‘Guess what?’ she says. ‘Derek’s agreed to give you a job at the pub!’
She grabs me by the wrists, pulls me to my feet, and plants a showy smacker of a kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re welcome,’ she says.
‘What sort of job? Behind the bar?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘How did you get him to agree? He was so anti employing me when I asked.’
‘I just fluttered my lashes,’ she says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to bat your lashes and get what you want. I can see why Derek agreed. There’s something about Stell that just kind of railroads you into doing what she wants. An innocent expectation, maybe, that you’ll do what she wants; that ‘no’ just isn’t an option. And then there’s the fact that he fancies her.
‘It’s only a trial, though. Unpaid,’ Stell says. ‘So I thought I’d give you an allowance.’
‘An allowance?’
‘You know, so you feel like you’re earning something. Aren’t you going to say thank you?’
I lean over and kiss her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Right. You’d better get dressed. He’s expecting you at midday for the lunch crowd.’
‘So soon?’
‘Why waste time? I know how much you wanted a job.’
I change out of my shorts into chinos and a shirt, and head off to the pub. Derek’s behind the bar. He looks me up and down as I stride over to him.
‘Looking very smart,’ he says.
I smile. ‘Thanks for this. I appreciate it.’
‘I’m only doing this because your lovely wife asked me,’ Derek says.
Our eyes meet. ‘I know.’
Derek lifts up the bar and I step towards the gap, but we almost collide as he comes out.
‘Where are you going, sunshine?’ he says. ‘Kitchen’s this way.’
‘Of course.’ I follow Derek through a door into the kitchen, then out the other side into a cramped anteroom where there’s an industrial-sized sink, a couple of dishwashers and a pile of dirty dishes and glasses on a draining board.
‘Dishes there. Sink. Bin. Soap. Dishwashers.’ Derek points to each item. ‘You scrape the dishes, rinse them, stack them. Put the tablet in. Turn on the dishwasher. When you run out of dishes, you come outside and clear tables. If both machines are busy, you wash by hand. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘House rules: no flirting. No chit-chat when you’re out front. No dilly-dallying. No drinking, not even if someone offers to buy. Water’s on the house, and one meal per shift, eaten out here, not front of house. Got it?’
I nod. ‘Got it.’
‘Three day shifts a week: eleven to six. Three night shifts: six to eleven. Rota will be behind the bar. One month’s trial, then minimum wage, cash in hand. Sorted?’
‘Sorted.’
The door bangs shut after Derek and I turn to face the pile of dirty dishes.
*
I’m exhausted by the time I leave the pub at six. The sink’s a little too low for me and my shoulders ache from stooping over it and bending to load and unload the dishwashers. I can’t believe how many people come to the pub for lunch; how many plates, glasses and cups they get through. My hands feel rough from the detergent and the sickly smell of the dirty dishes feels like it’s lodged in my nose for ever. I’ve leaned in someone’s leftover ketchup and it’s stained my chinos. My attempt to dab it out with water only made it worse.
I’ve got to do it all again tomorrow.
As I walk down the lane, I kick at random stones, aiming them into the bushes while I try to find the bright side. The commute is short. Ha! I kick another stone way too hard and it hits a tree trunk, sending birds flapping upwards. It may not be in London, but it’s something for me to do – something to get me out of the house.
But, oh my God, it’s not easy. How did my life come to this? A CEO washing dishes in a village pub? I try to tell myself that it’s a learning experience – that it’ll help me grow as a person – and a part of me likes that, but mainly I just feel ashamed. Ashamed that my career’s stalled so suddenly and so publicly. All I’ve known so far is success after success. I step up to the front door and, blimey, Stell must have been waiting for me because the door opens before I’ve even got my key out.
‘Darling!’ she says, coiling her arms around me. I really don’t know what she does all day because she’s wearing one of my shirts, knickers and little else from what I can tell. Her legs look amazing, but all I want to do is collapse on the sofa with a whisky. My whole body aches.
‘How was it?’ she asks when she lets go of me.
‘Exhausting.’ I try to walk to the living room but she heads me off into the kitchen.
‘Oh, come on! Don’t be like that! I’m so proud of you! I got some champagne to celebrate!’
I look at her, her eyes shining. But I really am knackered. I slump onto a chair at the kitchen table. Why is she spending money on champagne, after all that got wasted at the party?
‘No need for champagne. Save it for a real celebration.’
‘But you have a job!’
‘I’m washing dishes for free, Stell!’
If she’s shocked I’m not behind the bar, she doesn’t show it. She gives me a massive smile.
‘Don’t be like that. I said I’d give you an allowance, and here it is: ta-da!’ She picks up an envelope that’s on the counter and waves it at me. ‘Your first pay packet!’
She grins at me and I wonder if, for all her time in catering, she’s ever been down the messy end; if she has any idea what it’s like to scrape other people’s half-eaten food into a bin: the chicken bones, bits of pie crust and oil-soaked salad leaves; the sweet stickiness of stale ketchup and the slop of congealed gravy.
‘You won’t be on trial for ever and you won’t be washing dishes for ever,’ she says. ‘It could be the start of a whole new career for you – for us.’ Stell opens the fridge, pulls out the champagne bottle and starts to undo the foil. ‘You could learn the ropes at the pub then maybe we could buy a pub together. Just imagine it: me cooking and you behind the bar. Oh God, I can picture the menu already… We’d be a husband-and-wife team. It’d be so cool… I can see us locking up after hours, just the two of us having a drink together and unwinding; talking about the punters.’ She stares into space and sighs. ‘The kids helping out when they get older; learning the value of hard work. A real family business. It’d be amazing. Maybe it’s time to think about a new career, George.’
‘I have a career. I don’t need a new one.’ A pub, for God’s sake!
‘Well, that rather depends on what happens with the investigation, doesn’t it?’ she says sharply as she pours two glasses of champagne. She turns and hands me one. ‘Gosh, I don’t mean to say that you won’t be able to go back to work. But who knows what impact the negative publicity is going to have on business… or if it ends up going to court and then there’s court costs…’ Her voice trails off. ‘Anyway, cheers!’
‘Cheers.’ The champagne tastes acidic and I put the glass back down. All I want is a whisky. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. Stell’s clattering about the kitchen, pulling dishes out of cupboards and packets out of the fridge.
‘I love that we’re so happy,’ she says, arranging something on a dish, and I think I must have misheard her. Happy? Making the most of a bad situation, perhaps, but happy? I raise my eyebrows at her. She pops an olive into her mouth.
‘Look at us, I mean. We’re living the dream. Finally together. Gorgeous house. Trying for a baby. Both of us working locally – me working from home; flexible hours; no commute. And finally writing my book! Yes! I started it! I could even pop into your pub to see you for lunch! Ha! People would die to have our life.’ She takes a mouthful of champagne and swills it around. ‘I know there’s, you know, the “unpleasantness” with the charity thing but you have to look at the bigger picture, which is that we’re so happy.’ She bends down and gives me a hug from behind before
placing the dish of olives in front of me. ‘Thought you might be hungry after your day at work…’
I stare at her as she burbles on, pottering about the kitchen as she talks. She’s making it sound as if we’re some magazine idea of perfection. Does she really believe this, or is she trying to persuade me? I stare at the table while she goes on and on.
‘I thought I was happy before – you know, before we got together – but now I see that I wasn’t happy at all. My life was so two-dimensional without you. And look at what we’ve built together in such a short period of time. I mean, it’s not so long ago we were sneaking around in hotels.’ She looks at me from under her eyelashes. ‘Back then I would never have imagined we could have built all this together. You must be so proud…’
Proud? Proud? My life is falling apart. My life is in pieces. Everything I’ve known is broken. Something inside me snaps. I bang the table.
‘Stop! Just stop right there!’
Stell spins around to face me, the champagne in her glass slopping over the lip and her eyes wide with surprise. ‘What? Are you OK?’
‘Just stop this talk of living the dream.’ I try to calm myself but I can hear my pent-up fury in the tremble of my voice. ‘Stell. Don’t get me wrong. It’s great that we’re together. It really is. But living the dream? Sweetheart. I’m suspended from work – suspended from working at the company I own; the company I’ve spent my life building. I’ve been caught taking money from a charity and could potentially be facing a long and expensive court battle. I might lose everything – not least this house!’ I sweep my arm across the table, sending the olives flying. The dish smashes onto the floor and it pleases me to hear the crash; to see the broken shards and the splatter of olives on the gleaming floor. ‘This is not living the dream. It’s living a fucking nightmare!’
Stell looks shocked for a second but then her face composes itself quickly.
‘Aww, it’s sweet that you’re so sensitive,’ she says, ‘but don’t be like that. Don’t focus on the negatives.’ She pauses. ‘Think beyond that. Look at what you do have.’ She smiles at me then, when she realises I’m not saying anything, she carries on. ‘The house. Our life in the village, the friends we’ve made…’
She steps over to me and touches my arm but I shake her off and turn away. She has to understand this. She has to understand how hard this is for me.
‘A house bought with stolen money! Stolen money! A house I don’t even like – yes, Stell, I don’t like the house – OK? It’s cold, it’s sterile. It’s like living in a bloody hospital. And I miss London. There. I’ve said it. All right? Maybe I’m not cut out for village life.’ As I say it, an image of my old house in Richmond pops into my head and, with it, Ness – an image of Ness alone inside it: wonderful, admirable Ness, studying for her future. Were we really so unhappy? I loved that house. I really did.
Something passes across Stell’s face; she breathes in deeply and it looks as if she’s drawing herself in ready to hit me but then she exhales, shakes her head and laughs.
‘Oh, George! It was you who wanted this: not me! I was the one who didn’t want to leave London,’ she says. ‘It was your dream to live in the countryside!’ She points her index finger at me as she talks and she looks so confident, so sure of herself, that an icicle of dread slides through my veins: is she right? Was it me who drove the move to the countryside? I get that eighty:twenty feeling again, the sense that other people know more about my life than I do. Is this something else lost in the haze of my memory?’
Stell shakes her head at me. ‘I didn’t even want to sell my apartment, remember? I thought this might all be a big mistake but you wanted it so badly, this “country dream”. But anyway—’ she faces me, a bright smile on her face now ‘—the main thing – and what we must remember, crazy cakes – is that we’re in this together.’ She puts her hand to her forehead where the bruise is long faded and when she speaks her voice is quiet. ‘You’re so lucky to have me. No one else would stick with you through this.’
And I think: Ness would.
PART III
ONE
Stella
Roast fillet of beef. Roast garlic. Yorkshire puddings. Roast potatoes, carrots and beans. A gravy so rich my mouth’s watering as I stir it on the hob. Traditional, safe, homely food: a treat of fat and carbs for George. He can afford to eat it now, I think. Sometimes I catch sight of him unawares and his gauntness surprises me. The paunch is almost gone, though it’s unfortunate the weight loss has had such an effect on his face.
I set the table for dinner – not the kitchen table: the dining table. The best crockery. The crystal glasses. Bordeaux in a decanter, but only one wine glass. Sparkling water with slices of lemon, lime and orange in a crystal jug. A trail of tea lights leading from the front door to the dining room. The door on the latch. I want George to open the front door and ‘discover’ this dinner – to breathe in the aroma of beef cooking, and to follow the trail of tea lights to where I’ll be waiting in candlelight in the living room.
I step back from the table and look at my watch. I’m ravenous. It’s been a challenge timing the beef just right – George likes it medium-rare and I don’t want it to dry out. He called to say he was going to be an hour later than he’d originally said but, still, I readjust everything to accommodate. Nothing will ruin tonight. I check the meat, turn down the oven and head upstairs. All that’s left for me to do is shower, dress, light the candles and wait for him to get home.
After my shower, I massage body lotion into my skin, then open the wardrobe. It’s just a formality, really because I know what I’m going to wear: silk underwear, cropped blue jeans and a cream silk shirt. Bare feet, loose hair, a spritz of perfume at my throat and wrists. When I’m ready, I look at myself in the mirror. I may have put on a little weight since then, but other than that, I look almost identical to how I looked the night George first came to my apartment. The night I found out that Ness was losing the baby.
He won’t notice of course.
TWO
George
Lazenby calls. Like the guillotine, it’s brief.
‘Wolsey. Bad news, old boy. The trustees are like rabid dogs on this case. Nothing I could say would influence them. Your name’s going forward along with the others. It’s in police hands now. Sorry.’
My solicitor is just as discouraging. ‘There’s no easy way out of this now,’ he says, shuffling his notes.
My thoughts are morose as my train takes for ever to make its way out of London: stop-start-stop-start with more of the stop than the start. No matter what happens, the damage to my reputation is done. Who’s going to trust a company director who ‘borrowed’ money from a charity? I’ve lost all credibility as a fundraiser, which hurts almost as much as the damage I’ve done to my business. I bury my face in my hands. Why did I do it? Why? For the hundredth time, I run through that moment in the kitchen when Stell suggested I use the charity money. What was I thinking?
I just wanted to buy her the house. I wanted her to be happy.
And now, whatever else happens, my business will probably never recover. No one wants to be associated with a company that has a scandal hanging over it. I’m toxic. Maybe I should walk away. Give the company a chance to move on without me. Even as I think it, something dies inside me. It’s my business; my life’s work. I don’t want to run some two-bit village pub. There’s only one person who’ll understand. I call her.
‘How did it go? The meeting with the solicitor?’ Ness asks.
‘Oh God. It’s not looking good. Absolute best scenario: the Crown Prosecution Service drops my part of the case due to lack of evidence. Worst scenario… well, there are several of those, ranging from a fine and having to pay court costs, to ten years in jail.’
Ness gasps. ‘Oh come on now! It won’t come to that! You’ve paid the money back already.’
‘The fine could be hundreds of thousands. Short of selling the company – which I really don’t want to do – I
don’t have any more money,’ I say. ‘The only asset I have left is the house.’
‘You’d have to sell that?’
‘The court might force me to.’ I pause. ‘Look, I don’t want to ask but needs must. You couldn’t… ?’
‘Bail you out again? I’m sorry, George. I gave you everything I could. But there is something you might be able to do…’
‘What? What are you thinking?’
‘Is the house in your name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I imagine if you put it solely in Stella’s name, they couldn’t come after you. I’m no lawyer, but isn’t that what people do in these situations?’ She laughs. ‘I get all my info from the tabloids. You know that!’
My mind’s racing a hundred miles an hour. Could it work?
‘I’ll look into it,’ I say. ‘Thanks, hon.’ I realise my mistake as the word slips out but Ness doesn’t correct me and a little flame of hope ignites inside me that she liked the endearment. ‘Thanks for listening to my problems, and for being so patient with me.’ I pause. ‘Were you always this lovely?’
I wait but she doesn’t reply.
‘You were, weren’t you?’
She sighs. ‘Sometimes, George, people don’t see what’s right in front of them.’
I hang up and drop my head into my hands. What am I doing with my life? It’s like I’ve lost the ability to make good decisions since the school reunion. Things were fine before then. Boring, maybe, but fine. I look at my watch and my heart sinks: I’m going to be late and Stell’s going to go ape-shit. She said something about a special dinner and, with her, that means something timed to perfection. She gets really uptight about food. It all has to be absolutely ‘so’. It’s her job, I suppose. It’s how I am at work, too.
Was.
It’s hard to be that dedicated when it comes to clearing dirty plates.
I wonder what tonight’s all about. Something special, clearly. I can hardly dump it on her that the case is going to court. It’s ironic, really, that Ness is the only one of the three of us who’ll keep her house. The train pulls in and I move off it, through the village and down the lane to the house like a zombie. I put my key in the lock, push open the door and step straight into a tea light, which upends, sending hot wax pooling out onto the concrete floor and nearly setting light to my trousers.
The One That Got Away Page 23