I try to imagine what could have happened. She was teasing me about Derek in the lane. That I remember. But it’s what happened at home that I can’t remember, and that she’s not telling me. Did she do something stupid like a striptease and pretend it was for Derek? I can almost see her flicking her lingerie around in the bedroom and dancing, licking her lips, gyrating her hips and moaning ‘Derek’ to piss me off. Is that what happened after we came upstairs? Or did she call his name when I fucked her?
Did I hit her?
I don’t remember.
I have the sense I’m standing on shifting sand; an unnerving feeling that there’s way more to what happened last night than what Stell’s letting on; that she knows more than I do.
I get up and pace up and down the room. Ness never gave me any trouble like this. She was always the model wife. We had our roles and we stuck to them. Obviously, I was the leader: I decided where we went, who we saw, what we did and when we left, and she was happy to follow. It was how it was and it was never questioned. I breathe in deeply through my nose as I accept that this might not be the case with Stell. In my fantasies of life with her, I always imagined her in Ness’s role: slightly subservient. Magnificent, maybe, but never challenging; never questioning; never provoking. I always saw it as a partnership – with me as top dog.
I may have to revisit that idea. It’s a new, and altogether unpleasant sensation.
I scrabble in my bedside cabinet for Panadol, hoping it will take away the pain if not the shame, then get into the shower. The water cascades down my body as if it can wash last night away. But whatever happened, one thing remains: why can’t I remember it? Why can’t I remember anything beyond coming into the bedroom?
I throw on my clothes, squirt cologne on my face and realise that, to add to my woes, I can’t find my wedding ring. If it’s not on my finger, it’s always by the sink and it’s nowhere to be found. Tutting to myself, I head downstairs, where Stell’s sitting in the kitchen with a coffee and the iPad. She looks up and gives me a smile.
‘Coffee’s done.’
I lean down and kiss her hair. ‘Thanks, princess.’ I pause. ‘And – again – I’m so sorry.’
She holds her hand up. ‘It’s over.’
‘I just want to ask you one thing.’
‘OK?’
‘Do you think I should be worried that I don’t remember what happened? It’s like I had a blackout. And there are other things I’ve forgotten, too.’
Stell sucks the inside of her cheek. ‘I don’t know. You’ve had a stressful year, what with the divorce and the house move… What is it they say? Those are two of the most stressful life changes a person can go through? I guess it’s understandable that you’re forgetting things. I wouldn’t worry too much.’
‘Hmm. But…’
‘But what?’
I sigh. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just not like me. That’s all.’ While we’re talking I move around the kitchen, picking up papers and moving things about, trying to find my wedding ring – it’s a chunky platinum band that tells the world how married I am, and Stell hates me being without it. I have a quick look at the hall table and the sink by the downstairs bathroom.
‘Looking for something?’ she asks when I come back into the kitchen.
I shrug and pour my coffee. ‘No.’
She appears to look directly at my left hand and I steel myself for her to notice, but she doesn’t.
‘How about we go out for breakfast?’ I say. ‘Take a little drive into the countryside and find somewhere new to try?’ I rub my hands together. ‘I could just murder a Full English.’
Stell’s lips flatten and she shakes her head just a little. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. Sorry to say it, but you need to start taking care of your weight. I’m going to put you on a diet.’ She taps the iPad. ‘I’ve been working out a plan for you. If you stick to it, you should lose one or two kilos a week.’
‘What does it entail? Cabbage soup?’ Even as I say it, I’m thinking I’ll do anything – anything at all – to prove to Stell that I love her; to make amends for what happened last night. From now on, what she says, goes.
‘Nothing like that. Lots of protein. Carbs only if you’ve exercised. No carbs at night. No sugar.’
‘Okaaay…’
‘Give it a try, George.’ Stell gets up and comes over, puts her hands on my waist and squeezes what flesh she finds. ‘You’ve got to get a grip on this or it’s only going to get worse.’
I move her hands off my waist and hold them. ‘All right. So no breakfast.’ I do a fake sniff. ‘What shall we do today then?’
‘Let’s go for a walk, then I’ll make you something healthy for lunch.’
TWELVE
Stella
I’m just putting the last of the things back in the kitchen cupboards a few days later when I hear a key in the front door. I look at the oven clock: 11.15. It can only be George. I haven’t left the kitchen since he left the house at seven-thirty this morning and, for an insane second, I have the sense that I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. I give my head a little shake as I close the last cupboard door. I wasn’t expecting him back till much later this evening.
The door slams, then George’s footsteps thud down the passage. He bursts into the kitchen and I can tell at once that something’s wrong. His face is grey and his hair ruffled, as if he’s been running his hands through it all morning. He looks surprised to see me standing in the kitchen and, for a second, my absurd feeling of guilt returns.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘You’re early.’
George makes straight for a cabinet and rips open the door. He doesn’t find what he wants, so he pulls open the next one, then the next.
‘Where’s the whisky?’
‘And hello to you, too,’ I say. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘Where is it?’ George is still opening cabinets, leaving open the doors I’ve just closed. I walk over to a cabinet, extract the whisky bottle and hand it calmly to him. George then opens the cupboard above the dishwasher.
‘What the… ?’ he snaps. ‘Now where are the glasses? I thought we did all this! God. I give up!’
He slams the cupboard, untwists the cap of the bottle and raises it to his mouth.
‘Stop! Stop it!’ I leap to the cabinet where the glasses are kept and hand him a tumbler. ‘Here. You’re clearly upset but don’t take it out on the kitchen.’
George pours himself a good slosh of whisky and downs it in one, then pours another, all the while shaking his head – whether to do with the fact he couldn’t find the whisky or his day I’ve no idea.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ I say. ‘Why are you home? What’s going on?’
George stands across the kitchen from me. ‘Been chucked out of the office, that’s what’s going on. Chucked out of my own bloody office!’
‘What?’
George pulls at his hair. ‘They found out about the money.’
‘What money? The loan?’
George throws another whisky into his mouth, wincing as he swallows.
‘Yep. One of the trustees called the office to ask when the money from the fundraiser was coming. Can you believe it? Last year it was months before we handed it over. Talk about Sod’s Law! The one time—’ George bangs his fist on the counter as he says the word ‘—the one time I do something like this!’
‘But… but how?’
‘So the trustee speaks to my accountant. The accountant checks the account and sees I’ve withdrawn five hundred grand. He tells the trustee he must have received this money and suddenly I’m standing in my own accountant’s office like a schoolboy explaining that I “borrowed” half a million quid of charity money to buy a house!’
‘But it was just a loan?’
George scrubs at his eyes and, when he looks at me, he looks hunted.
‘Maybe I could have got around my accountant. But he’d already told the trustee that I’d withdr
awn the money. I mean, why wouldn’t he? He thought it had been lost in transit, not that his CEO had nicked it.’ George is still pulling at his hair like he wants to rip it out.
‘But now you can explain? Surely? Nicholas is a friend, isn’t he?’
‘Well, if it were up to him, maybe. But there’s a bigger story going on here. Lazenby was away, and the trustees jumped on it. It turns out the charity’s been defrauded of money by quite a few benefactors and there’s a much bigger investigation going on. It’s a criminal offence: “charity fraud”. Lazenby’s had to cut short his trip. He’s furious.’
I step towards George and try to hug him but he shrugs me off.
‘The media’s bound to get hold of this. What am I going to do?’ George is pacing the kitchen, running his hands through his hair. ‘But you know what hurts the most? I’ve been accused of stealing from the charity I work my arse off to support!’ He takes another swig of whisky.
‘That’s ridiculous.’
As George stares at me, he blinks several times and I realise he’s holding back tears. ‘It’s not, though, is it? I took the money. I took it.’ He turns away from me.
I trail a finger on the countertops. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘This isn’t fraud; it’s a loan. What you’ve done isn’t a crime. I’m sure if you explain what happened and give them a date when you’ll pay back the money, you can clear this up amicably.’
‘As I just said, it’s too late. It’s now part of a bigger investigation so the moment this came up it was like a red flag to a bull. Lazenby’s too trusting. And, in my case, there’s no grey area. Even a five-year-old could see that I withdrew the money from the company account and didn’t pay it in to the charity account. It’s all there in black and white.’ George puts his head in his hands and moans.
I shake my head. ‘That’s so unfair! The others were presumably stealing while all you did was borrow.’
‘It’s all the same on paper. God. After that fundraiser! How much work did I put into that thing? I didn’t eat or sleep for weeks.’ George smashes his hand into his forehead. ‘It’s crazy! I love those kids. I love making their lives better.’ He turns to face me. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have taken the money. It’s that simple. If I were them, I’d be investigating me, too.’ He looks broken.
‘It’s my fault. I’m so sorry. I should never have suggested it.’
‘But I did it. No one forced me to. I could have tried to talk to the seller – told them when the money would be ready. I could have got a proper loan.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
George takes a deep breath and pours himself another whisky. ‘So now I’ve been kicked out of the office. As soon as the board found out, they had an emergency meeting: they feel it’s “in the company’s best interests” for me to be out of the way till it’s cleared up; they don’t want the company’s named to be smeared – and quite rightly. They don’t want the publicity, or the liability. Not only is Lazenby’s lot going to involve the police, but my own board has a forensic accountant coming in to check all the books for other irregularities and I’m suspended till it’s done. God, Stell, it could be months!’
‘It’s probably not as bad as you think. People know you’re a good guy, and that’s got to count for something.’ I try to hug George again but he’s stiff in my arms so I let go of him and go to the window, where I look out at the garden, unsure what else to say.
‘I’m sure it won’t be for long. They’ll see that you’ve never done this before… you haven’t, have you?’ It’s a joke but the look George gives me is filthy.
‘How much business will we lose over this? What will this do to my reputation? To the firm’s reputation?’ He’s almost wailing.
I pick up the whisky bottle. It’s about two-thirds full. ‘Are you finished with this?’ I pop it back in the cabinet, then I pick up his glass, rinse it and put it in the dishwasher.
George slumps over the kitchen table. ‘Now what? What am I going to do now? Work is my life. It’s everything.’ He looks at the clock. ‘It’s not even midday. What am I going to do all day? Every day? How am I going to get through this? I can’t even imagine.’
‘Oh, come on!’ I rub his back. ‘It won’t be that bad. You still have me.’
THIRTEEN
George
I clatter downstairs in my biking boots the following Saturday morning. It’s an overcast day for my first ride with the motorcycle club but it’s forecast to stay dry and that’s all I care about. Having missed out on the previous ride, I literally feel like a little boy on Christmas morning. We’re heading out before the traffic gets too busy, and aiming for a long route that’ll take us out for lunch and back mid-afternoon. The thought of this ride has kept me going all of this shitty, shitty week. I could really do with the camaraderie.
‘Morning!’ I say to Stell, who’s at the kitchen island in her pyjamas. ‘Great day for it!’
She nods. ‘I guess. Your oatmeal’s in the fridge.’
Even the thought of choking that joyless gruel down my throat doesn’t get me down this morning and I pull up a stool to the island and dig in.
‘Now don’t go blowing your diet in the pub if you’re out for lunch,’ Stell says. ‘Remember, no carbs. Nothing fried. And certainly no chips. Look for something like soup, or vegetables and protein.’
It feels odd – mundane – is that the right word? – to have Stell talk to me like this. She was my temptress, my seductress, my thrill, not my keeper. I guess I’d imagined the excitement of the affair would remain in the marriage.
‘Yes, Mum.’ I shove my chair back to drop my empty bowl in the sink. ‘Do you mind…’ I nod at the sink ‘. . . it’s just I need to get going.’
‘It’s fine.’
I go outside and open the garage. There, under its cover, is my Ducati. Even though I’ve owned it for a couple of years now, I still get a thrill every time I see it or hear the roar of its engine. I bring the bike round to the front of the house and close the garage. Back inside, I gather my things.
‘Did you see my phone anywhere?’ I scan the countertops.
Stell looks up and shakes her head. ‘Sorry. Did you leave it upstairs?’
I run up the stairs, conscious of the time. The phone’s not on the bed, the bedside table, the dresser or in the bathroom. I dash back down the stairs and tear about the kitchen lifting things.
‘Where is it? I can’t see it anywhere.’
‘Shall I call it?’ Stell asks. She picks up her phone and dials. ‘It’s connected… it’s ringing…’
I stand still, straining to hear.
‘Don’t hang up!’
I run back upstairs to listen in the bedroom but the silence is unbroken.
‘Shit!’ I slam back down the stairs. ‘Where is it? I had it! It had it right here! I know I had it. I left it on the island when I went to the garage!’
Stell shrugs and holds out her phone. ‘Do you want to take mine?’
‘Thanks, but no. I need mine. All the info I need is on the WhatsApp group; all the contacts, everything. I don’t have the guy’s number – nothing!’ I slam the kitchen counter as I realise that, without my phone, I can’t join the ride. I don’t know where the meeting place is – last night I’d received a pin in a map but I didn’t look at it properly so I have no hope of remembering where it was, and I don’t have anyone’s numbers anywhere except in my phone.
‘Shit! Shit shit shit!’ I run back out to the garage and look around for my phone: nothing. I check my pockets again as I walk back into the house. Nothing. Not even in my jacket pocket.
Stell sighs. ‘So, now what?’
‘Now I can’t go! That’s what!’ I sink onto a stool and drop my head into my hands to hide my disappointment. I feel Stell’s hand on my arm.
‘It’s OK,’ she says, leaning into me and rubbing my shoulders. ‘There’ll be other times. You can go on the next ride.’
I look up. ‘You don’t know how much I wanted
to go. I missed the last one. But it’s not just that. Where’s my phone? I left it here! I know I did.’ I slam about the kitchen once more, lifting things, moving things. I even open the kitchen bin and poke my hand in there.
‘Oh for God’s sake, give it a rest, will you?’ Stell snaps. ‘That was your work phone, wasn’t it? We’ll get you a new one. New number so no one can bother you. We can go right now if it makes you happy.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Maybe it’s a blessing,’ Stell says and I can tell from her voice, even though she’s still behind me, that she’s smiling. ‘You can escape from all those calls asking what’s going on. And now we can do something together today. Silver linings and all that.’
I sigh. That’s not the point. For such a clever woman, she can be so dense.
FOURTEEN
Stella
Later that week, George and I decide to walk into the village. He has a meeting with one of his managers from work. The guy’s ostensibly coming to collect some paperwork, but I know George is hoping he’ll be able to give him a little update on what’s going on in the office, as well as some insight into what people are saying behind the scenes.
‘My name’ll be mud by now,’ George says, as we walk down the lane towards Main Street. It’s damp out, and the scent of wet vegetation hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the unmistakable pong of manure. Apart from George’s voice, I can hear only the suck and crunch of our matching wellies on the muddy lane, and a chorus of birdsong that makes me wonder what birds have to be so happy about every single day.
‘Everyone will hate me now,’ says George. ‘I mean, who in God’s name steals from a children’s charity to buy a million-pound house? The tabloids will have a field day.’
‘The news isn’t public yet, though, is it?’
‘Nothing spreads faster than a secret.’ George scuffs his feet along as we walk. ‘You can’t expect people not to gossip. It’s human nature.’ He kicks despondently at a random stone, aiming it into the bushes that line the lane and, all of a sudden, I’m eight years old again, watching him doing exactly the same thing as we walked home from school. For a minute I have the strangest sense of time looping and curving around us like visible trails of vapour; of George and I walking through time, holding hands. George and I, together for ever. But time… perhaps it has a strange way of warping things.
The One That Got Away Page 14