They left the restaurant, strolling slowly past an urban garden area with grasses and a waterfall, cool in the shadow of the towering buildings overhead. Nathan paused, reaching in his pocket for a business card. He found a pen and scribbled another phone number on the back.
“If you could make copies of everything and send it my way, that would be a start.”
Alice gave a short laugh. “That makes, what, four now? The solicitor, the police, the bank…”
“I’ll buy shares in Xerox.” Nathan chuckled. “And think if there’s anything Ella said that could be a clue,” he added. “Even the smallest details are good for the hunt.”
“You like the thrill of the chase,” Alice said, strangely disappointed.
“No, I like the catching,” Nathan shot back with a grin.
Alice studied him, intrigued. “How did you even get into this?” she asked. “Tracking down missing millions, I mean.” It came out sounding only a little dramatic, but Alice knew that her deposit must be insignificant compared with the kind of cases he usually took: Stefan and his kind were not men who usually fretted over a stray thirty thousand.
Nathan took a seat on one of the wrought-iron benches and shrugged. “My dad was a cop—just a regular patrolman, nothing fancy—but he would always complain how they were running around after every street punk in the city while the real criminals were off on their yachts somewhere. So, I set up to do the job for him. I get to pick and choose my clients, only take the most interesting cases…”
“Like fraud and deception,” Alice finished. “But doesn’t it frustrate you—all the unanswered questions and dead ends? I’ve only known about Ella for a week, but already I feel like I’m going mad, trying to understand what she did.”
“I’m not so attached,” Nathan pointed out. “But the great thing about what I do is, the data never lie. The answers are always there. You’ve just got to know where to look.”
“My data lied!” Alice objected. “Look at all the damage Ella did because people believed my details.”
Nathan paused, looking at her sideways for a moment as if he was itching to disagree. Alice wondered why he was even bothering to show restraint and made a gesture as if to say, “Go on.”
“With you, it wasn’t so much the facts that were wrong; it was the context. What happened—what she bought and claimed and where the money went—that’s all fact. Undeniable. Someone took X amount of money from Y ATM on some specific date. Now, whether or not that was you, it doesn’t really figure. Someone did.”
“I suppose,” Alice agreed, reluctant. Her chances of finding Ella seemed slimmer by the day; Nathan might be her only hope left.
“I better be going now.” Nathan got up, extending his hand with mock formality. “Good seeing you again, Ms. Love.”
She shook his hand. “You too.”
“And remind Flora to call about those statues…” With a last casual joke, he left.
Alice watched him walk away, wondering for a moment how different things would be now if she’d said yes, if she’d gone to Paris with him on that whim. Would it have become something real and thrilling or just faded away—a brief spark swiftly extinguished by the reality of his snoring and her need for an ergonomic pillow? He seemed so unaffected by her now.
She’d done the right thing, Alice decided, slipping into the crowd and making her way slowly back toward Cassie’s. She wasn’t designed for foolish spontaneity any more than she was meant for this listless wallowing she’d been caught up in recently. Enough of mourning Ella’s betrayals, Alice decided firmly. She was gone.
It was time to pull her life back together.
Chapter Nine
Moving on, however, proved something of a challenge for Alice when there were still credit agents harassing her daily and the bank to contend with. As Nathan predicted, it only took the words “known to the victim” for the bank to abandon its helpful reassurances and become a cold, unsympathetic foe. To read the official rejection of her claims made it sound as if she were some kind of financial harlot, wantonly waving her PIN number around for anyone to see and practically forcing her security answers on any new acquaintance. Alice half expected to find her file marked “Asking for It” in some secret internal memo.
The debt collectors weren’t quite so polite.
“No, you’re not listening,” she tried again, as the man on the other end of the line at Cash4U began another ominous rant about the dire consequences that would ensue if she didn’t make an immediate payment. It was first thing in the morning, and she hadn’t even climbed out of bed before her phone began to ring. “I’ve been a victim of identity fraud. There will be no payments while the police investigate.”
She had the speech learned by heart. Stefan had recommended it, to keep her from getting frustrated or overemotional—as he had kindly put it. He was right. Even now, on what must be her twentieth call, Alice found herself faltering at the grim threat in the man’s voice.
“If you keep defaulting on your loan, we’ll have to resort to more drastic action. We have your address on file, Alice.”
She shivered, giving brief thanks that she didn’t live there anymore. Then Alice realized she was going to have to get in touch with her old landlord, to warn him that bailiffs might soon be showing up on the new tenants’ doorstep.
“We’ll be applying for copies of the loan contract,” Alice pressed on. “My legal representative will be in touch. It really wasn’t me,” she added.
The man was unimpressed. “All our debtors go through multiple antifraud checks.”
“I know,” Alice apologized. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry won’t get you anywhere. If you think you can just weasel out of—”
Alice gulped. “I appreciate your patience and understanding,” she parroted quickly. “Good-bye!”
She sat a moment, the phone still gripped tightly in her hands. She was going to need a new number if this kept up or maybe even a sparkling new identity of her own. But they couldn’t touch her, she reminded herself. The paperwork would take a while, but everything would be all right in the end.
She had to believe that.
***
When Alice finally emerged from her makeshift bedroom, Cassie greeted her with an expression of wide-eyed astonishment. “You’re up?”
“Surprise,” Alice replied, crossing to the kitchen area. Thanks to Flora, at least the cupboards were well stocked; Cassie seemed to subsist on a curious diet of soy yogurts and sushi. “I have to get back to work before Vivienne loses her mind”—and she lost her job.
Selecting a small brioche loaf from Flora’s bounty, Alice cut a few slices and opened a glossy jar of strawberry jam, adorned with a sheet of red-polka-dot paper and a matching ribbon. Adding a handful of fresh apricots to her plate, she slid onto a stool by the breakfast bar and began to eat. God, it was good.
Cassie stretched, rolling over on her yoga mat. “I knew you’d snap out of it eventually.”
That wasn’t quite the case, but Alice preferred to focus on her breakfast rather than explain all the ways her heart was still broken. “What are you up to this week?” she changed the subject. “Any more auditions?”
Cassie shrugged, twisting her legs into an elaborate pretzel shape as if she were double jointed. Her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, spilling down over a thin white tank top that concealed absolutely nothing. She stretched up and backward, dipping almost to the floor. “Later, maybe. I have some lunches…”
It always amazed Alice how much of Cassie’s career revolved around these lunches—with producers, casting agents, and directors. Never mind show reels, screen tests, or the little she actually ate—jobs seemed to materialize as if by magic in those back booths at exclusive eateries or on the terrace at the latest chic bar.
Perhaps that was what they needed to try with Rupert to revitalize his stalled career: just send him on an intensive lunching tour, and soon every dashing young hero role would be his.
/> “Anything good coming up?” she asked.
Cassie shrugged. “There’s a support part in the next Keira film…” She pulled one perfectly trim ankle behind her head. Alice averted her gaze.
“That sounds wonderf—” She stopped. A strange man had wandered into the living area, wrapped in Alice’s Chinese silk robe. She blinked. An expanse of tanned thigh was visible beneath the pale trim, riding perilously high.
Cassie looked up. “Oh, this is Vitolio. From that club night?”
“Ah, hi, Vitolio,” Alice ventured.
He gave her a casual nod, strolling over to the coffee machine as if there were nothing untoward about lounging around in her intimates. And maybe to him, there wasn’t.
“So, the audition,” Alice stumbled, trying to act normal. A little warning would have been nice.
“Hmm, oh, yes.” Cassie was distracted by the newcomer too, raking her eyes over his body as he made the coffee. He reached up to a cupboard for a mug and the robe rose even higher. Oh!
Alice made a mental note to buy a new gown.
“I better get going!” she exclaimed brightly, leaping up. Quickly tucking her breakfast into a couple of paper napkins, Alice found her bag and keys and bolted toward the door.
“Mmm-hmm,” Cassie murmured, her head still tilted sideways in admiration. “Maybe call first? Before you come home, I mean.”
Alice stared at her, blank.
“You know…” Cassie broke into a dazzlingly seductive smile as Vitolio wandered back toward her with the coffee. “To check.”
“Right,” Alice answered quietly, leaving before they could give her a visual demonstration of whatever it was she was supposed to check for. Privacy was out of her price range, she reminded herself, hurrying downstairs as certain, interesting noises began to emerge from the flat. Privacy and unadulterated clean laundry.
***
The office, as expected, was in a state of vague chaos. Alice entered the checker-floored lobby to find FedEx boxes and post piled high in every corner, florists’ bouquets wilting gently on the side table, and a collection of mugs in various states of moldering decay.
“Saskia?” she called, slipping off her jacket and into her familiar organization mode. To tell the truth, it felt something of a relief to have some mess other than her own life to focus on. “Saskia, where are you?”
“Hello?” Saskia wandered out of the back room, an open bottle of nail varnish in her hand and three purple fingertips. She stopped dead at the sight of Alice. “Oh. I thought you’d be off another week.”
“I made a speedy recovery.” Alice began flipping through the nearest stack of post. “What’s been happening? Some of these arrived days ago.”
“Vivienne’s been on holiday,” Saskia replied, as if that were an answer. Absently blowing on one hand, she blinked at Alice. “She decided to take a break at her Suffolk cottage.”
“Right.” Alice gave her a cool smile. “But that doesn’t explain why this place looks like a student’s dorm room. Hasn’t the cleaner been?”
Saskia looked blank. “I don’t know. Was she supposed to?”
“He,” Alice corrected, sweeping the mugs up and walking briskly through the office. Although it was past ten, several of the agents were missing, and every nook had a look of unkempt abandonment. And as for those who were there—well, Alice spotted one episode of The Office, two chat windows, and a decidedly unsafe-for-work screensaver as she breezed through to the tiny kitchen. “The agency number is in your file, so why don’t you give them a call and find out what’s happened?”
“OK.” Saskia bobbed her head reluctantly.
“And in the meantime, you should do a quick tidy up,” Alice added, ignoring the expression of distaste that came over the assistant’s face. “We can’t have clients seeing the place like this. Cleaning supplies are in the bottom cupboard!”
She left Saskia gingerly pulling on a rubber glove and returned to crisis management duties out front. The post was swiftly distributed to appropriate agents, a stern peek over their shoulder dealt with the extracurricular web activities, and as for the blinking answer machine…Vivienne could face that delight on her return. Alice was just wading through the last stack of faxes when the bell above the front door chimed and a tall, handsome man sauntered in.
“Hi there.” He fixed her with a dashing smile. His voice was arched with public school vowels and blue eyes were sparkling beneath the careless flop of his blond hair. Propping an elbow on the front of the reception desk, he casually surveyed the room. “Nick Savage. I have a meeting with Tyrell.”
Alice gave him an absent smile. “I think he’s been out,” she answered carefully, holding her finger in place in the middle of the pages. “But I’ll have someone check for you.”
“Great.” He flashed a grin at her again, running one hand through that artful fringe. “And if I could get a coffee? Soy no-fat latte with extra vanilla.”
Alice paused at the arrogance in his tone, but he had already turned away to check his reflection in the polished prints of screen greats that hung on every wall. Charming.
Alice found Saskia leaning against a dirty counter, painting the remainder of her fingernails. “I need you to run out to Starbucks,” Alice told her, trying not to notice the stack of mugs waiting, untouched in the sink. She better find that agency number…
“I’m sorry, but that’s not really my job.” Saskia had the nerve to smile at her with faux sincerity. “I need to stay in the office, for the phones. You understand.”
Alice took a deep breath. “It’s not for me; it’s for a client. And regardless of your job, the clients always come first.”
“Nick’s here?” Immediately, Saskia brightened. Putting down the tiny bottle, she blew frantically on her nails. “Is my hair OK?”
Alice managed not to roll her eyes. “Yes, Saskia, your hair is just fine.”
“Fab!” Saskia quickly sashayed out toward reception, but Alice lingered in the back, taking a detour by the agency board. Vivienne kept large charts of client activity, for the agents to keep track of each other’s bookings—and to inspire what she liked to term “the natural hunger of professionals.” In other words, competition. Scanning the various notes, Alice was surprised to see that this Nick Savage was already a client—and booked solid with auditions and meetings. Rupert, on the other hand, had a lone penciled comment reading, “Rom-com walk-on? (director also did The Descent 3: Return to Hell).”
Alice felt the first stirring of unease. Had Vivienne found a replacement to fill Rupert’s dashing breeches?
Out by the front desk, she found Saskia and Nick engaged in a time-old ritual of fluttering eyelashes and dazzling grins.
“Just a small place, to get away.” Nick was still leaning against the desk, eyes drifting down to appreciate the flash of cleavage in Saskia’s hastily unbuttoned blouse. “It’s so beautiful down there, I always find it so inspiring.”
“Mmm,” Saskia breathed, gazing at him with rapt adoration. “I just love Dorset. I always think of Thomas Hardy and what an influence the wild landscape had on his passions.”
Alice watched them from the doorway, amused. Any minute now, Saskia would be quoting old university essays about extended metaphors, and Nick would break into a monologue.
“Ah, Hardy.” Nick nodded, switching from roguish charm to serious artiste in a moment. At least he had range. “I starred as Jude at the Playhouse up at Oxford last year. What was it he said about destiny?” There was a pause, and a furrowed brow. “He might battle with his evil star—”
Oh, God, not this. Alice cleared her throat. “Saskia, that coffee?”
She looked over, resentful, but Nick quickly spoke up: “Oh, there’s no need. I’m fine.”
Of course he was.
Alice was about to exile Saskia back to the kitchen and save herself a reenactment of the poor playwright’s collected works when the door chimed again, and Tyrell sauntered in.
“Nick, you savage b
east you!” A complex ritual of fist bumping and back slapping ensued. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long. Had a crazy meeting over at Working Title.” Tyrell tapped a finger to his nose and pointed at Nick. “Got some things coming up, perfect for you, but it’s all still hush-hush.”
“No problem,” Nick laughed, still nonchalant. “They’ve been taking care of me here.”
“Of course we have!” Tyrell pounded him on the shoulder. “Our Alice is a gem.” Sending a wink over his shoulder at her, he steered Nick toward the door. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
Alice watched them go with a shiver of distaste: a matching pair of designer suits and oversized egos. Oh, it was petty of her, she knew, to fault them for their infinite ambition when she was the one left filing papers—again—but Alice also knew without any doubt at all that each of them would happily stab the other in the back and trample all over the bleeding body to get ahead. Like some other people…
As she gathered up her papers and retreated to her attic, Alice wondered again how she could have been so wrong about Ella. Of all her friends, she would never have expected her to be the one to let her down—Cassie, in an episode of single-minded selfishness, perhaps; Flora, out of thoughtlessness; but Ella? And to do it in such a heartless, manipulative fashion? Alice could never have imagined. Even Julian—who had spent long evenings with both of them—was shocked by her duplicity. But of course, that was the point. It wasn’t out of character, because Ella had never had a character to begin with—or rather, it was all character: carefully constructed, artfully performed. The perfect friend.
Alice knew she was supposed to move on and put the whole matter out of her mind, but as she slowly settled back into her office—dusting down surfaces, watering the poor and neglected window box, and deleting the twenty-odd threatening phone messages from debt collection agencies—she couldn’t shake that deep sadness that came over her whenever she thought of Ella. There wasn’t a single detail of their time together she could look to as genuine or a moment that meant anything at all. Not a single detail.
The Liberation of Alice Love Page 9