Barney shook his head. It was a tall order to learn Shakespeare in three weeks. And who would they ask? Everyone who’d auditioned had been cast in the show.
He realised that the rest of the group were looking at Charlotte. Why were they …? And then it dawned on him.
He turned around. Genius idea.
It took a moment for her to realise what they were suggesting. ‘No way!’
He moved towards her. ‘Just hear me out.’
She backed away. ‘No!’
‘But you know the show.’
‘The answer’s still no.’
‘You’ve read in for Puck, so the lines are familiar.’
‘I’m not listening.’ She sped up, eager to get away.
He ran after her, blocking her path. ‘There’s no way anyone else will be able to learn the part in three weeks.’
‘And neither will I.’
‘I’ll help you.’ He caught her by the arm. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Fun?’ She swung around. ‘Prancing around on stage is not my idea of fun!’ She prodded him in the chest. ‘Watch my lips. There is nothing you can say that will persuade me to play the part of Puck!’
‘Please, Charlie. I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else.’
‘Too bad.’ She dislodged his hand from her arm. ‘And my name is Charlotte.’
He needed a different approach. ‘What was it you said earlier? About how I’d done the right thing taking on the role of director, as it’d be a shame to let everyone down?’
‘Not the same thing. I’ve never acted before.’ She tried to move past him.
‘And I’ve never directed before. We can evolve together.’ He blocked her escape.
‘Nice try, but no.’ Her fingers searched unsuccessfully for a button to fiddle with on her top.
His hand closed around hers, stilling her movement. ‘Think of how disappointed Freddie and Florence will be if the show gets cancelled.’
That got her. It was a moment before her eyes lifted to his. ‘That’s below the belt.’
‘I know, but I’m desperate.’ He looked at her, beseechingly. ‘Please?’
The steel in her eyes set off warning bells in his head. Through gritted teeth she said, ‘You will pay for this.’
He didn’t doubt it for a second.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wednesday, 10 August
Lauren covered her ears with the pillow, trying to block out the noise from the busy street below. It was the height of the tourist season, and the narrow lanes of Penmullion were packed with visitors enjoying a sustained period of good weather. Normally the background noise of children laughing, seagulls squawking, and the tap of horses’ hooves on the road was a welcome sound, a reminder of why she’d moved to Cornwall. But that was before she’d got herself into crippling debt. Now she just wanted to block everything out, Penmullion included.
She crawled out of bed and went to close the window. It was stiflingly hot, but the noise prevented her sleeping. Napping at eleven o’clock in the morning wasn’t part of her normal routine, but another restless night had left her tired and irritable.
Thankfully, Charlotte had taken Freddie and Florence to the ‘first aid for kids’ workshop Barney was running at the surf kiosk this morning. An empty flat and a late shift at the café meant she could retreat to her bed without being subjected to any awkward questions.
As she closed the window, noticing another crack in the single pane of glass, she spotted a post-office van parked outside the collection depot. Seconds later, Nate emerged and glanced up at her window. She shut the curtains, not wanting to be seen in her underwear. But curiosity got the better of her, and she parted the curtains a fraction, just enough to see through. He was still looking up, his concerned expression visible even from a distance. It was getting harder to ignore the feelings she had for him. Charlotte was right, he was a good man. Every kind gesture, brave action or show of thoughtfulness weakened her resolve a little bit further. It would be so easy to lower her guard and let him in. But would he like what he found? She was a mess. Physically, financially and emotionally. He was better off staying well clear.
Her phone beeped with a text. She went over to the bedside cabinet and checked the message. It was from Nate. Everything okay? I want to help. I’m sorry. She frowned. What did he have to be sorry about?
Without replying, she crawled into bed and buried herself under the duvet. She doubted sleep would come, but she was so tired that she was starting to feel faint. Six hours on her feet, working in a hot, airless kitchen, was taking its toll. Getting through each shift was proving harder and harder. She didn’t even have the energy to argue with her sister when Charlotte had replaced the broken toilet seat and bought a new lampshade for the lounge. In fact, if it weren’t for Charlotte keeping the fridge stocked with food, they’d be in a worse state than they were.
She wasn’t quite sure when the dynamics had changed, but she’d gone from being irritated by her sister’s interference, to dreading her leaving. Of course, she’d never admit as much. Charlotte’s life was back in London. The last thing she wanted was for Charlotte to feel pressurised into staying. It wasn’t her sister’s responsibility to sort out her younger sibling’s life, she had her own demons to battle.
Despite Charlotte’s continuing efforts to ‘fix’ everything, Lauren had to admit that her sister was definitely less uptight than when she’d first arrived in Cornwall – as evidenced by her reaction this morning, when Freddie and Florence had appeared wearing matching nurses’ uniforms ready for the first-aid workshop. There’d been no shock at seeing her nephew in a dress, and no demands for him to change outfit. She’d simply laughed, removed a loose thread from his hem, and taken them off to the beach.
Lauren suspected that Barney had something to do with her sister’s reduced stress levels and improved humour, but Charlotte was keeping her cards close to her chest on that topic, so she refrained from commenting.
A loud knock on the front door rattled the cracked windowpane. Lauren made a mental note to add it to the long list of issues which needed addressing by the landlord.
Lauren buried her head under a pillow, hoping whoever it was would go away.
They didn’t. A few moments later there was another knock.
Throwing off the duvet, she climbed out of bed and dragged on a pair of shorts and a vest top. If it was that smarmy salesman again, selling cleaning products, she’d be mightily hacked off.
The knocking increased in volume. ‘Okay, I’m coming,’ she called, twisting her hair into a knot at the base of her neck.
Only it wasn’t the smarmy cleaning salesman standing on her doorstep. It was a tall woman wearing a floral summer dress, red Dr Marten boots, and blue spiky hair. It was a striking combination.
‘Goodness me, this place was hard to find,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘I’ve been up and down this road five times trying to find flat number 15a.’ She thrust out her hand. ‘Yvonne Hillier. May I come in?’
Lauren leant against the door frame. She had no intention of letting a stranger into her flat, no matter how friendly they appeared. ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’
Yvonne’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Good question, but it’s better I explain inside rather than out here. I can assure you it’s perfectly safe. I’m here on official business, I have identification, and I’m not the bailiffs.’
The bailiffs? Lauren shuddered. It hadn’t occurred to her that the bailiffs might come calling. She’d missed the minimum payment on her catalogue account this month, something she’d never done before. She’d half expected a phone call or stroppy letter, but not a personal visit so soon after defaulting.
Resigned to whatever bad news she was about to hear, she stepped back and allowed Yvonne into the flat. ‘Come through.’
‘Thank you. What a lovely home you have.’ When Lauren raised an eyebrow, the woman smiled. ‘Cosy.’ Was she blind? ‘Is it all right if we sit down?’
Lauren rem
ained standing, but gestured for her guest to sit on the couch. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ It seemed rude not to ask, even though she hoped the woman would refuse. She wanted this to be over with as soon as possible. Whatever ‘this’ was.
‘Maybe later. Let’s have a chat first.’ Yvonne removed a wallet from her large tote bag. ‘As I said, my name’s Yvonne and I work for the IMLT.’ She handed Lauren an identity badge and business card.
Lauren studied both. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.’
‘Most people don’t. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll fill you in?’
It felt odd to be taking instruction in her own home, but there was something reassuring about the woman’s voice, so she sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.
‘That’s better.’ Yvonne nodded to the card in Lauren’s hands. ‘IMLT stands for the Illegal Money Lending Team. We’re part of National Trading Standards and we work in conjunction with the police and various debt-advice agencies.’
Lauren’s hands started to shake. ‘The police?’ But she’d only missed one payment?
‘It’s okay, you haven’t done anything wrong.’ Her smile was back, big and warm and reassuring. ‘Our job is to investigate unlicensed lenders. In particular, those lenders who target the vulnerable.’
Lauren couldn’t imagine Littlewoods employed unlicensed lenders. ‘What does that have to do with me?’
‘We’re currently looking into the activity of a local woman by the name of Glenda Graham. Do you know her?’
Lauren’s hands became instantly clammy. She hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, she’s a family friend.’
Yvonne nodded. ‘And have you borrowed money from this family friend?’
A niggle of annoyance crept up her spine. ‘I don’t see what business that is of yours.’
The woman’s demeanour didn’t waver at the rebuke. ‘We have reason to believe that Glenda Graham might be a loan shark.’
Lauren almost laughed. ‘A loan shark?’ A sudden image of the Krays filled her brain. Glenda was hardly a gangland criminal. She was a sixty-year-old grandmother with grey hair who lived in a caravan. ‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.’
Yvonne waited a beat before responding. ‘People often have a false perception of loan sharks. They believe them to be of a certain type, burly men who own pit bulls and baseball bats, but that’s not always the case. In fact, most loan sharks look like regular members of the community. They often present themselves as friends, adopting an informal approach, ingraining themselves into a person’s life before turning on the pressure.’
Lauren squirmed, fidgeting on the plastic-covered seat.
‘Unlike high-street lenders, loan sharks are not regulated and their lending practices are illegal and often unreasonable.’
Lauren shook her head. ‘I think you must have the wrong person. Glenda is a lollipop lady at my kids’ school. She volunteers at community events and even belongs to the local drama group.’
‘I’m sure she does. But that puts her in the perfect position to befriend her victims, most of whom are vulnerable and have been rejected for loans elsewhere.’
Lauren didn’t consider herself vulnerable. She certainly wasn’t a victim. So it was difficult to see why she was the subject of an investigation.
Yvonne crossed her legs, one booted foot resting on the other. ‘Maybe Glenda offered to help you out of a tight spot? Loaned you some money just to tide you over until you got back on your feet?’
The conversation was getting a little too close to home. Lauren wiped her clammy hands on her shorts. ‘Like I said, she’s a friend of the family. I think I’d know if Glenda was a loan shark. I’m not stupid.’ But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. Maybe she’d always known, but she hadn’t wanted to feel like a fool for getting herself mixed up with an illegal moneylender.
Yvonne shook her head. ‘I’m not for a moment suggesting you are. But a lot of victims say exactly the same thing. They view the person as a friend, even when that friend charges them interest on the money borrowed.’
Lauren stilled. ‘Interest?’
Yvonne nodded. ‘A friend wouldn’t charge interest on a short-term loan, would they? And certainly not an extortionate rate.’
Lauren wondered whether the thumping in her chest was audible.
‘And a friend wouldn’t refer to there being a contract in place.’
The garish pattern on the sofa began to blur. Lauren blinked, trying to focus her eyesight.
‘A contract whereby the terms keep changing, like the frequency of the repayments or the amount to be repaid.’ Yvonne tilted her head to one side. ‘And a friend wouldn’t become threatening or intimidating if the person owing them money couldn’t afford to repay the loan.’
An image of her dad’s face loomed large in Lauren’s mind. Never a borrower nor a lender be. It didn’t matter if what the woman was saying was true, she couldn’t report Glenda. She was a friend of her dad’s. A well-respected member of the community. Her dad would never forgive her for stirring up trouble. And he certainly wouldn’t be happy about her getting into debt.
Yvonne hadn’t finished. ‘The IMLT has specialist investigators who collect evidence in order to bring about a prosecution. What strengthens a case and the chances of a successful outcome is having people come forward with examples of illegal moneylending. As you can see from my business card, I’m a Victim Support Officer. My job is to ensure that anyone giving evidence is safe, protected, and supported throughout the process.’
The room began to spin, the brown carpet rising up to meet the distorted colours in the sofa. Lauren needed a drink.
She got up and poured herself a glass of water, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. It was true that Glenda’s behaviour had switched from pleasant and understanding to hostile and demanding, but that was only because she needed the money back so she could help other people in a similar situation. Glenda was filling a gap in the market, providing a community service … at least, that’s how she’d always described it. Now Lauren was having serious doubts. God, her head hurt.
Yvonne waited until she’d returned to the lounge before continuing. ‘Would you be willing to provide us with evidence against Glenda Graham?’
Lauren shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to investigate. Everything’s under control.’ Except it wasn’t, was it? Her hands were trembling like Freddie’s favourite strawberry jelly. But the thought of her kids only strengthened her resolve. No way was she about to humiliate them. If word got out that she was in debt and had reported Glenda to the authorities … Well, there was no coming back from that. She’d be ostracised in the community. A social outcast.
Yvonne watched her closely. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Positive.’ Lauren handed back the business card and identity badge. ‘I’d like you to leave now.’
Yvonne took the badge. ‘You keep hold of the card, just in case you change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’ Lauren kept her hand outstretched, but the woman didn’t take the card.
‘Call me anytime,’ Yvonne continued, as though Lauren hadn’t spoken. ‘My mobile is always switched on, day and night.’ She paused, as if hoping Lauren might reconsider. When she didn’t, Yvonne picked up her bag. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
Lauren followed her over to the doorway, realising that someone else must know she owed Glenda money. ‘Can I ask who gave you my details?’
Yvonne hooked her bag over her shoulder. ‘That’s confidential information, I’m afraid.’ But then she hesitated. ‘I can’t give you his name, but we received an anonymous tip from a concerned friend. He sounded very worried about you.’
He …?
‘Take care, Lauren. You have my number. I hope to hear from you.’
Lauren waited until the door had closed before sinking to the floor, her legs no longer able to hold her weight. She was sure her howl could be heard in the next town. A mixture of emotions raged within h
er: guilt, disgrace, embarrassment, anger. Who had done this? Shamed her in such a way?
She pummelled the floor, but there was no energy behind her anger, she was too spent. Tears filled her eyes as she lay on the floor contemplating who had given her name to the authorities.
All she knew was that the person was male. It wasn’t her dad; he would have confronted her himself. And besides, he would never have suspected his friend Glenda of being a loan shark. So, if it wasn’t her dad, who could it be …? Like a hammer blow, she realised it could only be one person.
Without pausing to check her appearance or curb her anger, she shoved her feet into a pair of flip-flops, snatched up her keys and left the flat.
She ignored the blare of a car horn as she ran across the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a Fiesta. Pain nearly derailed her when she grazed her toes tripping up on the pavement in her flimsy footwear, but she didn’t care. She kept moving, pushing open the door to the post-office collection depot and heading for the counter.
A fellow postman nudged Nate, his face registering that a scene was about to unfold.
Too bloody right!
Nate turned, his face instantly full of concern. ‘Lauren? What’s wrong?’
She wouldn’t allow his kindness to derail her anger. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
Thankfully, the other postman disappeared into the back office.
Good. She didn’t need an audience.
Nate took a moment to answer, his deliberation confirming her suspicions. ‘Yes, it was me.’
His honesty momentarily threw her. ‘How could you?’
He reached for her hand. ‘Because I’m worried about you. We all are.’
She batted his hand away. ‘We …? Who is we?’ Oh, God, who else knew about this?
‘No one.’ He shook his head, as if realising his mistake. ‘Just me. It was only me.’
‘Liar!’ She shoved him hard in the chest. He barely moved. She really had no strength left. ‘Let me guess, Paul and Barney? I can just imagine the three of you sitting around laughing at stupid … gullible … pathetic Lauren.’
The Summer Theatre by the Sea Page 21