The One That Got Away

by Annabel Kantaria

  I reach the reader comments at the end of the article: ‘what a low life’, ‘what scum steals from a children’s charity?’, ‘thief’. I shut the page but the words are branded on my brain. I can’t un-see them now. How did it come to this? I’m the founder of the Britain’s edgiest advertising agency – I’m the golden boy of advertising for God’s sake – and I practically pioneered corporate social responsibility. I championed women’s rights long before it was trendy. I put the spotlight on worthy causes that usually miss the limelight. Hundreds of thousands of people follow me on social media. I’m a good person. I was going to pay interest! I almost can’t bear the weight of my head in my hands. How do you move on from something like this? It’ll stick to me for ever. I’ll always be ‘George Wolsey – oh yes, wasn’t he the one with the thing from the charity? You know? Who took the money?’

  Bruises. She said I gave her bruises.

  Without thinking about what I’m doing, I pick up my phone and dial Ness.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, sounding sleepy. An image of her lying in our bed, all warm and soft, imprints on my mind. ‘How was the party? It was last night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, fine.’

  ‘OK, what happened?’

  I sigh. ‘It wasn’t like one of ours. Let’s leave it at that.’

  She laughs. ‘Don’t be hard on yourself.’

  ‘Anyway, look, can I ask you something? Sorry to drop this on you first thing in the morning… and I’m sorry if it sounds like a weird question… but did I ever hurt you when we were married? Shove you around? Or make you feel scared?’

  ‘Of course not! What a strange question!’

  My whole body collapses with relief. ‘Really? Nothing? I never pushed you or shoved you or hit you? Not even when I was drunk?’

  ‘No. You could be forceful, and worse if you’d been drinking heavily, but you never lifted a finger to me. Ever.’

  ‘I’m so glad to hear that. You have no idea how glad.’

  Ness pauses. ‘Why do you ask? Is everything OK with Stella?’

  ‘Oh God. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on.’ Ness doesn’t say anything and suddenly I’m desperate to talk to someone – anyone, even if it’s my ex-wife. She knows me better than anyone. Better than I know myself these days.

  ‘You’re the last person I should tell.’ I give a bitter laugh.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Silence.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Ness says eventually, ‘I always thought there was more to Stella than meets the eye. And I don’t say that in a bitchy way. I’m not sure you ever saw it, but I did. Others did, too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She can be quite manipulative.’

  ‘Really?’

  Ness sighs. ‘Yes, George.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  I hear Ness breathe in, then she sighs again. ‘Look. You’re right. I’m not the right person for you to have this conversation with. I’m sorry.’

  Shit.

  ‘No, it’s me who’s sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’ I say the words, and I’m not really sure she understands what it is I’m apologising for: it’s not just for this conversation, it’s everything. I’m apologising for everything.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Stella

  George isn’t in bed when I wake up on the morning after the party. I stretch in the bed enjoying the feel of the sheets on my skin. Stripes of sunshine slash the room through the shutters and it’s obvious that it’s one of those bright spring days that reminds you of the potential of summer. The house is silent: George must already have finished cleaning up downstairs. I do some gentle yoga stretches then shower slowly, drawing the steam deep into my lungs and breathing it back out again before stepping out, wrapped in my towel.

  Downstairs, I stop short at the kitchen door. George isn’t there and last night’s mess is untouched. So where is he? There’s no note to say he’s gone out, much as I’d welcome a flaky pain au chocolat from the bakery this morning, and there’s no sign of any coffee having been made. So little do we use it, it takes me a moment to remember that we have a study and, indeed, that’s where I find George, head in hands, laptop open on the desk.

  ‘Morning, darling,’ I say, kissing the top of his head. As I do so, I see what he’s been doing. I don’t need to read the article over his head – I’m familiar with the gist of them. ‘Never do that.’ I give him a little shake. ‘Never Google yourself. You should know that.’

  He looks up slowly and I’m shocked how rough he looks. He’s aged. Just since this business with the investigation started, he’s aged fifteen years, maybe more. The skin hangs across hollows beneath his eyes; he looks gaunt; hollow; red-eyed and slightly crazed.

  ‘George. These are not facts. Most of this is opinion. No one has the facts. They’re just speculating.’

  ‘I’m despicable. Honestly, Stell? I wish I could die. The world would be a better place without me.’

  I try to take his hand but he snaps it away.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I say. ‘Don’t ever think that.’

  ‘But I gave you bruises, didn’t I? You can’t deny that.’ I stay silent.

  ‘As I said: despicable.’ George rams his fist into his palm. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? No one came last night because they all know. They know I stole money and they think I shove you around.’

  ‘Stop it. There could be any number of reasons why people didn’t come. And probably not even one reason for everybody. It’s just a coincidence.’

  George’s fist slams the desk this time, making me jump. ‘Seriously, Stell? Some coincidence!’

  I’ve never seen him so low, so desperate. ‘Look, how about I make us lunch? A roast chicken? Roast potatoes?’

  He shakes his head irritably. ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘What? You’ve got to eat. Look at you! You’re skin and bone! Whether or not you eat lunch isn’t going to change a thing on there—’ I nod at the screen ‘—or in the village, so let me look after you a bit. Come on, let me take care of you.’

  George doesn’t reply so I put my hands on his shoulders and massage a little. He doesn’t respond to my touch so I step away again.

  ‘Right. I’m going to go and start clearing up the kitchen and then I’m going to make some coffee and put the lunch on. Either you can sit here and stew or you can come and help me.’

  *

  The smell of the chicken brings George to the kitchen as I knew it would. He fixes us each a drink as I prepare the vegetables. By the time I serve the roast, I can see his shoulders have relaxed a little. I wouldn’t say he’s his usual perky self, but his energy seems better. He always was annoyingly like a Weeble – you can push him down but he’ll always bounce back up.

  ‘How is it?’ I ask as he takes his first forkful of food. It’s the first full roast I’ve done for him in a while; the first time I’ve let him off his diet.

  ‘Really good. Thanks for cooking.’

  I smile at him. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Well. I’ve been thinking.

  ‘And?’

  He chews, swallows, then continues. ‘This isn’t me. Sitting here letting people take potshots at me. This is not how I operate. I need to take control.’

  I raise my eyebrows at him and wait. I know there’ll be more. He’ll have come up with a plan. This is so George. Hope in the face of adversity. Positive thinking. He’s a walking version of one of his own Technicolor ads.

  ‘I’m giving Lazenby the money in person on Monday. Then I’m going to get some legal advice, just in case he doesn’t manage to get my name taken out of the case before it goes to court.’

  ‘OK,’ I say slowly.

  ‘I just want to be prepared for what might come next.’

  ‘You really don’t want it to go to court,’ I say. ‘If they charge you under the Fraud Act, the maximum sentence is ten years.’

  I can see from his face that George didn’t know th
at. He pales.

  ‘Ten years?’

  ‘Yes. If you look at it from their point of view, it’s what they call “confidence fraud”.’ I pause. Am I sounding as if I know too much about this? ‘You conned people into thinking they were giving you money for charity, then you spent it on a house. You have to admit, from their side, it looks really bad. Even if they accept you were going to pay it back, you could end up paying a huge fine, as well as court costs.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m no lawyer, obviously. I’m sure yours will know better than I do. But it’s possible you could lose everything. Your savings, the company – your house in Richmond.’ I pause. ‘This house.’

  ‘Ah,’ says George. ‘Not the house in Richmond.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I signed it over to Ness. When we divorced. It’s all in her name.’ He actually sounds pleased with himself.

  I keep my breathing steady. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  George shrugs. ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested in the ins and outs of my divorce settlement. I told you she fleeced me.’ He laughs. ‘And she did!’

  There’s something almost like admiration in his voice. I close my eyes. ‘But this house is in your name. You could lose this house.’ I look around the kitchen. ‘After all we’ve done to make it our home. This kitchen. Our bedroom.’ I pause. ‘The nursery.’

  George reaches for my hand and squeezes it. ‘It won’t come to that. I promise.’

  He attacks his food with relish, smacking his lips and rolling the wine around his mouth. I try not to let the sound of his chewing irritate me but now I’ve noticed it, it’s all I can hear, so I get up and turn on the radio in the hope that it’ll drown out the sound.

  ‘Oh by the way,’ says George, swallowing and wiping his lips with his napkin. ‘I spoke to Harry.’ He pauses, but I don’t say anything. ‘I’ve arranged to meet up.’

  ‘When? Where?’

  ‘Next Friday.’ He holds his hand up and smiles indulgently. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not expecting you to cook. I said we’d meet him in a pub, what do you think?’

  ‘Lovely.’ I get up and scrape the remains of my plate into the bin.

  THIRTY

  Stella

  After George leaves for London late Monday morning, I empty out the remaining champagne bottles, fill the car boot with the empties and drive to the recycling centre. On my way back, I turn into the Tesco car park. I’m choosing apples one by one, carefully checking each for bruises, when I hear footsteps behind me. A male voice booms out.

  ‘I hear it was a good night!’

  I turn. ‘Hello Derek!’

  ‘How’s the head this morning?’

  ‘Been better.’ I smile, tie my bag of apples and place it in the trolley. ‘So, why didn’t you come? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  Derek’s voice takes a magnanimous tone. ‘Would have loved to have come, thank you for asking, had we been invited.’

  ‘But you were!’

  Derek shakes his head.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure as eggs. We were wondering what you had to do to get an invitation.’

  ‘But we invited everyone. The whole village was welcome.’

  ‘Not the story I heard. Did many people come?’

  I chew my lip. ‘Now you mention it, no they didn’t. We were wondering what we’d done to offend so many people.’

  ‘How about not invite them in the first place? That’d be why they didn’t come.’

  ‘But George…’ I stop talking, my mouth hanging open. ‘Ahhh.’

  ‘George what? Invited the wrong village?’ Derek cackles.

  I tut. ‘George was supposed to put them through everyone’s doors. I gave them to him myself. But… oh God.’ I shake my head. ‘Oh no, it must have affected him more than I realised.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh nothing.’ I sigh and look around to check no one I know is nearby. ‘Just… please can I ask you to be discreet?’

  Derek inclines his head as if this is a given.

  ‘The fact is, he’s not taking time off work through choice.’ I pause. ‘I presume you’ve heard about the investigation hanging over him?’ Derek nods. ‘He must be ashamed,’ I say. ‘You know he wasn’t even able to get a part-time job to keep him busy. It takes its toll.’ I realise I’m rubbing my upper arm and stop doing it. ‘You know what these alpha male types are like sometimes. He never wants anyone’s pity. I bet that’s what happened.’ I give myself a little shake. ‘Anyway, please accept my apologies. You were actually top of our list. But now we seem to have alienated the whole village when our point was to make friends!’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I’ll spread the word a little for you, if you like.’

  ‘Umm. Thank you, but… it’s kind of delicate? I wouldn’t want George to think everyone knew our business. Or that he felt ashamed.’

  Derek pats my arm. ‘Of course. Understood. Subtlety’s my middle name.’ He taps the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Trust me.’

  We part company and I head over to the phone shop where I pick the cheapest pay-as-you-go smartphone I see, and a new SIM, too.

  ‘Would you like a package?’ asks the sales lady. ‘We have some great deals.’

  ‘No. Thank you. It’s just going to be a spare. In case my husband loses his. He can be such a doofus sometimes.’

  The woman laughs. ‘Nothing worse than being without a phone, right?’

  THIRTY-ONE

  George

  It’s only 5 p.m. when I finish with the solicitor and I feel pretty good when I step out into the street. Instinctively, I pull out my phone but my finger hesitates over Stell’s name. She’ll just expect me to come straight home. I call Ness instead.

  ‘Hey!’ I say. ‘I just wanted to let you know Lazenby was really glad to get the cheque. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. So, is that you off the hook?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I’ve just seen a solicitor and he says it should go some way, especially as Lazenby’s going to give me a character reference, too.’

  ‘That’s great! I’m pleased.’

  ‘Maybe we could go out one night? So I can thank you in person?’As soon as I’ve said it, I realise I’ve overstepped the mark. ‘Only if you want to!’ I add.

  Ness clears her throat. ‘No, it’s fine. Really.’

  I hang up and, again, am struck by Ness’ generosity of spirit. This is a woman who dedicated fifteen years of her life to helping me build my business; a woman whom I thanked by screwing around behind her back. A woman who almost gave me the baby I want so badly; who didn’t hesitate to help me when I needed it. I don’t like to think about the fact that Stell could easily have come up with the cash.

  I cross the street and walk slowly into Russell Square. The sun’s starting to dip below the tops of the buildings and the light has that magical early evening feel about it. After being stuck for so long in the village, I feel that special buzz of London. There’s something about it that, I don’t know, enthuses me. It’s a prickling in my veins, a buzz in my stomach – I feel like I’m a teenager getting ready for a party: I don’t want to go home, and I have the sense that anything could happen.

  Inside the park I find an empty bench and think about what I’m going to do. It’s a long time since I’ve felt like this. Life in the country’s nice enough, but it’s, God, I don’t know, suffocating? Being there with Stell all the time. Yes, she’s magnificent – a little voice says ‘too magnificent?’ and I slap it down. I need a bit of space now and then. The smallness of village life… it’s just… Richmond was great. I used to kid myself we lived in a village but it wasn’t really a village at all. A village in the city. But this – this is real village life and the minutiae of it feels like pondweed wrapping itself around my ankles and dragging me down. That prick of a pub landlord. That Nazi woman with the gift shop. Yoga mornings! I try not to think about my kick-boxing Stell
enduring the yoga mornings just so she can meet people. And those people all forming opinions about me and Stell and not coming to the goddamned party. I’d have been all right if I had my job – if I’d been able to come into town every day – but being home all day, every day…

  And then there’s the blackouts. What the hell’s going on with that? I rub my temples. Can I really be drinking so much I’ve killed my brain cells? Or is it something worse? But I’ve forgotten so much stuff lately I’ve started trying to hide it. Like in the kitchen. I can never remember where things are kept, even though Stell and I put it all there ourselves. It’s like someone else’s kitchen every time I walk in. Sometimes I stand there and try to imagine the most logical place for the coffee cups and open that cupboard and it’ll be the whisky. But when I want the whisky it’s never there. One week the kettle’s on the left of the sink; the next it’s on the right – or so it seems. It makes me so unsure of everything. I dread going into the kitchen now. I’m always second-guessing myself: was that really there yesterday? Or not? And every time I check my diary there are things – admittedly small things – that I don’t recall happening. I don’t tell Stell any more. I’m like an alcoholic trying to hide the extent of my problem. Not that I’m an alcoholic.

  I’m not.

  I can’t believe how quickly I got through the whisky the other week. When Stell showed me the empties. Shit.

  Speaking of which, I know what I want to do tonight. A drink. With Phil. I haven’t seen him for ages. I imagine us in a pub, some beers – God, it’s been so long since I’ve had any ‘guy’ time. I don’t even get to see my colleagues these days. I pull out my mobile and call Phil. He’s free. Brilliant.