Virtual Strangers

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  It was this thought that possibly alerted my eyes to the envelope - to the word Singapore on the postal frank. The document inside was pristine, as if new, but even before I could make out the translations (in small print beneath all the lines of Chinese), one thing jumped out that replaced my anger with sadness. This was Edward’s death certificate, and it was eleven years old.

  ‘Oh, I am glad you phoned, lovely,’ said Bernice. ‘Speak of the devil. We were about to try and contact your estate agency firm.’

  ‘Why?’

  For your name and address - we don’t have them on file here.’

  ‘Do you need them?’

  ‘Well simply to tie up the file, dear. All the legal bits and bobs. And you’ve got her things, so the nursing home tell me. And we do have a will, as it turns out. Old, but valid nevertheless. Not that he’ll be seeing any of it, of course. I don’t think it was a great deal, of course, but the main beneficiary is a hospital in India, apparently. Ahmenabad, or something? Plus the Cat’s protection League, of course. But if we do make contact, we thought you’d -’

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing. You won’t,’ I say.

  ‘Won’t?’

  ‘Because Edward’s no longer with us. I have his death certificate right here.’

  ‘Goodness! Really? Good Lord.’

  ‘And it’s dated eleven years back. He died in Singapore. Pneumonia, it says.’

  ‘Oh, dear, dear me. And all that time, Minnie waiting and hoping and not knowing. Makes you weep, doesn’t it? Oh, dear, what a shame.’

  ‘That’s just it. I think she did know. This didn’t come in the post. It was in her box of papers. Which completely threw me, of course, given all the postcards and so on, but then I found her stamp pot, with all the ripped off corners. When you match them up you realise they’re all really old.’

  ‘Well, how bizarre!’

  ‘Not really,’ I answered. ‘And that’s a point. When was the will made?’

  ‘Oh, about five or six years ago, I believe.’

  ‘So she did know. So that proves it. I think she preferred to make believe he was still alive. And I suppose if you kid yourself about something enough, you eventually believe it yourself. But who knows? So much unfathomable stuff went on inside her head, didn’t it? Poor thing, though. She had no-one, did she?’

  ‘She had you, dear, at least.’

  ‘Hmmm. Not much consolation for two lost children though, is it? When is the funeral?’

  ‘Not arranged as yet, lovely. We have to sort out the finances and so on -’

  ‘But you’ll make it a good one, won’t you?’ I didn’t like to think of Minnie going to her rest in a coffin made of plywood with a retinue of one. ‘And you will let me know? I’d like to be there.’

  ‘Of course, lovely,’ Bernice assured me. ‘Just a question of unravelling all the ravels, then we’ll be on to it. Leave it with me.’

  Back at work I find myself wondering just how much ravelling I want going on in my life. Seems to me that ravels are not good things to have. Nor are secrets.

  ‘That’s wonderful news!’

  Davina is looking jaunty again. It has become though, I’ve noticed, a subtly different calibre of jauntiness; a jauntiness symptomatic of actually feeling jaunty,as opposed to just staving off a lurking hysteria. She refers to my news that Mr Habib has just called, and made an offer for Ty Willow, to which the owners have said yes. It’s a half million sale, and our highest one yet. Though a calculator inside my head gives thanks for the cash flow, I’m still underwhelmed. I wish I could share whatever the thing is that drives her. Truth is, our moods now are too closely correlated. The happier she seems the more sad I get.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I agree. For the Habib’s sake, really. And almost add ‘and not a Hugh bloody Chatsworth for miles.’

  She bounces out of her chair and comes over to my desk.

  ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘About Cherry Ditchling, Charlie. You know I really am sorry about all that. I mean not about the commission - though I do appreciate how hard you worked and so on - but that, well, I know I could have spoken to Hugh, come to some sort of arrangement with him. It wasn’t on, really, was it? I know business is business and all that but, well. I do feel a bit bad about it. Even though I did have my reasons. As you know.’

  I start to speak; to tell her to forget it, but her hand comes up. ‘Speaking of which,’ she says. ‘I didn’t get a chance to thank you for the other day. Not like me to dump that sort of thing on people, ha ha. You know me, bottle it all up! Onwards and upwards! Anyway, it helped a lot.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You were there. You listened. It made me feel better.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I feel I’ve really got things together now. Got a life-plan sorted - isn’t that what they say? And thanks for staying on. I know this job isn’t the be all and end all in your life, Charlie, but it’s not so bad, is it?’ She smiles and flaps the details of Ty Willow in the air. ‘Buy some really swanky outfits with the commission on this, eh!’

  Even as I sit before her in my pond weed suit with my stagnant pool bow, she doesn’t seem to realise the irony in this.

  ‘Absolutely!’ I trill though, because it seems po-faced not to. She checks her watch.

  ‘Cripes!’ she says. ‘Which reminds me, I was due at Velda’s for a fitting ten minutes ago.’

  ‘A fitting?’

  ‘For a ball gown. For the CancerCope dinner. It’s going to be a pretty swish do, by all accounts. Mustn’t let the side down.’

  As if. ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘CancerCope? I’m going to that one.’

  ‘Really?’ I find I don’t hold her astonishment against her.

  ‘Yes, with Rhys Hazelton. Have you come across Rhys?’

  ‘So she thinks you’ve been having treatment for some sort of gynaecological problem, no doubt,’ laughs Rose. It’s reassuring to hear Rose laughing and jolly. I haven’t quite decided whether to say anything to her about Matt’s worries. Haven’t really even completely decided if he’s wrong to have them. My instinct, for the moment, is to leave things as they are.

  ‘Which I do have, ironically.’

  ‘What?’

  I recall the fruitless cyber-scramble through my personal email filing cabinet. ‘It’s called utterly hopeless fixation syndrome - I’m sure there must be a pill I could take.’

  ‘You don’t need a pill. You’ve got the top man. I’d make use of him, if I were you. Distraction therapy - I’ll bet he’s a really well-informed shag.’

  ‘Oh, please, Rose. Don’t! I can no more think of shagging Rhys Hazelton than taking up crochet. Not at the moment, anyway. And possibly never. Nice as he is, I regret to inform you that he’s not yet lit any of the Simpson boilers. Anyway, it’s not funny.’

  ‘What’s not funny?’

  ‘The realisation that I made a point of telling Davina I was going to this bloody dinner dance with Rhys simply because I knew she’d pass the information straight on to Adam. Hardly progress, is it?’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Charlie. These things take time.’

  ‘But I should have left, shouldn’t I? I should have stuck to my guns and given myself a bit of space. It was one thing having Davina make me come to my senses last week - it’s quite another having to see her so happy. It’s like bing! Everything in the Jones house is suddenly rosy. And it’s not that I begrudge it -’

  ‘Yeah, you do.’

  ‘Okay, a part of me does, but I have this big other bit that keeps patting me on the back and telling me to buck up because I did the right thing. Which everyone knows should make you feel better. But it still feels like shit. She thanked me today, you know. For being so kind and understanding. And apologised about the Cherry Ditchling business. What a laugh! If only she knew how that particular scenario turned out....Well. Bad news, anyway, this new incarnation. I can’t handle her like this. I should go and get a job in a sweet shop or something.’


  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I know I will, but when?’

  ‘Platitude time, my dear. A lot sooner than you think.’

  On Thursday Davina is so jaunty that I half expect her to pop up on a GMTV dawn charity special. Too jaunty by half, and clearly oblivious to worrisome developments at work, another of which occurs when I return from picking up lunch. Hugh has propped the door open to allow the fumes from his saveloy and chips to escape, and he has his back to me, so he doesn’t hear me come in. He’s on the phone, talking in a synthesised voice. Recalling my father’s intelligence directive, I hover for a while by the franking machine.

  ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘Yup, yup. Whatever you say, Austin.’

  Then, after a pause. ‘Well, this is exactly my point. You know what she’s like. She can be a bit, well -’

  A longer pause. ‘No, absolutely! No, I was simply pointing it out. No, you’re right. You can’t take that away from her. I don’t mean that. Of course I don’t. And I do respect her experience, believe me. Absolutely I do. But you can’t deny she’s been a bit, well, funny, lately - you don’t know; she might have -’

  And then a very short one. ‘Fine. You’re the boss. Whatever you say. Ha ha ha. Nice one!’

  And a blip. ‘Oh. Okay, bye.’

  And down goes the phone. Hmmmm.

  I rustle the bag with my tuna baguette in.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘I’m fairly quiet for an hour or so. If you want to pop round and lick his arse for good measure, you go right ahead, Hugh. I’ll hold the fort.’

  Hugh’s face fills with red like a dip-dyed pashmina.

  ‘Pah!’ he says.

  ‘Well?’ I ask.

  ‘Bollocks to you!’

  Not much scope for a frank exchange of views there, then. But hmmm. Do I tell Davina? Or do I not tell Davina? Or do I phone Austin Metro?

  In the end I take an executive decision that I will telephone Davina in the evening on her mobile and just mention that I keep seeing Hugh and Austin together. Very light, very matter of fact, very; “oh, just thought I’d mention it as I’ve been a little concerned lately though you probably know all about it anyway, don’t you, ha, ha, ha,” etc. and so on and so forth. I cannot, in all conscience, continue to do nothing. I’m deeply worried that Austin Metro is up to big time no good.

  Dial.

  Then wait.

  And wait some more.

  ‘Yes!’

  Adam. Shit. Adam. Adam brusque. Adam breathless.

  Hang up.

  And feel sick.

  Chapter 25

  ‘This,’ says Austin Metro, gravely, ‘is a very important day.’

  I am tempted to point out that yes, this is indeed a very important day, as I have, in theory, taken the afternoon off to visit the hairdressers to have my hair coaxed into believing itself glamorous and chic. Not to stand in an expectant huddle while the fat man bangs on. I have, in fact, only ninety six minutes until my appointment time. Will be most aggrieved if I fail to arrive. I decide that, though I’m obviously keen to be present at the worrisome-development denouement, I will happily leave, never to return, if needs be.

  We are assembled at the other office of Willie Jones Jackson (Independent Estate Agents), where Brian Jackson and his team have put on a bit of a spread. The staff from both branches, all summoned, are present, and Brenda Willie has popped on her David Schilling and come. We’ve even been graced by our style guru, Ianthe, which doesn’t bode well image-makeover wise. Speaking of which, as we swarm over the buffet, I realise that passing pedestrians may mistake the gathering for the unexpected arrival of a new aquatics emporium, as the stagnant pond effect is exponentially increased when en masse.

  Davina is very much present today, as she is wearing a suit that appears to be an eighteenth century map of the northern hemisphere, over a frock horror tangerine turtle neck sweater. I’ve noticed a definite trend for less austere power dressing; in hindsight, a clue to today’s coup de grâce. Indeed I speculate about a post-Christmas colour analysis. With Ianthe, perhaps? Wonder if colour analysis is possibly a sidearm of her profitable corporate image enhancement line. I have been watching Davina closely since her arrival at nine forty seven this morning; for jauntiness, suspiciousness and most anxiously, evidence of recent sexual abandon. Though have not the slightest idea what signs might signal such antics, so it’s hard to say whether a loud suit is post-orgasmic or not.

  Austin shrugs off his jacket and gestures expansively. ‘And an auspicious one too,’ he continues, somewhat unimaginatively. ‘Because today marks the start of a new era in realty. The conjoining of Metro and Willie Jones Jackson to form a fresh, thrusting force in the property world. Independent estate agency has never looked so good!’

  We try to arrange our expressions into suitably reverent configurations while Austin battles manfully with a bottle of champagne.

  We then, for some reason, toast our long deceased senior partner.

  ‘Peter Willie!’ we enthuse, even though most of us never met him.

  Brenda Willie acknowledges the ripple of applause as if she is accepting a BAFTA, though in truth what’s she’s getting is a great deal more useful. Brian Jackson knocks back his drink in one gulp. I can’t help but wonder how much coercion’s involved.

  And that’s that. We are to have a new name, a new image, and (oh, God) a new uniform. And, doubtless, a shiny new mission statement too.

  As I turn to leave, Austin sidles up, smiling broadly.

  ‘So!’ he booms. ‘Charlie! here we are then! First thoughts? Management appeal? New horizons in Rural?’

  ‘To be honest,’ I say archly, ‘depends on the suit.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a do,’ quips Hester when I finally get home. ‘I’d always maintained a high chignon was rather ageing, but I have to say, somehow, you do manage to carry it, even without the benefit of a long neck.’

  I am tempted to lengthen it a fraction by nutting her, but desist on account of the risk of flying pins.

  ‘So it’s a takeover, then, basically,’ says my father..

  ‘Exactly. He’s buying all Brenda Willie’s shares, plus two thirds of Brian Jackson’s. And as Brenda had forty percent, and Brian thirty, that gives Austin sixty percent in all. And control of the company, of course.’

  ‘Hmm. And what will they do?’

  ‘I think Brenda’s going to give the money to her daughter. She only hung on to the shares in case she wanted to go into the business, but as she’s currently living in a traveller’s commune near Andover, I guess she’s decided there’s really no point. As for Brian, I don’t know. He and Austin have always been at loggerheads - he was one of Metro’s top managers before joining Peter and Davina. But he’s still keeping some shares so I guess he’ll still be involved.’

  ‘And what about Mrs Jones?’

  My gut jink-a-jinks a bit. Exactly. Mrs Jones. What about Mrs Jones?

  ‘You could have floored me with a wet lettuce,’ I tell them. ‘She’s selling half her shares to Hugh Chatsworth, of all people! And where is he getting the money to buy them? He’s barely twenty, you know. Anyway, no longer my problem, whatever I decide. He’s going to run Brian’s branch now.’

  ‘And what’s she going to do, then?’

  ‘Stop work, apparently.’

  ‘Ahhh! Start a family, I expect,’ coos Hester.

  Okay, I know. I know she doesn’t know. But it doesn’t stop me wanting to wring her bloody neck.

  I telephone Rose while my bath water’s running.

  Hello! says her voice. We’re not around at the moment. Matt’s probably outside pretending he knows the difference between cutworms and root rot and I’m no doubt asleep.

  I decide there can’t be much awry in a marriage where such a lively interplay of humour exists on the ansafone front. Can’t say why; it’s such a little thing really. But seems to me the little things make the best barometers.

  I’m just onto the buff and polish stage when
there’s a light knock on the bedroom door.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  My father. ‘Come in, Dad!’ I tell him.

  He stops in the doorway, tea and fruitcake in hand.

  ‘Well!’ he says. ‘You look quite, quite magnificent. And do you know, when you walked in earlier with your new hairdo, it quite took my breath away. It was almost as if I’d gone back thirty years. Your mum often used to wear her hair up like that for an evening out. D’you remember?’

  Vividly; her warm fragrant powdery kisses, my father in uniform, smelling faintly of scotch. And Mrs Binks from next door, who’d more often than not babysit, and make dresses for my Sindy from her material scrap bag. I nod and smile and slurp at the tea.

  ‘Have some cake, dear,’ he urges.

  ‘I’m not really hungry, Dad.’

  He sits on the bed. ‘Tch! Take a tip from an expert. Never go out on an empty stomach.’

  ‘It’s a dinner.’

  ‘And before you get so much as a sniff at a melon ball, there’ll be cocktails, aperitifs, buckets of wine. Best you eat something.’

  I’m about to tell him not to fuss, when I realise he’s right . I have shunned the buffet, spent the afternoon stressing, and cannot wait to get the first glass of wine down my throat. Left to myself, I will be legless by nine. So of course he’s right. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s lived a bit, hasn’t he? Why does that fact of that so often elude me?

  ‘This Rhys chap’s certainly a lucky fellow.’

  Hmm. Not where I’m concerned. Not so lucky, really.

  ‘It’s not serious, Dad.’

  He laughs.

  ‘Wasn’t about to marry you off again, dear. But I’m glad to see you back with someone. Girl like you shouldn’t be on her own.’

  I’m beginning to feel fairly ambivalent about that. But is there another agenda lurking within this conversation? A Hester announcement perhaps? I hand him a necklace to fasten for me. Not the one I’d originally intended, but this one was my mother’s and though the style isn’t quite mine and the length not quite right for the dress, I suddenly have an urge to put it on. For luck, maybe? A talisman to make everything turn out right?