‘OK.’
He opens up the laptop and I hear him type in his passcode then the double-click of the mouse as he calls up the document. Through my lashes, I watch his face as he reads.
TWELVE
George
At least things are black and white in the diary. I log into the computer, click on the document to open the diary, and reread my last entry.
Today Stell saw a solicitor and put the house and company shares into her name so the court couldn’t come after me if I’m fined or ordered to pay costs. What would I do without her?
My stomach’s full of cold, hard lead; my lungs have no air in them. I sit and stare at the screen. Did I type this? I look at Stell – she’s writing away, completely oblivious, and suddenly I feel so alone. I no longer feel it’s Stell and me against the world. It’s just me going quietly crazy. I breathe quietly in and out through my nose, trying to calm myself. Did we go to the solicitor? Which solicitor? I remember Stell telling me about the meeting she had with him, the advice he gave, but I’m one hundred per cent certain that we didn’t go to a solicitor together. I was still thinking about whether I wanted to transfer the house – and the business! – wasn’t I?
But I’m the man who forgot his wife lost their baby.
And then I remember the lasting power of attorney I gave Stell when we married. She doesn’t need my signature. She could have done this without me even there. But did I agree to it?
When I feel I’m calm enough to keep my voice steady, I speak. ‘Hon, did we ever decide if we were going to put the house in your name?’
She looks up and smiles. ‘You and your memory, crazy cakes. Yes. We did.’
‘Ah. And we did it?’
‘Yep. All done. One less thing to worry about.’ She smiles again and turns back to her book.
I try to keep my voice even. ‘OK.’
I close the document, log out of the computer and go upstairs. I need to speak to someone who’s outside all of this – someone who can give me an objective view. But, aside from Phil and Ness, I realise I haven’t been in contact with anyone since I got married. I’m cut off from my work colleagues for obvious reasons, and I’ve moved away from all my local friends: my mates in Richmond and my motorcycle club. Then I lost my phone and, with it, all my numbers. I’ve still not managed to make a ride with the local bike club. My social circle is non-existent.
There’s a phone by the bed. I stare at it for a minute, then I pick it up and dial Harry. He may have his faults, but he’s family and, right now, that’s what I need. And a little voice inside my head reminds me, too, that he’s a psychologist; that he might be able to help in a way I neither understand nor want to admit.
‘Hey stranger,’ he says when he picks up. ‘How’s things?’
‘I need to talk to you. Do you fancy meeting in London this weekend? Bit of a boys’ night, just you me?’
‘This weekend? Umm…’
‘Please?’ I sound desperate, even to myself.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Fine. Everything’s fine. Just: please?’
‘OK, sure. But don’t cancel on me again this time.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
Harry laughs quite bitterly, as if he knows something I don’t know, and I hang up, already planning. I go to the bathroom. There, exactly where I always leave it, on the counter next to my sink, is my wedding ring.
THIRTEEN
Stella
For the first time since this whole thing started, I think I may have overdone it. As George gets up and leaves the kitchen, I see in his face that something’s shifted; he’s starting to question what I tell him. He knows we didn’t agree to transfer the house into my name. I throw my pen down. Still, maybe I’ve done enough now – put enough wheels in motion – for this to continue on its own momentum.
There’s nothing George can do about the house or the business now. He has no power to change it back to his name, and it’s only fair, isn’t it, that I have a house in my name if Ness has one in hers? You’d think I was asking a lot, wouldn’t you? A husband who’s happy to be at home with me, and ownership of my own home? If George had played fair from the start of all this, I wouldn’t have had to go to these lengths. It’s all his fault. All of it. He’s brought it on himself.
But where’s it all going to end? I think back to the cold winter’s morning when I’d had lunch with the charity trustees. Jail wasn’t a part of my plan. I’d been sure Lazenby would forgive George once he paid the money back, which he’d said he was able to do – it was a loan, after all – and they’re such good mates. Old boys’ network, and all that. The fact that he was suspended from work was a nice addition because it gave me more time to play with him, but what I hadn’t realised was that the CPS would get involved; that there was a bigger case in the frame.
That was just unfortunate.
I hear George’s footsteps coming back down the stairs and along the corridor and quickly pick up my pen. I suck the end of it and stare into space. When I snap my eyes to George as if coming down out of my thoughts, I see at once that he’s found his wedding ring. He speaks with no introduction, as if he’s been planning what to say.
‘I just want to tell you that I don’t recall agreeing to put the house in your name. I was actually still thinking about it.’ He pauses. ‘I just want that to be said. So there’s no misunderstanding.’
‘OK.’ I shrug. ‘But you should tell Dr Grant about it. It’s not good that you’re forgetting such big things now. Important things.’
‘Stella. I didn’t agree to it. That’s what I’m saying.’
I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘What does it say in your diary?’
‘Exactly what happened: that I didn’t like the idea of it and was thinking about it.’
I watch his face as he says that. Only a tic near his eye gives away the fact that he’s lying. But we already know that George is a good liar. So what else is he lying about? Was he with Ness when he went out this morning? Did she come up to see him? There’s a new spark of energy in his demeanour and I know it’s got something to do with her. He forgets how well I know him.
‘OK,’ I say slowly. ‘Maybe you wrote the diary before you decided to do it. But you did agree to it. We were sat at the kitchen table after dinner – had you been drinking? Yes, I think you were on the white wine the night I cooked those chicken kebabs, you remember the peri-peri ones? – and you said you didn’t like the idea but it made “perfect sense”.’ I imitate his voice as I say that bit. ‘But I understand that you don’t remember. Look, I was just trying to help. Do the right thing. I’m sorry.’ I hold my hands up, palms facing him. ‘I’m sorry I even got involved. Would you prefer it if I stepped right out of this and let you handle it on your own? With your “solicitor”?’ My voice is contemptuous. His solicitor’s done nothing about getting the case dropped so far. How difficult can it be when he has good character references and has already paid the money back?
George tuts. ‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘So dramatic.’
I scoff. ‘I’m not being dramatic! You’re the one marching in here making melodramatic declarations. If you ask me, it just makes you look more crazy than you already are. But, look—’ I lower my voice ‘—I’m just trying to ride with this as best I can. It’s not easy, and I’m sorry if I got it wrong.’
George stares at me for a minute.
‘I’m seeing Harry on Friday,’ he says. ‘On my own,’ and my heart literally jumps.
‘Where?’
‘London. He’s coming down. It’s about time we had a good catch-up.’
I suck the top of the pen and look at George through narrowed eyes.
‘Oh that’s a shame. We’d talked about going away, hadn’t we? I was hoping we could have a nice weekend break down by the coast?’
George shakes his head. ‘Another time. I’m not messing Harry around again.’ He turns abruptly and leaves
the room.
My smile is tight. ‘Lovely.’
FOURTEEN
George
‘What’s happened to you?’ Harry asks when we meet in town on Friday night. ‘She’s a chef? Isn’t she feeding you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at you: you’re skin and bone!’ His eyes search my face and I sense he wants to say something about that, too, but he holds off, which is unlike Harry: it must be bad. I do look tired – this I know – tired and grey – and the weight loss doesn’t help. I can’t believe I went along with Stell’s stupid diet. She kept telling me I was paunchy and I believed her even when I could see that I was losing too much weight. The truth is, I felt so guilty about that bruise on her head, I’d have done anything to please her.
‘I was going for “lean and distinguished”,’ I say.
Harry laughs dismissively. ‘But, seriously, Georgie-P? What’s she doing to you? So much shagging you don’t have time to eat?’
I sigh. ‘Hardly. The court case? You must have heard.’
‘Yeah. So you nicked a million quid or something?’ He makes his fingers into the shape of a pistol, shoots me – ‘Boom!’ – and blows the imaginary smoke off the gun.
‘It wasn’t a million! Half that! And I didn’t nick it. It was a loan. A short-term loan. That’s all it was ever meant to be. And, for the record, I’ve paid it back.’
I tell Harry everything, starting with the court case and working through everything I feel’s gone wrong in recent months from the party to losing my memory. Although he’s trained to listen, it’s not easy talking to Harry to begin with because he makes it clear that he simply doesn’t believe the tale of woe coming out of my mouth. And, to be honest, even to me, my monologue of whingey complaints sounds pathetic. I feel like a kid telling tales to the teacher: ‘And then she said this, and then she said that.’ But, as I talk, Harry’s heckling reduces and then stops, and I can see, as he tilts his head and taps his lip, that his interest is piqued. That alone makes me feel validated.
‘But you remember none of these things?’ Harry asks when I’ve told him everything that comes to mind.
‘OK. How’s your memory otherwise?’
I shrug and Harry snaps some current affairs questions at me; then asks things about our childhood.
‘Eight out of ten short-term and nine out of ten long-term,’ he says. ‘Does that make you feel as if you’re losing your memory?’
‘Not really.’
Harry leans back in his chair and steeples his hands. ‘I’ll tell you why you don’t remember any of these things – not least hurting your wife – hurting your wife, George – it’s because they didn’t happen.’
Tears spring out of my eyes from nowhere and I wipe at them with the back of my hand. Harry looks away. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. But the relief to hear that said out loud almost drowns me. I’m not sure I believe it but it’s what I want to hear: it’s my life raft.
‘I can’t imagine hurting her,’ I say. ‘You know what Mum and Dad were like about anyone who hurt a girl. Remember when you kicked that girl – Suzie? – in a fight and Mum frogmarched you to her house to apologise?’
‘And grounded me for a month.’
‘Exactly. I thought she was going to explode she shouted at you so much; I honestly thought her brains were going to burst out through her ears.’ I pause. ‘I’d never hurt a woman. But Stell showed me the bruises. Told me about the arguments we’d had.’
‘Bruises, schmoozes. I wouldn’t put it past her to bash her own head and blame you for it.’
I look away. I desperately want what Harry’s saying to be true, but I don’t see how it can be. Harry has his own agenda: he’s never liked Stell, and he’s never seen how we are together now, as adults – how perfect we are. The woman he’s describing isn’t the Stell I know. But…
‘Why did you leave Ness anyway?’ Harry asks. ‘She was so good for you – just what you needed, but you had to balls that up. Couldn’t keep your pants on, eh? Oh God, Georgie.’ Harry shakes his head. ‘I know I shouldn’t speak badly about your new wife and I know you’ve had a thing for her since you were yay high, but I’m sorry to tell you that Stella Simons is not a well-balanced individual. There’s always been something about her. You see enigmatic; I see cold. She has no friends – never did. Have you ever noticed that? It wouldn’t surprise me if she has psychopathic tendencies.’
‘What?’
‘I bet she’d score quite highly on the scale.’
‘No!’
‘Let me see. Is she cold? Well, you might not think so, but I’d say she is. Ruthless? Don’t answer. Calm? A good planner?’
‘That doesn’t mean she’s a psychopath!’
‘Of course it doesn’t. But all these things together, added to what you’ve already told me…’ Harry exhales, shaking his head. ‘Let me guess: it was her idea to borrow the money from the charity, wasn’t it?’ My mouth falls open. ‘She knew it was the wrong thing to do but she still suggested it,’ Harry says, nodding at me. ‘Typical of a psychopath. And then, once you were caught, how was she? Full of remorse and sympathy?’ Harry looks at me. ‘Did she offer to try to help you pay it back? No. Did she offer to help in any way? I didn’t think so. Did she try to belittle the trouble you were in? Make you feel it wasn’t such a big problem?’
I stare at Harry.
‘Have you ever noticed how she likes to control everything you do?’ Harry asks. ‘Who you see? What you eat?’ He strikes his hand to his head. ‘She runs a catering company, doesn’t she? Oh God, it’s so textbook it hurts. I’d love to do a case study on her! I’d have a field day. She probably became a cook only because she wants to control what people eat. Psychopaths gravitate towards certain careers.’ Harry holds up his fingers and counts them off. ‘CEO, lawyer, media, sales, surgeon, journalist… um… I forget the others… police, and guess what? Chef. Oh look, there we are: a chef who’s CEO of her own company.’ He laughs. ‘It’s classic!’
‘Come on! Now you’re being ridiculous!’ I say, but I’m thinking about the diet she put me on.
‘Am I? Have you ever argued with her about what she cooks for you? Said chicken when she says duck?’
I shake my head. Unending weeks of salad. No carbs. No sugar. No fat. No fun.
‘You should try it. She won’t like it one bit. She’d be like a balloon when you stick a pin in it, fizzing away into the distance till she’s a screaming speck on the horizon.’
We both stare at our beers for a moment. I’m reeling at what Harry’s saying. I’d like to believe it but it’s so far-fetched; so typical of Harry to come up with such a ridiculous idea. Yet maybe there’s a seed of truth in it. It was Stella’s idea we move to the village, not mine. She chose the house, not me. And now I see that she possibly – probably – lied about me saying it was OK to buy it. I don’t remember her showing me the details. I’d have questioned it from that moment. It’s not my kind of house. I loved The Lodge. God, if I were to believe Harry, it would make Stell a monster.
‘And you know what else?’ Harry says, pointing at me. ‘She’s manipulative. Have you noticed that? Do you always have to do what she wants?’
Manipulative. Ness also said she was manipulative. ‘No.’ ‘Let me ask you a question: apart from tonight when you’re with me, when did you last do something for yourself? Just you and your friends? Your bike group, or whatever it is you do?’
I take a deep breath in. Oh God. Both times I tried to join the new MC, I ended up staying home and doing something with her instead. My blood runs cold. Did she take my phone that morning? It was on the kitchen island. I know it was. And then her fall on the stairs the night we were supposed to meet Harry. I’ve been over it a million times and I know I didn’t trip her. I was nowhere near her.
I push back my seat and stand up. ‘Just going for a wee.’
In the Gents, I go into a cubicle and sit on the seat, head in hands, as I go over what Harry’s bee
n saying. I don’t want to hear it and I do want to hear it. I trust Harry’s expert opinion but then he’s never been fond of Stell. Could it be that he’s just enjoying shooting her down for fun? Making me look a fool? Having a laugh over a few beers at his baby brother’s expense?
Back at the table, Harry takes a sip of his beer, smacks his lips, then puts the glass back down.
‘I was just remembering how she used to pop up in floods of tears or with some sort of family crisis every time you were supposed to be going out without her.’
I’d forgotten about that.
‘I’ve been thinking about it while you were in the bog. Gas-lighting. That’s what she’s doing.’
‘What?’
‘Psychological term. Messing with your sense of reality. Manipulating you.’
‘Oh, please.’
‘God, you’re so naïve, Georgie. Google it.’
‘But why? Why would she do that?’
Harry scoffs a laugh. ‘Because it’s who she is. It’s what she does. It’s fun for her. It’s sport.’
‘But she loves me. I don’t get it.’
‘Maybe she has an agenda. I don’t know what’s gone on between you two. I haven’t seen her since she left school.’
Something strikes me. ‘But what about my diary? Everything that happens is written there in black and white.’
‘She changes it. Simples.’
‘It’s password-protected.’
Harry rolls his eyes at me. ‘And? You think a password’s a problem for an act like her? I could guess your password.’
‘But the fact remains that I’m still having blackouts.’
Harry leans back, tapping his fingers on his lip. ‘Tell me, do you have any prescription medication in the house?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Only Stell’s sleeping tablets. But I don’t go near those.’
Harry thumps his fist on the bar and beams at me. ‘Bingo.’
‘What? I don’t take them.’
‘Or so you think. Is there any way she could be getting them into your food or drink?’
The One That Got Away Page 26