FRAUD

by PETER DAVEY

  “You could come here if you like.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Richmond. I’ve got the use of a friend’s flat for a couple of months. There’s a Jacuzzi the size of a swimming pool.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “Okay, maybe not quite the size of a swimming pool. But it’s set in real Italian marble. And there’s a sauna.”

  “And you’re on your own?”

  “Yep, all alone and feeling blue. I arrived yesterday.”

  “So when can I come over?”

  “How about right now?”

  *

  The doorbell rang soon after eight. Ted went to answer it and stared in amazement at the girl who stood before him. It was like looking at a stranger, since she resembled in barely a single detail the girl he had met that night at the Queen’s. Where she had then been plastered with makeup, she now wore none, and the hair that had fallen in straight black rods was shimmering red and cut in a bob to the base of her neck. She seemed thinner, almost waif-like, but when she smiled – her lips tightening and puckering in a charming way he had never noticed before – her delicate features formed themselves, for the first time, into those of a distinct individual and he knew that what he had seen that night had been a mask.

  Unsure whether to shake her hand or peck her on the cheek, he did neither. “It’s… great to see you again,” he said.

  “It’s great to see you.”

  “I like the hair. What colour do you call that?”

  “Nuclear red. It’s good, but you have to do it loads of times to get it right.”

  “It’s very sexy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s your natural colour?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve forgotten. Kind of browny-black, I guess.”

  They surveyed each other in silence.

  “So. Can I come in?”

  “Sorry!” he laughed, moving aside and gathering up her suitcase, grip and laptop case which she had dumped beside her on the step.

  “Wow Ted,” she gasped, gazing around as she entered the living room. “You’ve certainly fallen on your feet here, you clever sod. This’d cost like a zillion a month to rent!”

  “And all I have to do is feed the cat and show it a bit of grudging affection. Do you fancy some tea or coffee? Or wine?”

  “Wine, thanks,” she replied vaguely as she wandered off on a tour of inspection. “White if you’ve got it.”

  Ted went to fetch the Chardonnay from the fridge. “Are you hungry?” he called out.

  “No, I’m fine!” she called back from upstairs.

  He took a gulp of Shiraz. “I’ve bagged the room at the front! It’s away from the road and peaceful for work. You can have either of the other two.”

  “Oh my God!” she screamed. “There’s a photo of you up here – when you were young! You weren’t bad looking!”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised!”

  “Who’s the guy with his arm around you?”

  “That’s David. He and his wife own the flat.”

  She reappeared in the kitchen a few moments later and he handed her her glass.

  “Cheers,” she said. “Here’s to your novel.”

  “Cheers.”

  She sat down at the table and reached for her bag and – Ted guessed – her cigarettes.

  “Nicola, I’m really sorry. I’m afraid the only downside is that you can’t smoke in the flat. Marie’s fanatical about it. You’ll have to go outside on the terrace.”

  “Oh. Right. Let’s go outside on the terrace then.”

  It was a warm late summer evening. They settled in two plastic garden armchairs, Nicola kicking off her red slip-on shoes, unfurling her slender legs in their skin-tight jeans and crossing her feet on the little wall surrounding the herb bed. Ted noticed her toenails were painted the same colour as her hair. Almost at once, Cordelia jumped on her lap and made a nest for herself, Nicola stroking her distractedly.

  “I should watch her. She scratches,” he said, although she didn’t seem inclined to scratch Nicola.

  She offered him a cigarette but he declined. She lit her own, tilting back her head and blowing the smoke straight upwards towards the sky in a way which reminded him of that first evening they had met at the Queen’s. “This is nice,” she sighed.

  “I was completely thrown when you vanished like that. I had my manuscript all ready for you in a plastic bag.”

  “I know, sorry about that. But it was all your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “Yeah. That evening you walked me home it made me realise how much I’d missed the company of the human race. All of a sudden I couldn’t stay in bloody Wemborne a moment longer.”

  “I could never quite make out what you were doing there in the first place.”

  “I’d been ill. When I came out of hospital I had nowhere else to go.”

  He sensed she did not want to enlarge on the subject, so he did not press it.

  “I’m really sorry about the editing,” she said. “Or lack of it.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I feel a bit of a fraud, to be honest, because it really doesn’t need editing. I’d only have messed it up.”

  “I’m flattered you think so,” he said.

  “I have had this brilliant idea, though – about how I can earn that money you gave me. And then some.”

  “You don’t have to earn it. But let’s hear your idea anyway.”

  She dragged deeply on her cigarette, as though as an overture to the disclosure of her plan, like the parting of the curtains before a play. “It came to me just after I lost my job. I was wandering down Charing Cross Road feeling like shit when I saw all these people hanging around outside Foyles.” Her voice rose on the last two syllables, as though she assumed he knew Foyles was on Charing Cross Road. “Anyway, I noticed this old guy giving me the eyeball. He was tall and quite good-looking with long grey hair in a pony-tail – he looked like some over-the-hill rock star but I couldn’t place him. So I asked him what was going on. Turned out it was the launch of Harold Mosberg's latest prize-winning pile of crap about miserable old fuckers being miserable about being old fuckers. He asked me if I’d read it and I said, ‘No, sorry – not quite my thing’. He laughed and said, ‘Nor mine. And I’m supposed to be guest speaker at this bash. I’ll just have to read the blurb on the back and bullshit.’

  “I found myself kind of warming to this guy – he didn’t seem to give a shit, even though everyone was fawning on him like he was Jesus or something. ‘So, are you coming to the party’ he asked me and I told him I hadn’t got an invite. He said not to worry – I could come in with him and his friends. ‘You’ll have the privilege of hearing me bullshit... and, more importantly, you’ll get a free glass of champagne.' So I thought, fuck it, why not?”

  “So who was this person?”

  “I’m coming to that. Anyway, he’s got this really good-looking woman with him who I guessed was his wife or partner, though she must have been at least twenty years younger than him. So we all kind of drift in together and, sure enough, I get my free glass of champagne. And some nibbles – which was great since I was famished. Then comes the really amazing bit. He holds out his hand and says, ‘Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Tom Newcomb.’”

  Ted stared at her. “Tom Newcomb. You mean the Tom Newcomb?”

  “Yeah, the Tom Newcomb. I couldn’t believe it! I mean, the guy was a hero of mine when I was a teenager. I used to sit up till two in the morning glued to his tales of sex and drugs and murder in the back streets of ‘Ooderzfield and ‘Alifax and Christ knows where. I even had a crush on him once – at least, a crush on that puppy-eyed, stubbly face on the back of the Penguin editions.”

  “I met him once when I was at Oxford,” said Ted. “He used to wear braces and a flat cap and get himself invited to dinner parties to save money on food. All the girls hung on his every word but I thought he was a prick.”<
br />
  Nicola paused a moment, as though faintly offended by Ted’s irreverence.

  “Anyway, I told him I’d read all his books and he seemed amazed. ‘I thought I went out with miniskirts and social consciences,’ he said. I pointed out that miniskirts are back in – I’d got a couple at home to prove it. God, I was so crawly, Ted – you’d have despised me. He seemed to be loving it, though. Although his wife had gone a bit stiff.”

  “She’d be used to it. So what did you talk about, you and the great man?”

  “He asked me about myself and I told him I was an actress but that I was having a real struggle finding work. He said he knew a few people in the film business and might be able to pull some strings for me. Then he gave me his card and told me to call him in a couple of weeks.”

  Ted grabbed the bottle and topped up both their glasses. “You'll have to watch him, though. I've been told he can't keep his dick in his pants for five minutes.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m afraid he’s going to be out of luck there. I don’t sleep with geriatrics – even famous ones.”

  “That counts me out then,” Ted laughed. “And I’m not even famous.”

  “You’re not a geriatric! You’re just a bit… weathered. I like that.”

  “Weathered. Right. That’s a relief. So what’s this brilliant idea of yours?”

  “Well, I got to thinking, there I was with this great writer eating out of my hand, and I could have used that contact to promote the novel.”

  “You mean my novel?”

  “No, I mean the twenty-first century neo-post-modernist novel in general. Of course your novel. I could’ve got him to introduce me to his agent or something. I know you’re crap at that sort of thing, but that’s cool. You’re a writer, you’re not a salesman or a self-publicist. But I could be. And here I am in London, right at the heart of things. I could change my image – get a couple of Armani suits from TK Maxx, dye my hair a really classy colour and get some streaks, bung on some killer heels. I reckon I could get you a publishing deal within weeks. Days, probably. It’s all about packaging after all, isn’t it? And then we could go halves on the proceeds.”

  Ted laughed. “That’s a great idea, but I can’t see you as a power-dressing mover-and-shaker fluttering your eyelashes at a commissioning editor.”

  “Ted, I’m an actress! I can be whatever you want me to be! The power-dressing mover-and-shaker would be no less what I really am than the potty-mouthed drop-out bitch with purple hair and piercings.”

  “So what are you then… really?”

  She shrugged, clearly annoyed at having the conversation diverted away from her plan. “I don't know. I’m a blank canvas. All I’ve ever wanted to do is dress up and play ‘let’s pretend’, so you may as well take advantage of it.”

  Ted took a thoughtful sip of wine. “It’s strange. You say you’re a blank canvas and yet to me you’ve got the most distinct personality of anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Ted, will you stop changing the subject! I want to know what you think of my idea!”

  “I think it’s a brilliant idea. And I really appreciate your enthusiasm – I’m sure you’d be great at promoting my book. The problem is ‘Tyranny’ isn’t up to it – I’m more convinced of that now than ever. The guy who wrote me that letter was right. I don’t ever want it out there with my name on it. It’s just not good enough.”

  “Ted, you’re talking complete and utter crap! It’s a brilliant novel, and if you don’t stop being so fucking self-deprecating and grab this opportunity, I’ll lose all respect for you!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And what about Julie, your adopted sister who did all that work on it with you? Doesn’t she deserve to have her story told?”

  “I... think she’d understand.”

  “Yeah, well, she doesn't have much choice, does she?” she mumbled.

  “Look, Nicola, I’m sorry,” Ted repeated, trying to be assertive. “I really do appreciate your faith in me. But I have to stay true to myself. It’s my novel and I’m the only one who can decide when it’s ready to go out there. Ultimately that’s the only way to be as an artist.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not being true to yourself! You’re wallowing in self-pity!”

  Ted took refuge in the wine bottle, though when he raised it to refill their glasses, he discovered it was empty. “‘Scuse me,” he said.

  As he stood up he had to grab the back of her chair to steady himself. He carefully stepped up to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a fresh bottle, refilled both their glasses then sat down rather heavily.

  “We’ll discuss this again when you’re not so pissed.”

  “You sound like my mother now!”

  “Yeah... well.”

  They both fell silent. Nicola’s stroking of Cordelia’s pelt had become somewhat manic.

  “You’re disappointed in me then?”

  “Disappointed. Exasperated. That book could be a bestseller, Ted, I know it could! It’s got that quality about it – that honest quality that touches peoples’ hearts! Young people especially. Trust me, marketed the right way and with Tom Newcomb behind us it could make us a fortune! It could be our passport out of here!”

  Ted was gazing distractedly into the ruby depths of his wine. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about it.”

  “Yeah, well I do. Because I understand it. And I recognise it.”

  He raised his head and stared at her. “How do you mean, you recognise it?”

  Instead of replying, she lit another cigarette.

  “Nicola?”

  “Okay, when I was thirteen I was going through this really shitty time and I just... played out this little fantasy to comfort myself, that I had a real mother out there who'd been forced to give me up for adoption because she was too young and too poor to keep me. But later she decided to go in search of me and I was just waiting for the day she'd find me. I even had a name for her – Gina. Gina Carson. Christ knows where that came from. Then my mother had to go and shatter even that illusion by informing me – in graphic detail – how giving birth to me had nearly killed her, like that was somehow my fault as well. But Gina was so real, while she lasted, that I... understand.”

  Ted, after a long silence, murmured, “Like Kim's journey. Only in reverse.”

  “Yeah. Like Kim's journey. Except that Kim's mother let her down. Gina was never going to let me down.”

  “By killing herself, you mean?”

  “Suicide’s the most selfish thing when someone loves you.”

  He took a slow sip of his wine. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”

  They both lapsed into silence, then he said, “I’m sorry, Nicola. I’m really sorry. It’s a great plan and I’m really touched by your enthusiasm for the novel but… I’m afraid I just can’t go along with it.”

  “Oh, fuck it!” she suddenly snapped, tossing the cat out of her lap and standing up. “You’re just like all the rest! Everything I suggest you dismiss like I’m some kind of imbecile or something, even though I’m making a really brilliant suggestion here!”

  He looked up at her, horrified. “What are you talking about? We’re just discussing it...”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got no right to bully and harangue you. It’s your book – you do what you like with it. I’m going to bed.”

  *

  Ted could not sleep that night. He lay on his back, gazing at the faint ray of light from the streetlamp fanning across the ceiling, thinking about Nicola and about Julie and about Kim and about Gina, fact and fiction and fantasy intertwining inside his fevered brain. A wind was rustling the trees and bushes, and, as it rose and fell, it was hard to distinguish, at certain moments, from the distant drone of the city. But then he caught snatches of something else, something he could not quite make out. It sounded at first like voices – like someone calling from a vast distance but with the breeze carrying off parts of their sentences, making them incomprehensible.
But then he realised that what he could hear was crying.

  Now wide awake and stone-cold sober, he propped himself on one elbow and listened intently. Then he got up, put on his bathrobe and stepped out into the corridor. He paused, Nicola’s anguished sobbing now clearly audible. He moved the few steps to her door – his bare feet making no sound on the carpet – raised his hand to knock, then dropped it to the handle, turned it slowly and pushed it open.

  Her room, like his, was a mosaic of streetlight and shadow. The crying was coming from the bed.

  “Nicola, what’s the matter?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t wake me. What is it?”

  “It’s nothing. Just ignore me.”

  But instead he moved to the bed, settled with his back against the pillows and gathered her under his arm. She shifted against him and nestled her head on his chest.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you earlier. I think you’re idea’s brilliant. I don’t deserve you.”

  “You didn’t upset me. I upset myself. I’m just a stupid, crazy fucking wreck.”

  “You’re not a wreck. I’m a wreck.”

  “Maybe we’re both wrecks,” she snorted. “I just get discouraged. It’s all just so... difficult.”

  “I know.”

  Slowly, gently, he caressed her hair.

  “That’s nice,” she whispered.

  They both fell silent, Ted’s palm moving slowly, repeatedly over the curve of her head, and in time her crying ceased and her breathing calmed and became more even. He glanced down and saw she had fallen asleep. But when he made a move to leave, she murmured, “Don’t go.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FORWARD TO 2007

  Dominic’s mobile rang just after one thirty in the morning, waking him from a deep sleep. A robotic hand reached out and groped round the surface of the bedside table, located it and dragged it to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  Katie had also been woken by the ring and was now anxiously looking at her boyfriend, fearing it might be an emergency.

  “Yeah...yeah,” he murmured, hauling himself into a sitting position. Then, suddenly wide awake, he exclaimed, “That’s fantastic, Hank! I’ll look forward to it! Thanks for letting me know!”