FRAUD

by PETER DAVEY

  “Yet isn't it true that you recently accused her of plagiarism and threatened to sue her for theft of your intellectual property?”

  “Well yes, yes it is. But I was mistaken and I’m very sorry. I showed her a manuscript of mine many years ago and she borrowed some ideas from it for her own book, nothing more. On closer examination, I realized that what I construed as plagiarism was just her response to my influence, for which I suppose I should be flattered. That’s why I withdrew the suit.”

  “Do you think your threat of litigation contributed to her breakdown?”

  “I sincerely hope not. But, as I said, I’m deeply sorry.”

  *

  “What the fuck are you playing at?” Nicola screamed at the television.

  “He’s protecting you.”

  “But I don’t want him protecting me! Can’t he understand that?”

  The press had kept it up relentlessly throughout the day, though a complaint to the police had at least got them removed from inside the building. In the afternoon it had begun to rain heavily, forcing them into the shelter of some doorways opposite where they huddled disconsolately – chatting, smoking and drinking coffee from thermos flasks. Dominic’s neighbour Sandra – to whom he had confided their wish to escape – had joined them in the flat.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “As soon as it’s dark, I could get my boyfriend to pick us up in his old banger and drive us to Ashford where you could get the Eurostar to Paris and maybe fly from there. There are always paparazzi hanging around English airports when something’s brewing, and probably St. Pancras as well. No one’ll expect Nicola to go off in a crappy old car like that and three people leaving the building would be less conspicuous than a couple. I could lend Nicola an old tracksuit – just to make her a bit less noticeable. If that’s okay?”

  “That’d be fantastic!”

  “And you’ll just have to crouch down a bit, Dominic, so you don’t look so bloody tall!”

  “Are you sure your boyfriend won’t mind?” asked Nicola.

  “No, he’ll be chuffed to bits. He's got fuck all else to do – he's unemployed.”

  “Supposing they follow us?” said Dominic.

  “They won’t,” laughed Sandra, “not the way Kevin drives.”

  4

  The day after his interview, Ted left the caravan and walked into Wemborne. He took a train to Eastbourne and then, after forty minutes’ wait, caught a bus to Hailsham. Having walked for half an hour and got lost twice, he finally found Southwold Crescent and the substantial house which Linda had won in her divorce and was now sharing with Anne. It was early evening by then and he noticed with relief that Anne’s car was parked in the driveway. He walked past it then past Linda’s and rang the bell.

  It was Linda who answered the door. Ted remembered a time when she had been pretty but now she was a gaunt, pale woman with grey hair and glasses. “Hello Ted,” she said, rather guardedly.

  “Hello Linda. Is Anne home?”

  “Yes. Come in.”

  He followed her into the living room. Anne got up from the sofa where she was watching television and turned to face him. She seemed astonished and a little flustered.

  “I want to apologise,” he said, even though Linda was standing right beside him. “All those years we were together, I was selfish, self-piteous and egotistical. All you ever wanted to do was love me and support me and that was how I repaid you. And I’m sorry.”

  She looked stunned. “Well, thank you. I saw her broadcast, by the way, and yours. And I still don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

  Ted frowned, suddenly embarrassed. “Look, is there any chance we could go and get a drink? There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Anne looked at Linda.

  “I’ve already made supper. I was just about to serve up.”

  “Okay, well if I could possibly just have a moment alone with my wife, Linda.”

  She cast him a rather indignant look then went into the kitchen.

  “There’s been a bit of movement on the publishing front. With ‘Summers’. I just thought you might like to know.”

  “Really? What kind of movement?”

  “An agent has asked to see it. But I don’t want to say too much in case it turns out to be nothing. For all it’s a much better book, ‘Summers’ is far less commercial than ‘Tyranny’.”

  “Still, it’s a start, isn’t it? I’m really thrilled for you.”

  “Thanks. It’s important to me that you are. I just wish…”

  “You just wish what?”

  “I just wish... oh nothing.”

  “So this must have happened before her broadcast?”

  “Oh yes, it’s got nothing to do with her broadcast.”

  Anne hesitated. “Ted, if you do publish...”

  “That’s still a long way off!” he laughed.

  “I know. But if you do, will you promise me one thing? That you’ll move out of that bloody caravan. I can’t bear the thought of you living in those conditions.”

  “Well, if you feel so strongly about it, I will. But I’ve got no idea where I’ll go.”

  “No. Well, we’ll have to give that some thought…”

  “I never slept with her, Anne.”

  She stared at him. “Ted, I don’t want you to say that to me if it isn’t true. Because you’ve already hurt me enough.”

  “I know. But it is true.”

  “So why did you say you did?”

  “I don’t know. What I did was underhand and stupid and hurtful – having her there. I wasn’t seeing things straight. And not a day’s gone by that I haven’t regretted it. But I never slept with her.”

  “She was crying, and you comforted her... Wasn’t that what happened?”

  “Yes it was. And I did comfort her. But not like that.”

  “Ted, I… I just don’t know how to deal with this...”

  At that moment Linda came back into the room. “Your supper’s going to be ruined.”

  “Right! Sorry!” He suddenly launched forwards and kissed Anne on the cheek. “I’ll go and let you get on. The last thing I want is to ruin your supper.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NINETY MILE BEACH AND BEYOND

  Nicola always swam in the afternoons. Sometimes she would pause above the tideline, glance around, then slip out of her bikini and go into the sea naked. She had no particular feelings about the mental or physical benefits of nude swimming, it was just that since no living soul was ever visible for miles in any direction except the occasional seagull flapping up from the sand, there didn’t seem much point in putting anything on. Traffic had been banned from that part of the beach as autumn storms and high tides had made the surface unstable. And on that particular afternoon, even Dominic wasn’t there to look at her. He’d taken the jeep up to Baily’s Creek to stock up on provisions.

  He had told her never to go swimming alone but she ignored him. She walked into the breaking surf, feeling the waves lapping at her ankles, at her knees, at her waist. She loved watching the great walls of water rumbling towards her, feeling them crash into her and over her or toss her high in the air where she would spread her arms like wings and soar and spin as she sank down to see them sweeping on towards the beach and the sullen cliffs beyond. To the waves she was just another pale little organism like the fish and the eels and the prawns – they did not hold their power in check because she was famous or part and go around her in deference to her superstar status. They thumped right into her and right over her with all their might. To the sea and the sand and the hills and the silver void of the sky she was nothing.

  After half an hour she emerged, cursorily dried herself then slipped back into her bikini and flip-flops and started up the beach. A sandy path wound between scrub and thorn to the steep flight of steps leading to their little wooden house constructed partly on stilts in the side of the hill. There, for the past month, they had lived the simplest of simple lives, Nicola going by the name o
f Louisa – her middle name. They had no television and no internet, partly to enhance the illusion that the wider world no longer existed and partly to reduce the chances of being traced. Dominic was working on the first draft of a novel, installing himself at dawn every morning on the veranda which commanded the entire horizon of the sea. Nicola was spending her days swimming, walking, reading or just lying in the sun. Sometimes, in the evenings, they would go for a drink or a game of pool at The Blue Lizard, the only bar in town, where they were greeted like old friends. The residents of Baily’s Creek, far from the fast lane and concerned only with their own survival, had made them their own and seemed to take pride in their role as protectors from the outside world. Nicola found herself wondering, from time to time, whether her publisher or Connaught International – the company which sponsored the Connaught Prize – were pressing charges, but they would have to find her first.

  She stretched out on one of the loungers, folded her hands on her tummy and sighed. She was just drifting into a doze when the mobile on the little wicker table beside her rang. It would be Dominic, since he was the only person who had her number. He probably wanted to check on something to do with the shopping.

  She reached out dreamily and picked it up. “Hi-ya babe,” she murmured.

  “Hi-ya babe,” said a voice. But it wasn’t Dominic’s.

  She sat bolt upright, grimacing. “Bill?”

  “Hi Nicola,” said her agent, Bill Grainger.

  “How the fuck did you get this number?”

  “I’ve got some really clever friends in the News of the World. I’m afraid you’re secret’s out. This morning’s papers are covered with pictures of you and your boyfriend in your little hideaway.”

  “Fffffffffuck!” she exploded, wondering which one of the residents of Baily’s Creek had proved not only treacherous but astute enough to go straight to the English tabloids.

  “And there’s some pictures of you...”

  “Of me what?”

  “Well of you swimming... in the buff. But they’re pretty vague – probably taken with an elephant gun. They could be anybody.”

  “Yeah, but they’re not anybody, are they?!”

  “So which little corner of the antipodes are you hiding out in?”

  “Wherever I am, I’m not staying! Not after this! I just want to be left in peace, Bill!”

  “Try telling that to the rest of the world. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since you made that amazing statement on television. And I’ve had enough offers of work to keep you going for the next ten years. That was the greatest performance of your career!”

  “It wasn’t a performance, for Christ’s sake, it was a confession! It came straight from the heart!”

  “I know. That was what made it was so moving.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be moving! It was meant to be honest – it was meant to tell the world what happened! Don’t people believe me?”

  “No, of course they don’t. Well, some may, but not the ones who count. It was like your electrifying performance at the BAFTAs. People just put it down to you being a total nutter who’s got their finger permanently on the self-destruct button. But they love you for it. Then your old mate in the caravan came on telly saying you didn’t steal his novel and have become delusional. And your publishers and the Connaught people are plugging that sentiment for all they’re worth.”

  “So they believed him?”

  “Of course they believed him. They wanted to believe him.”

  “So they haven’t withdrawn ‘Loss’ from the shelves and pulped it?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s back at the top of the bestseller list. In a few weeks’ time you’ll be getting a royalties cheque that’ll make your eyes water – if they can find where to send it.”

  “Bill, this is a nightmare!”

  “I know, it’s great, isn’t it? Then vanishing like that and having everyone wonder where you’d gone was a master-stroke. Everyone’s talking about it. The BBC even wheeled out that old psychologist of theirs – the one who looks like Mr. Pastry – and he reckons your vindication of Ted Whatsisface is really a plea to your father to forgive you.”

  “My father! Fuck that. My father walked out on us when I was seven! If anything he should be pleading with me to forgive him.”

  “I know, it’s all bollocks, of course it is. But there you go. That’s show business.”

  The line went silent for a moment.

  “Well, whatever people think I’m not coming back. It’s over, Bill.”

  “Nicola, for Christ’s sake. You’re twenty-eight, you’re beautiful, you’re seriously talented. If you give up now you’ll be depriving the world – and yourself – of a great actress.”

  “Bill I'm... I’m scared. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Scared of what?”

  “I'm scared my audiences are going to hate me.”

  He laughed. “Your audiences? Nicola, we’re talking about real people living real lives in the real world. People who wake up in the morning with a hangover, have a row with their partner, a row with their kids, then sit in a traffic jam for an hour so they can have a row with their boss. And once in a while they want something to lift them out of it all. But not any old rubbish. They want to watch professionals, people who know how to weave that particular magic, people who have the power to carry them to a different place. That’s where you come in. You’re a good actress, Nicola. A bloody good actress. You have a gift. You’re blessed. But in the great scheme of things you’re not… how can I put this kindly? You’re not that important.”

  “Not that important? You don’t say that when you’re negotiating my fucking contracts!”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I just miss you. I miss all the money you used to make me. I know you’ve had a few dips lately, a few problems, but, like I said, you’re only twenty-eight, your career’s hardly begun. Don’t throw it all away, Nicola, please.”

  She gazed at the horizon for while.

  “Are you still there?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  *

  Dominic called out, “I’m back!” but there was no reply. Surprised, he went out onto the veranda but she wasn’t there. He scanned the beach, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun, but there was no sign of her there either. He glanced in the kitchen and living room then entered their bedroom. It was plunged in gloom, only some scattered splinters of light through the cracks in the blinds suggesting her dark form humped on the bed. His heart sank. This was reminiscent of the bad old days.

  He sat down behind her, reached over her and gently took her hand. “Hey...”

  “It’s over Dominic,” she murmured.

  “What do you mean? What’s over?”

  “This. Our little pretend paradise. We’ve been rumbled.”

  “What are talking about?”

  “Bill phoned.”

  He grimaced with bewilderment. “Bill? Bill who?”

  “Bill Grainger. My agent.”

  “How did he get your number?”

  “I don’t know. But it turns out one of the lovable residents of our little town has sent a load of pictures of us to the UK tabloids – in the street, in the bar, Christ knows where. There’s even one of me swimming in the buff. In a few hours the place’ll be swarming with paparazzi, if it isn’t already.”

  “Shhhhit! Shit! Shit! Shit! We’ll just have to go. We’ll find ourselves somewhere even more remote. We’ll go tonight. Right now.”

  “There’s no point. You can’t escape, not in the modern world. This may be pretty close to paradise but paradise doesn’t really exist – except maybe inside one’s heart, if you’re lucky. I know that sounds like some tweet by the Dalai Lama, but it’s true.”

  “So what are saying? That we stay here and face them down?”

  “No, I’m not saying that.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They both sank into silence.

&nbs
p; “You want to hear the crowning irony? I’m being swamped with multi-million dollar offers of work, and in among the offers was one from some theatre company who want me to do Adela in ‘The House of Bernarda Alba’. Although they did admit they probably can’t afford me.”

  “Why’s that ironic?”

  “Because that’s the part I’d been auditioning for the day I met Ted. And I didn’t get it.”

  *

  Dominic was out on the veranda smoking a cigarette and staring at the sunset, though, on that particular evening, its beauty was lost on him. Nicola presently emerged from the bedroom and flopped down into the wicker seat beside him.

  “I’ve made a decision,” she said. “I’m going to go back and get on with my job. It’s been a fantastic holiday but that’s all this can ever be. And it’s over now – that’s how it is with holidays.”

  He was silent.

  “Dominic, I love being here. I love being here with you. But I can’t spend the rest of my life skulking round places like this, terrified in case someone tips off the press. It’s crazy. And it’s also self-aggrandisement, in a way. I’m just an actress for Christ’s sake! I’m nothing. I’m nobody. In the great scheme of things I’m nobody!”

  “Rubbish,” he mumbled. “And we’re not going to skulk around here forever. This is just a breathing space. People will forget you in time – there’ll be new stars and new scandals. Okay, maybe we can’t find paradise, but when the dust’s settled we’ll find ourselves somewhere pretty darn close to it and live like normal people, maybe have some kids. You want kids, don’t you?”