Stell frowns. ‘He’d have loved to come. He practically invited himself.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘No. But he left that message a while back. I told you: he called the house. You were supposed to call him back?’
Fear lurches through me: not again. Stell peers at me. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ve got a minute, haven’t I? I just need to do something.’
‘OK. Be quick!’
I run to the study, and open my diary on the computer. I do a quick search for ‘Harry’ and the entry comes up immediately – it’s the day I met Ness: ‘Got the money to pay back Lazenby today’ and there, at the bottom, there’s a note: ‘Call Harry.’ The air goes out of my lungs. I don’t know if I’m glad to have this record or not. It makes me realise how difficult I must be to live with; how patient Stell is. I shut off the computer and go slowly back out to the garden, wondering whether or not to admit what I found.
‘Everything OK?’ she says, smiling and I’m about to tell her about the diary when a voice hails us from the corner of the house.
‘Hello, hello.’
We both turn and then Stell slides off her stool and starts walking towards the man who’s appeared. He’s slightly older and dressed in slacks and an open-necked shirt with a cardigan. There’s an awkward moment when I’m not sure if she’s going to shake his hand or kiss him but she goes for an air kiss, which he receives rather awkwardly, his manicured fingers grasping her shoulders.
‘Dr Grant,’ she says, turning to me, ‘this is my husband, George.’
I hold out my hand and, for a minute, I don’t think Dr Grant is going to take it but he does and we shake hands formally.
‘I think we saw each other in the pub, but pleased to meet you properly,’ Dr Grant says.
‘Likewise. Always good to know the doctor! Now what can I get you?’
‘What have you got?’ Dr Grant rubs his hands together.
‘Everything.’
‘A whisky would be great, thank you.’
I put my empty champagne bottle on the bar and ask the barman for two whiskys. ‘Neat, thanks.’
‘George,’ Stell says quietly. ‘Whisky?’
‘Maybe I’ll have a glass of red wine,’ says Dr Grant.
‘No, it’s fine. Really it is. Just the one,’ I say to Stell. ‘I’m keeping the good doctor company. I’ll switch to beer after this. I promise.’
Stell smiles at me. ‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ Dr Grant’s eyes flick from Stell to me and back.
‘I’m trying to cut down,’ I say.
‘Good, good. Everything in moderation,’ says Dr Grant.
I pick up the two drinks and hand one to him.
‘Cheers.’ I take a sip, loving the familiar burn of the liquor in my mouth. God, I’ve missed my whiskys.
‘Good stuff,’ says the doctor.
‘So what’s your wife – Marjorie, isn’t it? – up to tonight?’ Stell asks.
‘Oh, she, um… she had to babysit for our grandson.’ Dr Grant looks at the bar as he says this, examining it as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. ‘I like what you’ve done with the drinks,’ he says, nodding towards the ice bowls. ‘Never seen that before. Are you settling in well?’
‘I hope so,’ Stell says. ‘We’ve met a few people. It seems like a friendly village.’
‘It is,’ says Dr Grant. ‘Very close-knit.’ He speaks slowly, putting weight behind his words. ‘We look after each other.’
‘I like that. I think!’ Stell smiles at him.
‘Not many people here yet then?’ Dr Grant asks after a pause.
‘No. Not yet. You’re the first. It’s still early.’
‘Hmm.’
There’s a silence while the three of us stand around stiffly.
‘Did you catch the news today?’ Dr Grant asks but then he continues before either of us has a chance to reply. ‘Did you see that Taylor bloke finally got two years?’
He’s referring to a domestic abuse case that’s been rumbling on in the papers.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Coercive control, wasn’t it? Unbelievable what he did to her! Brave woman to go to the police.’
‘He’d broken her down,’ says Dr Grant. ‘He’d completely wiped out her confidence and any sense of self-belief.’ He shakes his head. ‘She believed everything he told her. I tell you, if I got my hands on that man… if he walked into my surgery…’
‘You wouldn’t know, though,’ I say. ‘These people are clever. To the outside world that marriage probably looked perfectly normal.’ I give a little laugh. ‘I bet no one who knew him would have guessed what was going on at home.’
‘There are signs,’ says Dr Grant. ‘My own father did this to some extent with my mother. Although it’s only just being recognised by the law, it’s not a new thing. I grew up watching it. Once you know what to look for…’ His voice trails off.
I look at Stell. She’s staring at her champagne bottle, picking the damp label a little. Then she looks up. ‘It’s so sad,’ she says. ‘That poor woman. What must it have been like for her?’
‘Anyway, it’s all over now. Taylor’s in jail where he belongs and hopefully she can start to pick up her life again.’ Dr Grant shakes his head. ‘It’ll be a slow process, though.’
The waiter appears with a tray of arancini.
‘Canapé?’ Stell asks Dr Grant.
‘Thanks.’ He takes one and pops it into his mouth in one go. ‘Mmm. Good,’ he says. ‘Couple more of those and I won’t need my tea!’
Stell and I take one each. The outside is crispy and the cheese inside is perfectly melted. After the low-carb diet she’s had me on, it’s like manna from heaven. I take another.
‘Are you expecting many people?’ Dr Grant asks.
‘Everyone within a three-mile radius.’
‘Speaking of which: darling, have you checked your phone?’ I ask.
Stell picks up her phone. ‘Oh no! It’s on silent.’ She types in her passcode. ‘Oh, Rachel’s messaged… Rachel from yoga? Ah, she can’t come. One of her kids is sick. Shame.’ The phone updates and WhatsApp pings two more times. ‘Oh no. Angela can’t make it, either.’
‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘There are plenty more.’
Sure enough, we hear voices. Around the corner of the house, a couple with two teenagers appears. Behind them, there are two more couples, slightly older, who appear to have come together. Both groups pause for a minute as they take in the marquee and the LED bar, which is now lit up. I can see their lips moving as they comment to each other and it’s obvious from their low-key outfits that this isn’t really the kind of thing they’d been expecting.
‘Welcome,’ I say. I hold out my hand. ‘George Wolsey.’ I have to stop myself from adding ‘Wolsey Associates’ and, without the label of my job, it feels as if I’ve been robbed of my identity. Now I’m no different to any other man.
Both couples shake hands with Stell and I and introduce themselves before saying hello to the doctor.
‘There’s a band,’ Stell tells the teenagers. I can tell she doesn’t want them hanging out with us. ‘Go and have a look in the marquee if you like. They’re all set up.’ The teenagers slink off and, within minutes, the lounge music stops and I hear the first beats of the drum strike up. The band may only do cover versions of popular hits but they’re good. The women of the two couples start clicking fingers and mouthing lines to the songs as they stand at the bar sipping their champagne. I can see how the alcohol’s relaxing them; they’re getting used to the setting; starting to feel at home. The chef also picks up the pace, sending canapés faster. Another family with older kids arrives. They all seem to know each other and those children, too, disappear into the marquee. Dr Grant stands up.
‘Excuse me but I must get back to the trouble and strife,’ he says. ‘Nice to have met you.’ He shakes my hand then takes Stell’s hand in both of his.
‘Take care,’ he says.
*
It’s properly dark when one of the guests suggests that we, too, move towards the marquee. She rubs her hands up and down her arms.
‘Brr. Nights are still chilly.’
I look at my watch. Nine-thirty. The woman’s right: it is parky but I’ve been insulated from it by the champagne. I’m at least six mini bottles down. I try to calculate what that is in terms of glasses, and fail. Not a whole bottle, surely.
‘Thank you so much for inviting us,’ says one of the women and I see that she’s a little tipsy now – she’s lost the inhibitions that made her nervous when she arrived. ‘We feel quite honoured.’
‘Yes,’ says the other. ‘Your party was quite the topic in the village.’ She raises her eyebrow at the other woman and they exchange a look.
‘You’re so welcome!’ Stell says.
‘Oh, I love this song! Let’s dance!’ says one of the women. ‘Come on!’ She grabs her bottle and starts to shimmy towards the tent and we all pick up our drinks and follow as if she’s the Pied Piper.
Inside, the snug warmth of the tent makes me realise just how cold it is outside. The teens are dancing and the mums plonk their drinks on the tables and go straight over to the dance floor. Left alone, I see Stell dither for a second and I know she’d rather sit with the men than dance with the women. Captured there in the half-light, there’s something very Titanic about the scene: the band playing on while the ship of our party sinks. Stell catches my eye and gives me a tiny eye roll, then she puts her drink on a table and joins the women on the dance floor. I rub my hands together and ask the husbands what I can get them to drink.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Stella
When the police arrive, walking up to the dance floor in full uniform, it’s clear that George thinks they’ve come to join the party. First, he joshes with them as if they’re strippers, then he starts offering them drinks. I dash over to stop him from making even more of a fool of himself.
‘Evening, officers,’ I say. ‘How can we help?’
‘We’ve had a complaint about the noise.’
‘It’s only just gone eleven,’ George says.
‘Lower the volume, or turn it completely off, please.’ The officer is mealy mouthed. George mimes ‘turn it down’ to the band and they stop playing.
The singer comes over. ‘Don’t want any trouble. We don’t “do” trouble.’
‘Neither do we,’ I say. ‘Let’s call it a night.’ We’d only booked the band till midnight anyway.
George turns back to the police. ‘Has someone complained?’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see our guests gathering their coats and grouping together ready to leave.
Look,’ says the officer looking around. ‘It may well be a case of sour grapes. Nice party like this. Someone not invited. But the law’s on their side.’ He taps his watch. ‘After eleven, it’s got to be turned down or off.’
‘We were just finishing up anyway,’ I say.
‘Don’t let us ruin the party. Just keep the music down now.’
George sees the officers out then sorts out the band while I try to rally the guests into another drink but the mood’s broken and there’s nothing I can do to stop the three families heading towards the garden path. When they turn the corner, George plucks another mini bottle of champagne from the ice bowl.
‘What a disaster! Who called the cops?’ he says, swigging half the bottle in one mouthful and slamming it back down on the bar. ‘So much for the whole village coming! So much for this being the party of the decade! Ten people came. Not three hundred! TEN!’
I gather together some of the empty bottles. ‘I wonder why. Are you sure they got the invitations?’
‘We handed them out ourselves. Can’t even blame it on the post!’
‘Well, we had a few who gave reasons. The ones I know from yoga had excuses.’
‘But what about the others? Do you think it’s because they’ve heard about the investigation?’
‘Of course not. It’s probably something completely unrelated – maybe it was sour grapes over us buying the house. Maybe there was someone in the village who wanted it and we pipped them to it. Remember someone had put in an offer before us. I don’t know. But it would have been a great party had people come.’
‘It’s my fault. It’s all because of me.’ George is shaking his head. ‘I put a curse on everything these days. I can’t do anything right.’ He gets a glass of water and surveys the mess in the kitchen. ‘Let’s leave this for tomorrow. I’m going to bed.’
I give George a quick kiss. ‘Don’t blame yourself. I’ll be up in a sec. Just finishing up here. Wait for me.’
I bin the uneaten canapés, then lock the back door, turn off the lights and head up to the bedroom. George is lying on the bed, fully clothed. I slip off my shoes and snuggle into his arms, placing little kisses all over his face.
‘Don’t let it get to you,’ I tell him between kisses.
George turns his face away and runs his hand through his hair. ‘Sorry, Stell. I’m tired.’
I roll onto my back and sigh. ‘Are you still thinking about why no one came?’
‘Free food. Free booze. Why didn’t they come? Sod those stupid villagers and their stupid conceits.’
‘Maybe there’s more to it. Maybe they saw my bruise the other week, put two and two together and made six. You know what villages are like.’
He stiffens. ‘What?’
‘It’s possible. You heard Dr Grant going on about how the village looks after each other. Maybe they think… Oh, I don’t know.’ I stare at the ceiling.
‘The one on your head? But you told them it was an accident, right?’
‘Of course. But there was also the hand mark on my arm. The girls at yoga saw that.’
‘From that night outside the pub?’ George flushes.
I chew my lip. ‘Not that one. There was another one a bit later.’
‘What? When?’
I look at him. ‘You know! There was that night when I tried to take the whisky away from you?’
George shakes his head.
I sigh. ‘Why aren’t I surprised? Anyway. The girls at yoga saw it. I forgot it was there and wore a vest.’
George collapses back on the pillows.
‘Oh great, so now I’m a wife-beater. For God’s sake! I’d never touch you! You know that don’t you?’
‘Of course!’
George’s face collapses. ‘I can’t do anything right any more. I’m an out-of-work criminal who steals money from children’s charities – oh, and did I mention that I beat up my wife in my spare time?’ He groans. ‘All I need now is for Ness to release a kiss-and-tell book about how I used to beat her up too! No wonder no one came to the party! I’m a low life!’
He leaps out of bed, slams out of the room and thumps down the stairs. I hear the kitchen cabinets banging as he hunts for the whisky, then the sound of the glass and the bottle on the granite work surface. Sleep takes me after that: it’s been a long day.
TWENTY-EIGHT
George
I come to slowly the next morning, expecting the whack of a hangover with each new degree of consciousness but, when the headache does start to register, it’s dull and bearable; not as bad as I deserve. I shift slowly. Stell’s still asleep. What was I thinking, mixing champagne, whisky and beer?
Oh God, the champagne. I squeeze my eyes closed, and exhale. Why on earth did I tell the barman to open all the bottles before the guests came? What a waste. And what in God’s name happened last night? The disaster that was the party slams into my consciousness like a missile, ripping apart all the hopes I’d had for it. It was supposed to be a celebration – an announcement of our arrival in the village, an investment, not a public embarrassment. Oh, yes, Stell: you said the party would be talked about for years. Sure it will! For all the wrong reasons. What’s become of my life? Suspended from the company I own; branded a thief. Not just a thief – someone who stole money from a children’s chari
ty. The injustice of it makes me squirm in the bed, as if finding a new position could make it all go away.
I press my hand to my chest, feeling the thud of my heart. I breathe in and out a few times, trying to ease the tension. I haven’t even got work to lose myself in. How long will this investigation take? Will it go to court? And how much damage will the case do to the firm? In my head, I see clients deserting us like rats. I need to get back to work. My heart’s thumping again. This is new. I never had this feeling that my heart’s going to jump out of my chest before, but I get it almost every day now. Could it be high blood pressure? Or a heart condition? Maybe I should see the doctor. That Dr Grant bloke. He seemed all right. I could ask him about my memory, too – keep Stell happy. Why didn’t people come to the party? I close my eyes, and then I remember what Stell said last night and coldness sweeps through my veins.
Bruises. She said I gave her more bruises.
And as if that’s not worrying enough on its own, there’s also the fact that I can’t remember giving them to her; that I’ve been having these full-on blackouts where I can’t remember swathes of the evening. It’s one thing not remembering where the things are in the kitchen and losing things like my phone and my wedding ring (oh God, my wedding ring!) but having these blackouts can’t be normal. And I don’t drink that much. I really don’t. So what causes them? A brain tumour?
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can and step into shorts and a T-shirt. The house is warm – Stell’s way more extravagant with the heating than I would be – and go downstairs. My laptop’s in the study. I open it up and wait, tapping the desk while it fires up. As soon as the search page comes up, I type in ‘blackouts’ and learn from Dr Google that I was right: blackouts can be caused by drug side effects (no), epilepsy (no), excessive alcohol consumption (surely not!) or brain damage. OK, I’ll see the doctor.
Next I Google myself. If the investigation has hit the media, maybe that’s why people didn’t come to the party. The screen fills with writing. George Wolsey, accused, children’s charity, funds, stolen, investigation, fraud. There are pages of articles. Pages and pages. How did I not know this? All the broadsheets have the story; the headlines in tabloids, blogs and God-knows-what sites are more speculative. There’s even a Twitter hashtag for it. I click on one headline and scroll through the story, the tightness in my chest making my breathing shallow. How could I have thought this wouldn’t make the papers? Does everyone know? I’m a social pariah. This is why people didn’t come. Who wants to say they’re going to George Wolsey’s house?
The One That Got Away Page 19