadn’t signed the document. I distinctly remembered resting my head on that glass coffee table and the pen slipping from my hand. It was odd how that had come back to me. Had I remembered it because I wanted to? I didn’t think so. I felt it absolutely to be so.
I quickened my pace excitedly around the corner into Essex Villas, just as Paddy, a man I would never normally associate with taxis – always jeeps and tractors – stepped from what must have been one of many for him today. As he paid the driver, he did a double take.
‘God, I almost didn’t recognize you. What are you wearing?’
‘What, this?’
‘It looks like a nightie.’
‘No, it’s not a nightie.’
‘Have you peed on it or something?’
‘What?’
‘There’s a huge mark on your crotch. What’s happened to your hair?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘It looks like a helmet.’
‘Oh. Must be the wind. Blown it straight.’
‘Looks ridiculous. Anyway, let’s go in, you’ll freeze in that.’
I followed him up the path, thinking what a sickening waste of two hundred pounds that had been, and wondered what was to follow.
In the black-and-white flagstone hall he shut the door behind us with that classy ‘huff’ and then, instead of filling me in, turned and carried on down to the kitchen in his clicky brogues without a word.
‘Well?’ I breathed, running after him. He filled the kettle, snapped it on then turned. Grinned.
‘It worked. A treat.’
‘Did it? Oh, good!’ I clapped my hands excitedly. ‘Oh, excellent. I was convinced he’d smell a rat!’
‘No, no rats. He fell for it hook, line and sinker. Took the bait about his son’s highly acclaimed artwork, didn’t stop for a moment to remember he’d shafted Willem a few years ago – greeted him like an old friend, in fact; presumably he shafts his friends every day – and couldn’t hustle us into his studio quickly enough. Inside, all the lighting had been dropped and angled and positioned to make it look like an art gallery, and his son’s works were dotted about on plinths he’d clearly brought in specially. There was nothing else in the room at all work-wise and all the blinds were closed. It was rather impressive, actually. His son’s definitely got style.’
‘Oh.’ I felt momentarily sorry for Felix, so proud of his son.
‘But all marked up ridiculously high. Willem says he’s seen the son’s work in Mount Street going for much less, but of course, had we been for real, Willem would be taking a commission, so that would have suited him too. And as a rich Arabian just flown in from Dubai, I wouldn’t necessarily know. I was simply representing my sheik back home, and the corporate finance bank he owns.’
‘Arabian. Golly, is that what you were pretending to be? Did you speak?’
‘Not in English, because as Willem explained to Felix, I don’t, only French as a second language, learned while studying at INSEAD. And I wore dark glasses too, even inside. We thought about going the whole hog with robes but decided I’d probably be more of a suited businessman. Also Willem thought he might get the giggles every time he looked at me.’
I snorted. ‘God, I wish I’d been there. And he left you there? In the studio?’
‘He did, eventually. We looked at everything in great detail, then prevaricated over the two most expensive pieces, me in French, Willem in German. It got later and later. Felix started hopping about from foot to foot and looking at his watch and tapping his phone and clearly getting no response from his father, and finally Willem said, “Do you have another appointment?” So Felix said, “No, it’s only lunch with my father, he’ll understand if I don’t show up.” Willem looked shocked at this and translated for me, at which point I looked really shocked. I started to say a few things under my breath in my own tongue – I had an Arabic friend at university and obviously made it up too – and Willem looked agitated and nervous. He hastily explained to Felix that in my culture it would be unheard of to do what he had just suggested, at which point I looked downright disgusted and started to back away from his son’s work. Felix looked highly alarmed and said – no, no, quite right, he was off to meet his father right now. He wouldn’t leave an old man waiting; he’d only been trying to let him know he’d be late. Would we kindly see ourselves out, he asked, and shut the door behind us, then let him know which piece we wanted? We agreed that of course we would and became all smiley again, inching forward towards the most expensive sculpture, which was under a light on a plinth. I got a tiny magnifying glass out and peered and Felix beamed and purred and backed out of the room, twisting his hands like Uriah Heep. We heard the front door shut behind him.’
‘Oh – excellent!’ I crowed, jumping up and down on the spot in my wet nightie with my poker-straight hair. ‘So then you had a good look round?’
‘We did. There’s so little furniture in that place we found it almost immediately. It was in the top drawer of a bureau in the drawing room.’
‘Splendid. And?’
‘Yes, all very splendid, up until that point. After that it all went a bit tits up, Molly.’
I stared at him. Felt the blood drain from my face right down to my shoes. ‘Shit. I signed it?’
He nodded. Reached in his inside jacket pocket and handed me a sheaf of papers. ‘I’m afraid you did. You signed it.’
25
I sat down heavily on a stool at the breakfast bar, the papers in my hand. There, sure enough, on the last page, right at the bottom on a dotted line in black ink, was my signature. Flowing rather confidently, actually: nothing equivocal about that. Bugger. I massaged my forehead furiously with my fingertips. I must have lost about three minutes of my life in that alcohol- or drug-fuelled haze. Three minutes when I lifted my head from the glass table, regrouped and, with a rush of blood to the head – possibly even another slug of wine – s
eized the pen and executed a flourishing autograph, before collapsing in a sozzled heap in Felix’s arms, and thereafter his bed. And what had I signed, anyway? This wordy, lengthy document which went on for ever. What was it all about?
‘Have you read it?’ I asked, feeling a bit sick.
‘I have. In the taxi. Haven’t you?’
My mind instinctively flew to the lie direct. But something in his steady dark gaze as I glanced up stopped me. ‘Not … entirely. Not … terribly thoroughly, anyway. In fact – no.’
‘You didn’t read it before signing it?’
‘I was pissed, Paddy. So pissed. What can I say?’
He didn’t answer. Suddenly I felt unutterably stupid. There was nothing ditsy or charming or amusing about a woman of my age – a woman of any age – behaving like this. It was infantile. I was ashamed of myself, truly horrified. What must he think?
‘Go on then,’ I said as he sat down beside me. ‘Tell me the worst. What have I done?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, most of it is standard legalistic jargon which means nothing much at all really, just stating the bleeding obvious in terms of property law and no doubt there as padding to ensure you didn’t wade through it and get to the nub of the matter.’
‘Which is?’ I said, my mouth drying.
‘Which is …’ he flipped over quite a few pages, ‘on page seven. Paragraph five, second clause down. It reads: “I therefore affirm that I give licence for Mr Robert Carrington to reside at said property, thirty-two Lastow Mews, until he chooses to relocate, or in the event of his death.” ’
I blinked. ‘Oh, well, that’s OK. No, that’s fine, Paddy. That’s what I was intending to do anyway. After all, it’s only fair, he and Cuthbert were practically—’
‘Wait,’ he interrupted. ‘ “I also transfer rights of contract to the property to Robert Carrington henceforth, and thereafter on his death to his heirs in perpetuity.” ’ Paddy looked up.
I stared. ‘Right. So that means I’ve …’
‘Signed away the deeds.’
‘To Felix.’
‘Eventually, effectively to Felix, yes. Because of the transferral of contract.’
I swallowed. ‘Bastard.’
‘I agree.’
‘He stitched me up.’
‘Very tightly. In fact he put in an extra stitch towards the end just for good measure.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I therefore testify that the aforementioned transfer—’
‘OK,’ I muttered, holding up my hand to stop him and shutting my eyes. ‘Don’t … go on. I get the picture.’ I gulped. Felt wretched. And very panicky. ‘But – we can tear it up, can’t we? Burn it? Then it doesn’t exist.’
‘This is a copy, Molly. I printed it on his scanner. I didn’t take the original.’
‘Why not?’ I yelped.
‘Because that would be stealing,’ he said patiently.
‘Yes, but—’
‘And I have no doubt he’s lodged another copy elsewhere anyway, with a solicitor, probably. He’s not an idiot.’
‘No. Right.’ I felt a bit faint, licked my lips. ‘He kept saying I could speak to his solicitor, give him a ring, he even gave me his card.’
‘To embarrass you, no doubt. Make you feel guilty should you take him up on it.’
‘Do you think the solicitor’s dodgy too?’
‘No, I doubt it, just a normal one, who will have no idea you’ve been coerced into signing this.’
‘By foul means, with lashings of champagne – drugged, even, you thought.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But it’s too late to find out now.’
‘Won’t it be in my hair?’
‘Only in films.’
‘So it’s my word against his? That he coerced me?’
‘Yes.’
I nodded miserably. Stared down at the document in my hands. ‘So … this is legal and binding?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Felix said something about – if there was anything I didn’t like in it, I could change it.’
‘Bollocks you can. Don’t be a fool, Moll.’
I nodded wordlessly. There were no words. That said it all. A fool. And I’d once been so smart. So … qualified. A good degree. A great job. Which I juggled with my family. I wanted to tell him that I’d once headed up a team of eleven people, had my own department, made crucial executive decisions, even hired and fired. I’d read many contracts. Standard commercial contracts. What had happened to me? Men had happened to me. Men had been my downfall, ruined my life, because I’d let them. First Henri, on the domestic front, and now Felix on the economic one. I’d signed away an inheritance worth, ooh, heavens … a great deal of money, anyway. I felt sick. I imagined the children’s faces, Lucy’s in particular. Nico’s. And look at me now. In a stained, girly frock with a soggy patch on my crotch, a face full of slap and ridiculous teenage hair. Because of yet another man. Whose ex-girlfriend looked a bit like Sienna Miller. Who rocked this look, the one I was attempting, whilst I sank it. I took a deep breath: let it out shakily.
‘Paddy, I’m just going to go up and get changed. I’ll be down in a minute when I’ve given this some thought.’
He nodded, embarrassed, I thought. He got up to make himself a cup of coffee. I disappeared upstairs. In the spare room, I shed the dress, changed into a pair of jeans and a grey T-shirt I’d happily packed and a pair of trainers. Then I tied my hair back in a band and washed my face. I looked at myself for a long moment in the oval mirror perched on the beautiful chintzy, knick-knacky dressing table. I had a private word. Quite a long one. When I’d finished, I tidied the room and went downstairs with my laptop. Paddy had already got his in front of him and was sitting at the bar, tapping away. I perched beside him and did my own research. We both came to the same conclusion at about the same moment. He turned to me.
‘You’re stuffed.’
‘I know.’
‘There are no loopholes in a contract like this. No escape clauses.’
‘No.’
‘Which means you only have one conceivable option.’
‘Go and see Robert. Tell him what’s happened.’
‘Exactly.’
I gazed at Paddy. His eyes told me I must. That so much money said I must. My children said I must.
‘The thing is, Paddy, I will go, but I have to tell you, I have a feeling it will break his heart.’
‘You don’t know this man, Molly. You don’t know this family. They’re nothing to you.’
‘That’s not true. He was Cuthbert’s partner. And Cuthbert was family. David’s family. All he had. And the thing is, he’s a sweetie. A totally genuine sweetie. Which his son clearly isn’t. And I’m about to tell him that. Spill the beans.’
‘To which he’ll say—’
‘To which I’m almost certain he’ll say, “I rescind this contract immediately, Molly. Override it. Reject all claim on your property. In fact I’m going to move out now. Go straight to Broadstairs.” And he’ll never, ever see his son again in the same light.’
‘Because he’s an honourable man.’
‘Yes.’
‘And if he is such an honourable, intelligent man, do you not think he knows already?’
‘That his son’s a shit?’
‘Yes.’
I recalled Robert’s haunted eyes not long ago, looking over my shoulder as he suggested I should be careful.
‘Possibly. In some tiny corner of his soul. But it’s one thing to have an inkling and another to have a bloody great light shone. This is like being woken up by the Gestapo.’
‘I know,’ Paddy said, but it was spoken dispassionately.
I closed my laptop. ‘But I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it. I’d be an idiot not to.’
He gave me those steady brown eyes again. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘To check I go through with it?’
‘No, for moral support.’
‘Oh. Yes, please.’
And
so he did. That very day. Although no rush, we decided. After all, Robert was lunching with his son. He might be a while. We’d go after a sandwich, which Paddy made me, cheese and pickle, and another cup of coffee. And a read of the papers in the garden, although I couldn’t read anything. After that, we set off on foot. After all, it wasn’t far, just one end of Kensington to the other. We didn’t talk much on the way. He probably thought I was thinking through what I was going to say, but I wasn’t, actually. I knew what I’d say. The truth. Mum had at least taught me that. When in a very tight corner, a complete squeeze, it was the best option. The only option. No, I was thinking more about Robert’s reaction. The liver-spotted hand going to his brow, quivering slightly. Having to sit down at the table in that now familiar kitchen. Looking brave. But maybe needing a lie-down too, when we’d gone. And then not telling anyone. Certainly not sharing it with friends. How it would age him. How he might not play bowls this week, at the Hurlingham. Make an excuse to his teammates. How all shocks and bumps bruised us, chipped away at us, but how it was harder to withstand them at that sort of age.
I remembered walking along the river with Felix, as he told me about his father’s youth. Rather proudly, I recalled. Filling me in on all I didn’t know about Robert and Cuthbert. About how Robert had been a soldier in the Grenadier Guards, on active service in Malaya, but also ceremonial duty at Buckingham Palace, changing the guard. ‘All six foot four of him, plus a bearskin,’ Felix had laughed, ‘imagine!’ I had imagined. Tall and very handsome, no doubt, but living a lie, as others did in those days. How he must have suffocated his feelings. Denied them. Married. Had a child. But then, realizing he liked his comrades too much, he had left the army, Felix told me, and a couple of years later had bravely come out, because don’t forget, it had only been legal for a few years then. And then telling his wife, Cynthia, who, to his astonishment, had not turned a hair, Felix said. Had suspected – known, even – all along, but had loved him anyway, always. From the moment she’d met him as a dashing young officer at some Chelsea party. And then had so generously left him, so he could pursue his own life, with Cuthbert, and his beloved son Felix, who, although his mother brought him up, in Hampstead, Robert had unlimited access to. Every day, if he liked. And who he was so close to. Particularly since Cynthia had died young, at only fifty-six, of cancer. Felix and Robert had really bonded after that. I swallowed: watched my feet on the pavement in step with Paddy’s. And I was about to blow all that careful love and trust that Robert had put in place for his son. Blow it out of the water, with a bloody great grenade. Show Felix up for what he really was. A fraudster.
About Last Night . . . Page 29