Alice paused mid-polish, the cloth wavering in her hand. “The data never lie,” Nathan had said. He’d rhapsodized about the power of simple facts and figures, as if they were cryptic clues to be deciphered. He was tracking the money itself, forward through the trail of transfers and bank accounts Ella had to use to withdraw it from Alice’s account, but what about the other data?
Quickly, she put down her cleaning supplies and crossed to her desk, finding the ever-expanding file of statements and letters from banks and the solicitor. Pulling one at random, Alice perched in her chair and pored over it again:
03 APRIL. SELFRIDGES. LINGERIE 783-21. 56.99
04 APRIL. PRET A MANGER. CHKN SLD 4.99
08 APRIL. LNDN TRNSPT OYSTER 15.00
She’d checked through all this before, several times over, but before, she’d only been looking to see if it was her making the transaction or not. She’d registered the items, of course, but then Alice had been more concerned with the dates, times, and totals: cross-referencing with her own schedule to discount or add it to the list of fraudulent payments. Now, those same printed lines took on new meaning:
03 APRIL. SELFRIDGES. LINGERIE 783-21. 56.99
The data never lied. On a Wednesday afternoon, Ella had been in Selfridges, buying lingerie. They’d met for dinner that evening too—Alice’s own diary told her. Ella had said she’d been in the center of town for a product presentation and told a story about Jeanette, the flamboyant Italian account manager who wore transparent blouses over a shocking pink bra and reduced the men in the meeting to drooling idiots:
LINGERIE 783-21. 56.99
Pulling her keyboard closer, Alice quickly tapped in the product code and clicked through to an online catalog. The underwear appeared on the page. It was a matching set of silky briefs and a bra embroidered with delicate whorls of lace. Shocking pink. Italian made.
Alice stared at the screen for a long time. A new feeling was slowly creeping through her, replacing the helplessness and frustration she’d been trapped in for so long. Power.
Ella’s story had been lies—just another in the litany of untruths—but now, for the first time, Alice knew the truth. It wasn’t much, just the passing of a random weekday afternoon, but it was something. It was fact. And she had more of them: two months worth of statements, to be precise, spilling over with irrefutable, undeniable details about Ella and how she’d spent her time—and Alice’s money. Looking at the bulging file with new eyes, Alice was filled with a curious kind of excitement. She may not know anything for certain about her former friend, but Alice could know this much.
She pulled the file closer and began to read.
Chapter Ten
Alice hadn’t spent her entire adult life as an organized, purposeful woman for nothing; soon, she was focused on her new project with the same single-minded thoroughness and matching stationery that she applied to all her goals in life. Carefully compiling a chronology of ATM withdrawals and debit charges in a new leather-bound calendar, Alice spent the next days poring over bank statements to reconstruct her former friend’s movements. The secret life of Ella Nicholls wouldn’t remain secret for long.
“You want it like that, hmm? How about…there?”
Alice paused with her key in the lock. They were still home.
“Vitolio!” A squeal rang out through the flat, followed by several thuds, and then some moaning.
She had to give them credit for stamina, at least. Alice had left at eight that morning, chased out by the grunts and moans from Cassie’s room. Now it was past noon, and her hopes of a lazy Sunday on the sofa with the paper were clearly still a distant dream.
Alice peered inside. She supposed she could go into town to loiter in a bookstore, or another identical branch of Starbucks, but she’d already spent the morning in a local coffeehouse, drinking her body weight in herbal teas while a chic hipster type hovered over her shoulder, willing her to leave. Her attempt to unwind with a novel hadn’t lasted long either: now she was itching to collect another batch of bank statements to double-check for clues.
The main living area seemed to be clear, so Alice darted to her room, ignoring the noises down the hall. She was hunting through her folder when her phone rang. Alice let the ringtone play for a while, hoping it would alert Cassie and Vitolio to her presence. But no: they continued unabated.
She eventually picked up, putting one hand to her ear to block out the noises. Whoever had converted the warehouse had failed on soundproofing—that was clear.
“Hi, Flora
“Hey!” Flora exclaimed with her usual high-pitched enthusiasm. “Where are you right now?”
“At Cassie’s.” Alice perched on the very edge of her bed. The single, fold-out bed, with approximately two feet of space on every side.
“Fab! Want to grab some lunch? I have to go check on an exhibition space in Notting Hill, but I could pick you up on the way.”
Alice paused, reluctant to give up her vision of a restful weekend. Alone. “I did have plans…” she semi-lied.
“Oh.” Flora’s voice fell, but she quickly recovered. “That’s no problem. We could catch up for drinks later this week. Make it a girly night out? Ooh, we could go to a day spa, and get facials and manicures and everything.”
“Perhaps?” Alice felt her guilt return. These exchanges with Flora were growing more frequent, but still they kept to the same familiar pattern. Flora longed for close bonding, Alice resisted, and guilt—or surrender—soon followed. Usually both. “I’ve been so busy with straightening everything out. I’ll call you,” she promised.
“OK,” Flora agreed immediately, as always. “See you later!”
Alice hung up and returned to her file. She’d made quick work of cataloging Ella’s presence, managing to plot out her daily movements in an alternative calendar to compare with Ella’s stories. Still, there were large gaps still taunting her, whole weeks that there were no ATM withdrawals or debit charges, or anonymous transactions marked only by number sequences or a business name. It was those that Alice was focused on deciphering next. Who knew what revealing information lay behind a fifty-two-pound payment to R. Jenkins Services or a hundred-and-six-pound charge at 32 Westbourne Gardens?
Suddenly, there was a loud slamming noise. Alice emerged from her room to see the outline of two fleshy bodies pressed up against the glass brick wall of Cassie’s room, writhing with particularly forceful passion. Wonderful.
She reached for her phone again, averting her eyes. “Hi. Flora? It turns out I can make lunch after all.”
“Oh, fantastic! I won’t be long at the gallery, I promise. And then maybe we could go shopping…” As Flora exclaimed her unbound enthusiasm, Alice’s gaze drifted back to her file. Westbourne Gardens? That was near Notting Hill, wasn’t it? Well, at least she could multitask.
“That’s great, Flora,” she interrupted. “Pick me up in half an hour?”
***
Even though the sky threatened cold drizzle at any moment, Alice waited out on the front curb rather than linger in the flat a moment more. Nonetheless, she thought she could hear the faint echo of moans through the windows above—or maybe they were just haunted echoes in her imagination. Either way, her relief at escaping was tempered somewhat when Flora arrived not in a taxi but behind the wheel of a sporty silver convertible. Alice gulped. Flora had finally passed her driving test last year on what must have been her seventh try, but even so, she suspected it had more to do with the torrent of tears Flora unleashed after failing her three-point (or, in that case, seven-point) turn rather than any real driving ability.
“Don’t mind all this stuff,” Flora greeted her cheerfully, reaching over to clear some canvases from the passenger seat. A bouncy pop hit was playing on the radio, and a jeweled diamanté bunny rabbit dangled from the rearview mirror. Alice clambered in, looking around to find what looked like a career’s worth of work piled in the back of the tiny car: a mass of pastel landscapes, dreamy garden scenes, and delicate still-
life prints, miniature copies of Flora’s vast creations.
“I have to consult with the curator before we install the real paintings,” Flora explained, yanking the gearshift into position. Alice noticed with trepidation that it was a manual transmission. She lunged for her seat belt. “Stefan says I need to make sure he’s not planning to hang them wrong. Last time I had a show, the gallery put Serene Imagination right next to Soothing Daydream. Would you believe?”
Alice chose not to answer that. “You have a show coming up? That’s wonderful. Is it for new work?” She took a firm grip on the door handle as they whipped into a flow of speeding traffic.
“No, it’s a retrospective. Five years on, and all that.” Flora turned to smile at Alice; they drifted across the road.
“Flora!” Alice yelped.
“Whoops!” She dragged the steering wheel back into place. “Umm, can you check the map for a sec? I don’t want to get distracted.”
“No, that would be bad.” Alice quickly turned down the volume on the stereo and dug the crumpled pages from the glove compartment. She paused. “Why don’t you have GPS? I would have thought Stefan would be the first to get it installed.”
“Oh, he did, but it was so confusing.” Flora furrowed her pale brow at the memory. “That woman just kept talking at me in that stern voice, and I couldn’t figure out the settings. I don’t drive much,” she added, as if to reassure Alice. It had quite the opposite effect.
“Turn left up ahead,” she told her quickly. Flora cut blindly into the next lane of traffic; there was a loud blare of horns and a muffled angry yell from the car next to them. Flora hummed softly, oblivious.
“So, tell me how it’s going.” She shot a quick look at Alice. “Have you spent much time with Nathan? Is he…helping?” She grinned, clearly expecting gossip, but Alice had none to give.
“I haven’t really heard from him,” she shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “We talked about the case during lunch, and then I sent over the papers he wanted. He said he’d be in touch if anything turned up.”
“Oh.” Flora’s face fell. “I thought, maybe—”
“You thought wrong,” Alice cut her off. “He’s being nice, helping like this, but it’s just business. Really.”
“Aw,” Flora pouted. “I was sure there was something going on there.”
Alice laughed, as if Nathan’s casual professionalism wasn’t a disappointment to her too. “Anyway, I’m getting myself back together.” She changed the subject, picking a thread from her loose linen trousers. “Work is a distraction, I suppose, and the solicitor’s doing his best with the bank. Living with Cassie is…challenging.”
“I don’t know why you don’t just move in with us,” Flora interrupted. “Stefan’s traveling so much, and we’ve got tons of room.” She gave Alice a hopeful look.
“Flora, brake!”
There was a screech, and they came to a halt inches from a crosswalk. A very full crosswalk. Alice gasped for breath.
“So, what do you think?” Flora wasn’t about to let the idea go. The minute the trail of strollers had passed, she revved the engine and squealed away.
Alice quickly shook her head. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but I’m fine where I am. Really. You guys are doing enough for me already with the solicitor.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“I’m good! Everything will be fine, eventually.”
If she kept repeating it, perhaps it would become true.
“You’re such a star.” Flora shook her head as they sped through a distinctly amber light. “I would still be a total wreck.”
Alice exhaled softly. “What’s done is done. There’s no changing any of it.”
“Ugh, it still makes me so mad to think she did that to you.” Flora scowled briefly, her delicate features suddenly fearsome; then she brightened. “Ooh, I love this song!” and reached to turn the radio up again, beaming happily once more.
Alice eased her grip on the car a little, trying to relax as they wound their way through the busy central London streets. There was a method to Flora’s reckless driving style, she was beginning to see: Flora simply had perfect faith in the ability of every other driver on the road to see her coming and work around her to avoid all major incidents. So they sailed over intersections with barely a second glance, lurched dangerously between thirty and three miles an hour, and finally parallel parked in a tiny space without any hesitation—to the annoyance of the car carefully lining itself up to reverse in.
“There!” Flora turned the engine off and paused to apply a slick of Vaseline to her lips, while the wronged driver made obscene hand gestures through his windows at them. She looked at Alice expectantly. “All set?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Alice nodded, but she waited until he’d driven off before daring to climb out of the car and help Flora unload the prints.
They were parked just off the top of Portobello Road, with a procession of antiques shops and designer bakeries winding down the hill. It was still cloudy out, but optimistic shoppers were strolling around in flimsy summer dresses and oversized, bug-eyed shades, clearly expecting more from British summer than the weather deigned to deliver.
“Have you got a cardigan?” she reminded Flora, as they crossed the road to a gleaming, stucco-fronted gallery. “You’ll catch a chill like that.”
Flora looked over her armful of cardboard with a sheepish expression. Alice pulled a spare pashmina out of her handbag and draped it over her shoulders. “Honestly, it’s a wonder you haven’t been struck down with pneumonia by now.”
Flora laughed. “Like Jane, in Pride and Prejudice.” She sighed happily at the thought while Alice held open the gallery door and followed her in. Trust Flora to view a deadly virus with such rose-tinted romanticism. Pride and Prejudice—the classic, Colin Firth BBC miniseries, of course—had become an institution in their household from the moment Flora and Jasmine arrived. Every Christmas, it was mandated that after the family meal, they all gather around the tree, pass out presents, and settle in for six hours of Flora swooning over breeches and Regency banter. Alice could recite Darcy’s “long have I struggled” speech from memory, such was the ardent devotion those first merry notes of the theme tune inspired.
“Flora, sweetheart!” A jovial man approached, landing air kisses on the both of them with practiced ease. “And this must be your sister. Great to meet you, Alice, was it? Gregory Kirk.”
“Nice to meet you.” Alice shook his hand, deftly juggling her load. He had a Greek, or Cypriot, look to him, with tanned skin, dark, curly hair, and a voice that boomed out in the empty gallery.
“Thank God you could drop by and lend your expert eye to all of this.” Gregory ushered them deeper into the pristine white space. “Helena here has been getting in a terrible muddle over the hanging.”
Helena there didn’t look particularly muddled. In fact, the tall, tawny woman with the clipboard was the picture of blond efficiency—black-rimmed spectacles low on her nose and a crisp white sundress showing not a smudge or sweat mark. “Flora, so good to see you again.” She greeted her with a broad smile. “I’m just thrilled about the show, aren’t you?”
Flora beamed. “I brought copies of everything,” she said eagerly. “So we could see how things worked, with different arrangements.”
“Lovely,” Helena agreed, taking in the large piles of prints Alice and Flora were bearing. “Well, we better get to it.”
Turning to Helena, Flora gave a perky grin. “So, did you want to start with my Rosebud period or Reflections on a Garden Path?”
***
Alice wandered the gallery for a while, taking in the current exhibition: a stark, modern series of abstract paintings, full of angry slashes and exclamatory dots. Flora was still happily chatting away to Gregory about the need to put the lilac pastels next to the pond sketches, so Alice slipped outside and found Helena smoking on the front curb. She was sucking in the cigarette with barely disguised relief, exhaling in a long, el
egant plume.
“Have you worked here long?” Alice asked, leaning against the front window.
Helena nodded, hair falling in a flat, shiny sheet. “I’m the manager.” She flicked ash onto the pavement.
“It’s a great space.”
Helena inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. We have a reputation for showing some of the most provocative, challenging artists around.” Her gaze drifted back through the open door, and Alice was certain she saw her lip lift, in the smallest sneer.
“Well, Flora’s show should be a big draw.” Alice felt curiously defensive. “She’s very popular.”
“Yes,” Helena agreed, looking amused. “She is, isn’t she? Gregory just loves her little prints.”
Alice narrowed her eyes, but before she could say anything, Flora came breezing out. “All done!” she declared. Helena’s features rearranged themselves into pleasant enthusiasm.
“Fab!” she cooed, kissing Flora again. “I can’t wait.”
“Me either,” Flora agreed happily. “Looking back at some of those old paintings, I can’t believe how far I’ve come.”
Alice, who had seen everything from Flora’s earliest watercolor smudges on, had to agree. Her work may not be as provocative or challenging as Helena desired, but it had a certain quintessential charm—if you enjoyed Meditations on a Wheelbarrow, that is.
***
After a lunch of Iberian charcuterie and artisan breads (since it was apparently impossible to find a plain ham sandwich within a mile-wide radius of Westbourne Grove), Alice and Flora strolled back to the car. The day was finally warming, with hints of sun glinting between the wash of gray clouds; Alice shrugged off her cardigan and rolled up the sleeves of her printed silk blouse, enjoying the brief flashes of warmth on her face.
“Do you mind if we take a detour?” she finally suggested, as Flora searched her handbag for the keys. “I need to drop by…” Alice consulted the printed address. “Westbourne Gardens.”
The Liberation of Alice Love Page 10