by PETER DAVEY
Dominic felt somewhat chastised, though he still did not believe him. How could it have escaped his notice that someone who had been, at the very least, a close friend had achieved fame – especially as Nicola’s image was never off the front pages of the tabloids due to some scandal or other? He may have been living in the middle of a field but – as he himself had pointed out – he wasn’t living on Mars. He went to the pub, he went into the supermarket, he talked to people.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Then, after a moment’s pause, he got to his feet. “I’ll leave you in peace now.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since you arrived.”
“You’ve got my number. Just let me know if you need me in court.”
“I will.” Then he added, rather grudgingly, “Thanks.”
*
“I’ve heard from Shelby.”
“Who?”
“Shelby. You know – the real estate guy. He’s sent written confirmation of our rent and deposit and he’s emailed me some more photos of the apartment. It looks even better than we thought. You can even see the ocean, apparently. I mean, it’s not exactly what you’d call an ocean view, but you can just make it out, in between a wall and a palm tree.”
“The ocean?” Dominic frowned. “You mean the sea?”
“No, I mean the ocean. The Pacific Ocean… der!”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Do you want to see them?”
“Not right now. Maybe later.”
She stared at him, crestfallen. “What’s the matter now?”
“I just wasted an entire afternoon listening to a load of bullshit from Ted Haymer. He insists he and Nicola Carson were only friends but I know he’s lying.”
“Maybe he feels embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?”
“Yeah. I mean, she couldn’t possibly have fancied him so she must have been just using him. Maybe he feels a bit humiliated.”
Dominic considered her words. “I never thought of it like that. Maybe I’m being too judgemental. It’s just so hard to make any headway with someone who lies all the time.”
“Everyone lies all the time, Dominic. It’s called life. Anyone who says that love makes the world go round is talking out of their arse. It’s lying that makes the world go round.”
“Hey, that’s good!” he laughed. “I might even use it in the book. Come on then, let’s have a look at these photos of yours.”
6
Tidying the caravan, which was overladen with stuff and in which every movement was confined and constricted, was as exhausting as tidying a house. When he had finished, Ted made himself a cup of tea and sat down for a rest.
Ever since his telephone conversation with her, his thoughts had dwelt entirely upon Anne. If she came that afternoon it would be the first time they had been alone together since the day they disbursed their possessions and locked the door of their house in Wemborne for the last time. “I'll drop the keys off at the estate agent's on my way home,” she had said, her casual use of the word 'home' to refer to somewhere else where someone else was waiting for her emphasising all too painfully the point they had reached in their lives.
*
Anne parked her car beside the pumping station, put on her Wellington boots and trudged across the field. The air was chilly and ragged, grey clouds blew above the sea wall and along the faint horizon of violet hills. Ted had seen her coming and the little, windowless door opened before she knocked.
He stared at her for a moment. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You’re... looking well.”
“I’d say the same about you, but I’d be lying.”
“Thanks. I’ve had a lot of pain in my back and shoulder. Too much digging, the doctor reckons.”
“Digging?”
“I’ve made myself a little veggie patch out the back but it’s virgin ground and I’m having a real battle with the couch grass. I’ll show you later.”
“I like the beard anyway. It suits you.”
“Just can’t be arsed to shave in these conditions. Come in.”
She clambered into the narrow confines of his home and looked around in dismay at the pathetic living space – made all the more pathetic by his obvious effort to tidy up for her.
“Well, this is... cosy.”
“Yes, it was really squalid when I moved in, but I’ve cleaned it up and acquired a heater and a few home comforts. And Frank’s laid on a proper water supply.”
“Frank?”
“Frank Brewer – the farmer who owns the land. He’s a regular at the Queen’s.”
“Oh yes, Frank. I remember.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks. Look Ted, I’m sorry, I can’t discuss things in this environment. We’ll have to go somewhere else.”
“Oh. Okay. Where would you like to go? The Queen’s?”
“No, it’s too public. Let’s just drive somewhere. We can talk in the car.”
They could have talked in the car where it stood but Anne wanted to get away from that desolate marsh which she found deeply depressing. They drove in silence towards Wemborne, soon reaching the municipal playing fields bordered by a large, potholed car park which was empty at that hour. She pulled in, parked facing the deserted football pitch and switched off the engine.
They sat without speaking, neither seeming able to broach the subject which had brought them together again after nearly five years, the subject of which neither wanted to be reminded. Finally she said, “Pretty amazing news.”
“Yes.”
“There’s something that completely mystifies me, though. I had no idea Nicola Carson and Nicola Pearson were the same person. But you did. Surely curiosity must have made you want to read her novel.”
Ted thought for a while before replying. “That Dominic guy asked me the same question, and I’m not sure the answer I gave convinced him. I did know Nicola had published a novel, of course I did. But I didn’t want to read it. I was so ashamed of what happened and the effect it had on our lives and I just wanted to forget her, to put her behind me. I knew reading it would bring it all back.”
Anne was gazing straight ahead, her eyes focused in the distance where a gaggle of children were playing on some swings and a climbing frame. “Ted, if I support you in this I want you to understand that it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with... that business. All this latest information proves is that she’s a scheming, dishonest little bitch, which I always suspected anyway.”
She expected him to come to Nicola’s defence but he said nothing.
“You probably think that after more than four years I might have forgiven you or be moving towards some sort of reconciliation. But I can’t. I’ve tried, but I can’t. They say that time heals all but it doesn’t. The wound is still as raw as it was the day I found out. And that young man’s bombshell has just made it worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
Anne thought of the times she had almost called him. Once she had even lifted the receiver and dialled his number, then put it down again. “If it had been a one-off, a moment of weakness with some girl from the Queen's while I was away, I could probably have forgiven you. But it was so calculated. The way you pretended to be reluctant to go to Richmond... And it went on for six weeks... and would have kept on going if I hadn’t...”
Her shoulders suddenly hunched and her hands shot up to her face. She sniffed loudly. Ted, dismayed, raised a hand to her shoulder. “Anne…” She shook him away.
“If I do decide to support you,” she went on defiantly, “it’s because I care about your writing, and because I care about justice. And the truth.”
“I know.”
She sniffed again then dried her eyes briskly with a handkerchief and resumed staring into space. In the middle of the playing field a teenage girl in a blue coat was enthusiastically throwing a stick for what looked like a red setter. They both watched them in silence.
“Anyway, the so
licitor I mentioned on the phone. His name’s Bill Peach and he’s a partner in a firm in Tunbridge Wells. I think I should contact him and have a chat with him.”
“How much of the truth will need to come out?”
“I don’t think we need go into details at this stage. It’ll be enough to say that she was a friend whom you met in the Queens and that you emailed her your novel to get her opinion of it – all of which is true, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“So, shall I go ahead and do that, then?”
“I suppose there’s no harm in hearing what he has to say.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she reached forward and started the engine.
“You could drop me at the Queen’s if you wouldn’t mind. I need a drink. Would you… care to join me?”
“No. I have to get back.”
When they reached their destination, Ted lingered a moment in the car. “Thanks,” he said. “I really appreciate you doing this. And… it was good seeing you again, Anne.”
“It was good seeing you.”
*
Lying in bed that night, listening to the wind droning over the marshes, Ted thought about the evening it had all started to unravel, the evening that David, en route from Washington to Stuttgart, had turned up unannounced at the flat ‘just to check he was all right and had everything he needed’ and Nicola – warm and moist and fresh from the shower – had unwisely opened the door to him in one of Marie’s bathrobes. Not that it was David who had dropped them in it – that was Gladys, who proved to be a lot less dotty than he had at first thought.
“I have to say you've won my admiration, old buddy!” David had remarked as they walked together back to his rented Mercedes. “She’s fabulous.”
“Look, David, I hate involving you in this,” he’d said, “but it’s possible Marie might talk to Gladys and Gladys might mention Nicola and Marie might mention her to Anne. When I was chatting to her over the fence I went and told her it was Jess who was staying with me in the flat. It was stupid and wrong to involve my daughter, I know, but I thought it might pre-empt problems if I explained Nicola’s presence up front. I didn’t think it through. But if Marie mentions it to you, you’ll have to, well... corroborate my story.”
“So Anne doesn’t know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re having an affair.”
“No, of course not! I mean, I’m not having an affair. That’s the whole point. She’s just a girl I met down in Wemborne who came to London to try to make her way as an actress. But she’s got no money and can’t afford a place, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if she dossed down here for a while. But I should’ve told you and I should’ve been completely open about it with Anne and everyone else from the start. I’ve been an idiot.”
David had put an arm around his shoulder. “Ted! How many years have we known each other? Trust me, I understand these little necessities better than anyone. You just have to be careful, that’s all. We’d hate for anything to happen between you and Anne – you’re two of our oldest and dearest friends.”
“So you don’t believe me then?”
“Ted, lighten up, amigo! You and I both know we love our wives. You just, like I said... have to be careful.”
Alone in the darkness, Ted thought about David’s words. In his shoes, he probably wouldn’t have believed him either.
7
Katie was out having yet another farewell drink with one of her many friends and Dominic was enjoying a little peace online. He had Googled Nicola Carson yet again to see if there was anything fresh but was rather ashamed to find that what had begun as in-depth research had degenerated into an in-depth examination of her modelling a Calvin Klein bikini. In one shot she was seated on a rug with her legs tucked underneath her, her arms wrapped around her breasts in lieu of the bra and was staring straight at the lens – straight at him – with a look at once beseeching and faintly accusing which he found deeply disturbing. He minimalised the photo then, telling himself firmly to concentrate on the job in hand, ploughed on through the entries. Many were to do with her latest film – a blockbuster set in the super-rich fast lane entitled The Beautiful and Blessed (‘blessed’ to rhyme with ‘best’) and Nicola, as leading actress, was up for both BAFTA and Oscar nominations. She was trending yet again on Twitter and he found two postings on Facebook from people who claimed to have known her in her former incarnation as Nicola Pearson. One was clearly bogus but the second made him sit bolt upright, stare intently at the screen and murmur, “My God.”
He glanced at his watch and decided ten past ten was not too late to phone Anne. They now spoke to each other regularly.
“I’ve found a comment on the net posted by a girl who knew her before she was famous,” he said. “She was being treated for schizophrenia – the girl, I mean – so she wouldn’t make a very reliable witness. But she claims Nicola was a fellow patient at a psychiatric hospital near Horsham. She’d dropped out of uni and was actually having a mental breakdown at the very time she was supposed to have been writing ‘Loss’. She’d tried to kill herself – and it wasn’t some half-hearted cry for help either. She nearly succeeded.”
“Her mother kept that very close to her chest,” said Anne. “Still, being suicidal doesn’t stop you being a writer. Some people might even consider it a qualification.”
“Yes, but it’s the logistics. There was a window of less than a year between her leaving uni and getting her manuscript accepted for publication, and if she spent a large part of that having a breakdown, when the hell did she find the time to write a four hundred and seventy page novel?”
“She’ll probably make out she wrote it on her good days in insane bursts of creativity. Or even earlier, at university.”
“She did a lot of acting at uni, though. And I suppose she must have done some work as well. Could she really have found the time to write a book like that?”
“It’s unlikely, I grant you, but I don’t think that argument alone is going to carry much weight in court. But it certainly contributes to the overall picture.”
Dominic sighed. “I suppose the clinic would never disclose the information about her attempted suicide anyway – patient confidentiality and all that.”
“No, but the court could subpoena her medical records if they’re relevant to the case.”
Dominic, as he spoke, was still staring at the photo of the topless Nicola which had remaximised itself. “I’ve looked at loads of interviews and she’s incredibly touchy whenever anyone mentions the novel. She seems to just want to dismiss it and talk about her acting. And she lies all the time. Pretending to be American, for instance…”
“Acquiring an accent’s not a crime, Dominic.”
“No, but it doesn’t exactly enhance one’s credibility, does it?”
“I suppose not.”
“Anne,” he went on, after a moment’s hesitation, “you know you said you knew her mother?”
“Only slightly.”
“And that they didn’t get on?”
“No Dominic,” she said decisively, sensing where he was going. “When it comes to the crunch she might take her side. And besides, I’m a mother myself. I’m not going to sink so low as to try to persuade someone to testify against their own daughter.”
“No. No, you’re right.”
8
“Ted, I’ve had a long conversation with Bill Peach.”
“And?”
“It’s too complicated to repeat over the phone. I was thinking, I’ve got to see a client in Tunbridge Wells tomorrow but I should be finished by about one. And since you can get a direct train up from Wemborne I thought maybe we could meet up.”
“Are you inviting me to lunch?” he laughed.
“Let’s just call it a working lunch.”
The place where they ended up was very modern and thronged with beautiful young people all chatting manically on their mobiles while nibbling at paninis and rocket salads and sipping Chardo
nnay. Anne and Ted found a table by a sunny window protected from the main body of the restaurant by a barricade of jungle vegetation.
After the waitress had brought their drinks and taken their order, Anne began, hesitantly, “Ted, I’m afraid Bill wasn’t very encouraging.”
“How not very encouraging?”
“To put it bluntly, he advised us not to proceed.”
Ted stared at her. “You could’ve told me that on the phone.”
“I know.”
“But you thought you’d take me out to lunch to soften the blow?”
She adjusted the position of her knife slightly. “I suppose so.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.”
“I’m not giving up though!”
After a pause, Ted asked, “So this Bill Peach doesn’t think we’ve got a case?”
“It’s not that he doesn’t think we’ve got a case. But he said that a civil case like this could drag on for months – years, even – and cost us a fortune. And given that she’s worth thirty million – something he ascertained from his sixteen-year-old son who’s besotted with her – she’s most likely to come out on top in the end. Especially as her entire credibility’s at stake. The problem is that all the evidence is circumstantial.”