‘What happened to “innocent until proven guilty”?’ I say.
‘I took the money. Guilty. Even if I pay that money back today, my name will be permanently smeared. More than anything else – more than the awards and the ads – people will always remember this when they hear my name. It’s word association. It’s how people’s brains are wired. People will never remember that it was a loan and that I paid it back. I’ll always be “George Wolsey – yes, him: the one in that charity scandal. Was he ever cleared? I don’t remember…”’
I tut. ‘Stop thinking like that. This will all blow over. Today’s news: tomorrow’s chip paper.’
‘They don’t even use real newspaper any more.’
‘God, George.’
We reach the crossroads where the lane meets the main road.
‘Where will you be?’ George asks, nodding towards the road lined with shops and businesses. ‘I’m going to be in the café.’
The village is as yet untainted by coffee shop chains: the café is a husband-and-wife business, the treats baked daily by a rota of village ladies. Service can be slow when a lunch rush is on, but nobody complains. The one time I waited nearly half an hour for a prawn sandwich with a side of slightly soggy crisps, I found myself thinking about The Emperor’s New Clothes – a conspiracy by the villagers never to mention the bad service. They wouldn’t survive two minutes in London.
‘How long will you be?’ I ask.
‘An hour maybe?’
I look at my watch: mid-morning. ‘The pub? I might have a little wander down the road and stop there for a coffee. Maybe we could have lunch there when you’re done?’
‘OK, great.’
I give George a soft kiss on the cheek. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
I wander down Main Street, dipping in and out of shops. There’s a fair mix: as well as the café, there’s a gift shop, a boutique, a couple of charity shops, a bakery, a butcher’s, a small grocery shop, a Post Office and a couple of estate agents among other things. It doesn’t take me long to make my way down the street and back. At a loss for what to do, I head to the pub.
Derek’s behind the bar again and, today, there’s a slightly older man sitting on a bar stool chatting to him. Aside from that, there’s a handful of ladies in brightly coloured activewear drinking coffee – the post-yoga coffee group, I presume. I walk up to the bar and stand a little way down – but not too far – from the man on the bar stool, and ask Derek for a coffee.
‘Welcome back,’ he says with a smile. ‘How’s the other half? Off working?’
I blink. ‘Oh, he’s um… he’s taking some time off right now.’
Derek raises his eyebrows and nods.
‘Nice if you can afford to. “Taking time off.” Oh yes. We’ve a few doing that around here through no choice of their own right now. Job market.’ He sucks air in through his teeth. ‘Not so good in the pub business, either. Hanging on by the skin of our teeth, most of us landlords. Those supermarkets and their cheap booze. Anyway, it’ll be nice to see more of both of you.’
I smile and take out my purse. ‘Thanks.’ I don’t mean to mislead him but neither do I want to explain George’s situation to all and sundry.
‘That’s three quid,’ says Derek. ‘I’ll bring it to your table.’
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I think I’ll stay here at the bar.’
I’ve spotted a rack of newspapers. I amble over and pick a broadsheet, then return to my seat at the bar. The man sitting at the bar catches my eye and smiles. I give him a little smile back. He’s older; well dressed – a pinstriped shirt, tie and casual jacket. Small, silver-framed glasses.
‘He’s harmless,’ says Derek, following my gaze. ‘Stella, meet Dr Grant. Dr Grant – Stella Wolsey. New to our neck of the woods.’
Dr Grant gets up and comes over to shake my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ I get a feeling not dissimilar to the one I get when I walk through the Customs Hall at the airport: a feeling that I’m being professionally assessed. But then I remember the shadow of the bruise on my forehead. I touch my fingers to it. I thought my hair hid it, but maybe not as well as I imagined.
‘Looks like that took quite a crack,’ says the doctor.
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I shrug. ‘Walked into a door! These things happen.’ I give an ironic little laugh.
‘Yes… yes. Indeed they do,’ says Dr Grant without laughing.
Derek places my coffee on the bar and I busy myself pouring in milk from the jug he’s placed next to it.
‘Actually,’ I say to Dr Grant, ‘do you have a practice here in the village? I need to get a repeat prescription and, obviously, we’re new to the area so I’m not registered anywhere.’
‘Oh yes, no problem. Just pop along to the surgery any time in office hours. It’s just off Main Street.’
‘Thank you.’ I take a sip of my coffee, blowing on it a little as it’s hot.
‘So,’ says the doctor, ‘did I hear you saying your husband’s taking some time off work?’
‘Yes. Yes, he is.’
‘That’s good. We all need some time out.’
‘Well… it wasn’t entirely his own choice.’
‘I see,’ says Dr Grant.
‘He’s still adjusting, to be honest. He has his ups and downs. Understandably.’ I pick up my cup and blow gently on the coffee. I get that Dr Grant’s being friendly and concerned, and I get that this is a small village, but I’m unused to talking about my situation with relative strangers.
‘Does he play golf?’ Dr Grant asks.
‘He hasn’t really had time up till now. Maybe he’ll take it up.’
Dr Grant nods. ‘Might see him at the links.’
‘You may well.’
The doctor peers at me one more time, then says, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due at the surgery. Lovely to meet you, Stella. No doubt we’ll see each other around.’
‘No doubt we will.’
Dr Grant is just gathering his things when the pub door opens and George bursts in, squinting in the dingy light. He sees me at the bar and crosses the pub with long strides.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘How was your meeting?’
He shakes his head dismissively. ‘Are you ready?’
I look at Dr Grant, then back at George. ‘Weren’t we going to have lunch?’
‘Let’s go. Now.’
‘But…’ I feel the eyes of the yoga group on us. Dr Grant stops moving.
‘Now!’ says George, and I remember his anger last time we were in the pub so, averting my gaze lest I incense him further, I slide off the bar stool, pick up my handbag and follow him silently out of the pub.
FIFTEEN
George
Two days later, I’m sitting in a greasy little café across the road from Lazenby’s office, a cappuccino in front of me as I fiddle with my new phone, trying to set it up the way I like it. I’ve lost all my old contact numbers, my photos, my WhatsApp groups – everything – but, as Stell said, I guess there’s a silver lining in that the incessant flow of calls from clients wanting to know what’s going on with the investigation has stopped.
I’m waiting for Lazenby to leave work, at which point I’m going to ambush him. I want to sort this out with him, man to man. My plan perhaps isn’t the most elaborate, but it’s a plan, nonetheless, and I didn’t get where I’ve got in life by sitting around doing nothing. Look at the way I won Stell back that day I waited outside her office. And what else can I do if Lazenby refuses to take my calls?
But Stell, I know, would disagree, so I told her I’m seeing my mate Phil for a drink. I can just imagine Stell wagging her finger at me: ‘There’s a reason he’s not taking your calls, George, and that’s because he doesn’t want to speak to you.’ But me and Lazenby go back years. What’s he going to do? Blank me?
I shift on the hard seat and think back to the time I waited for Stell in that Greek place. God, look at us now… so near but so far. We’re together but it
’s not how I thought it would be. I imagined… I don’t know… an image of Stell and I making love in her apartment fills my mind; the smell of her skin and the feel of her endless legs wrapped around me. I can even smell those scented candles she used to put around the place.
Yeah, I guess I imagined there’d be more sex; more togetherness. I imagined us travelling into London together; sitting side by side reading the papers on the train as we rattled our way into central London. I know she said she was going to scale back her work, and I understand her reasons why she has done, but I didn’t realise it would be quite so sudden and quite so extensive. It’s slightly scary how into village life she’s getting. But I admire her for trying. I really do. But me? I liked the idea of commuting to London – being a part-time villager with one foot there and one in London – and now that’s taken away from me for the foreseeable future. And what will people think when they find out about this thing? I don’t want to use the word ‘scandal’, not even in my head, but that’s what it is. It’s almost laughable. Here I am, one of the most respectable people I know, at the heart of a charity scandal.
Respectable? There’s a voice in my head that reminds me that I’m an adulterer. That’s not respectable. I pack that thought back in its box and put it away.
Across the road the door opens and my body tenses. It’s Lazenby. I leap up and dash across the road, catching him just as he slows to cross a side road. He stops and I grab his arm.
‘Lazenby! Hey, how are you?’
He takes a step back. ‘Wolsey.’
‘How was your trip?’
‘Look. I don’t think…’
‘I need to talk to you. Please let me explain.’ I give him the ‘honest George’ look; the one the clients love.
Lazenby’s looking all pinched and drawn in. ‘I’ve seen the accounts and it doesn’t look good, Wolsey.’
‘Hands up, I took the money! I’ve never tried to hide that. But it was a loan! I was going to pay it back. With interest! I was releasing capital from an investment and – oh God – I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I did, and… I wanted to tell you but you were uncontactable.’ I search his face to see how he’s taking this and all I see is that he’s not making eye contact with me. ‘Can’t I just pay it back and we’ll be done with it? I never meant any harm.’
Lazenby ushers me into the side street so we’re out of view of the main road.
‘I’m sure you probably didn’t mean any harm. But it’s gone too far now. It’s out of my hands. I was away and the trustees acted without me. Had I been here, it might have been different – I’d have spoken to you.’
‘But I’d never cheat a charity. You know that, don’t you?’
Lazenby looks at me and suddenly I see myself through his eyes: someone whom he thought he knew, who did, in fact, take money raised for charity to buy a house for his new wife. I’m despicable. I hang my head.
‘There are two problems,’ he says. ‘One: this is part of a bigger investigation and you’ve been tarred with the same brush, and two: you took such a huge amount of money. The others might have creamed off a few thousand here and there, but you took half a million quid! I’m sorry, but in no world does that look good.’
‘I’m not a thief. I was going to pay it back.’ I sound pathetic. In this moment, I hate myself: standing on a side street trying to justify myself.
Lazenby shakes his head. ‘The trustees want to bring in the police, as they have every right to do. And I really shouldn’t be speaking to you about it. I’m sorry.’ He looks around furtively as if expecting to be caught talking to a criminal.
‘Can you get them to remove me from the case before it goes that far? Say it was all a big misunderstanding, if I pay back the money now?’
Lazenby rocks back on his heels. ‘It’s a big ask, Wolsey. A big ask.’ I’m hanging on to his every word while he strokes his chin. ‘But, pay back the money and I’ll try, all right? Give a cheque to me in person. No promises.’
‘Is there anything else I can do?’
‘If I were you, I’d get legal advice. You’d be well advised to have your ducks in a row if this goes to court. You know charity fraud is a criminal offence? You could go to jail.’
Jail? An image of Stell suggesting I borrow the money that day in the kitchen comes to mind. She’d never have suggested it if she’d known what the penalties could be. God, how life can turn in a heartbeat.
‘Do you think it will go to court?’
‘The case as a whole? Yes. There’s been widespread fraud against us, I’m sorry to say. But your part of that?’ He shrugs. ‘I’ll do my best for you with the trustees but, once it’s with the police, I don’t believe there’s a lot I can do. It’s up to the CPS to see if they have enough evidence against you.’ He pauses and I think about what evidence they have: it’s all there. It just depends if they believe my motives were good.
‘Get some legal advice,’ says Lazenby. ‘That’s what I’d do.’
*
The trains are up the spout so I have a couple of pints in a pub by the station while the service gets back to normal and I get my thoughts in order. How has it come to this? I’m not a criminal! I breathe in deeply through my nose and squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers pressing on my temples to counteract the tension headache that’s been building all evening.
‘You all right, mate?’ the barman asks. I nod and he nods back and, for a minute, I feel he understands. But of course he doesn’t know. No one would understand what’s happened to me and why; how an innocent desire to buy my wife a house has spiralled into a potentially criminal case and cost me my job. I feel like such an idiot. At the end of the day, I counted on the fact that Lazenby was a friend and would understand, but I see now that he’s scared. The fraud has happened on his watch and he’s got to go through the correct channels to get justice. I’m just a shrimp who got tangled up in the net. What was I thinking?
My train gets in around 10.30 but I’m still too wired to sleep. I flop on the sofa with a beer but my mind’s still mad as a bag of frogs so I chase the beer with a couple of whiskies while some car-crash TV show plays out in front of me. When I turn off the lights to go upstairs, I see Stell’s left a big glass of water on the counter with my cholesterol tablets, a note and a smiley face: ‘Don’t forget these.’ I smile, grateful to be reminded: at least someone still loves me.
SIXTEEN
George
Stell’s alarm jolts me awake the next morning, but I sink back to sleep almost immediately. It’s only when she touches my shoulder and gives me a bit of a shake that I start to claw my way back to the surface.
‘It’s morning,’ she says. ‘Did you hear the alarm?’
I squint at my watch and see that it’s gone seven and, for a minute, I think I’m late for work. I start to sit up, remember I’m not going to work, then I remember why I’m not going to work and I slump back on the pillow with a feeling of such utter devastation I have to stop myself from sobbing out loud. My head’s foggy and all I want to do is hibernate till this whole thing has blown over.
‘Morning,’ I croak.
Stell’s lying on her side facing me, unsmiling. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Uh.’
‘I’m not surprised after last night. I half expected you to throw up again.’
‘What?’
‘I suppose there was nothing left to come up.’
‘Who threw up? Me?’
‘No, me.’ She tuts. ‘Of course you!’
‘What?’ But even as I say the word, I move my tongue in my mouth, and catch the acrid taste of old alcohol. I think back. I’d had a few drinks: two pints at the station, then a couple of beers and a whisky at home. That I remember, and trying to be quiet as I came upstairs – and then? It’s a blank.
‘What happened?’
‘You came upstairs, bashed into the furniture, threw up in the bathroom, and passed out on the floor.’ Stell speaks matter-of-factly, as if cataloguing these events
at a police station. ‘I was worried you might choke on your own vomit so I cleaned you up and got you to bed. Not easy, I can tell you.’ She shakes her head and looks away.
‘What?’
‘Did you drink the water I left for you? If you’re drinking that much, you really should try to rehydrate a bit before you come to bed.’ Stell swings her legs over the edge of the bed and sits up.
‘Yeah, I drank it.’
‘Then you must have had a right skin full with Phil if that didn’t help.’
Phil? I close my eyes to disguise my confusion. Was I with Phil last night? I have no memory of that, either, and it takes a minute for me to recall that that was because I’d told Stell I was seeing Phil when I was actually going to see Lazenby. When did my life become so complicated? I press on my temples, trying to erase the pain in my head.
When I open my eyes, Stell’s standing with her hands on her hips looking down at me. It’s then that I see it: a fresh bruise on her arm, the telltale shape of fingers, and dread clutches at my throat.
Not again.
I swallow, bile rising.
‘Say what you like,’ Stell says. ‘I know what I saw last night – you clearly had more than a couple of pints. You want to see the towels I used to clean up? I can get them for you.’
I shake my head. ‘Did anything else happen? Did we argue? Was I obnoxious?’ I try to laugh but the sound doesn’t come out.
She sighs. ‘Obnoxious? Yes, that’s a good word for it.’ She holds her upper arm, covering the bruise. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’
‘What did I do? Did I hurt you?’
The One That Got Away Page 15