by Rose Edmunds
‘Ah well,’ George said, making a show of consulting his watch. ‘Old men like me need their sleep. So if you’ll excuse me…’
Being left alone with Beresford filled me with horror, so purely to end the conversation I weakened. ‘Look, give me your mobile number, and if I get anywhere I’ll give you a buzz.’
‘Oh, I’m not at all in favour of mobile phones,’ he informed me in pious tones. ‘They’re the invention of the devil, encouraging people to be imprecise in both their meeting arrangements and their reasoning.’
Aargh! I had to escape from this repulsive man before I strangled him. What arrogance to consider yourself above conventional interactions with the rest of the human race, and worse, to sneer at them.
‘I shall instead meet you here tomorrow at ten pm if that’s agreeable.’
The prospect was extremely disagreeable, but George cut me off before I could make my excuses.
‘Most agreeable. Thank you.’
5
‘Thanks a million,’ I said.
‘You don’t care for him much, do you?’
‘Was it so obvious?’
‘Definitely, even to someone with his head as far in the clouds as Beresford.’
‘Head up his own arse, I say. And before you start having a go at me, I’ve had it up to here with these supercilious lefty do-gooders.’
‘I’m not having a go, but I’m puzzled. I accept that he’s radically different from your colleagues in the City, but you weren’t keen on them either. In fact, I’m not convinced you like anyone.’
He had never spoken a truer word. Not liking people was a reflex reaction learnt during a traumatic childhood and reinforced in the toxic cesspit of the City. I’d judge people, find them lacking, and then have a reason to avoid getting close to them. But sometimes it ran deeper, and my reaction to Beresford was visceral in its intensity because of the memories he evoked.
‘But at least you’re OK, George,’ I said, keen to avoid a painful examination of my innermost motives.
Indeed, there was nothing to dislike about George, apart from his arsehole of a son. In fact, I struggled to accept Ed and George had any genetic link, just as I found it hard to understand how my mother and I could be related.
‘Anyway,’ I continued. ‘I don’t see why you’re so keen to suck up him. You’re playing his game—venerating the great academic, feeding his already overstuffed ego.’
‘First, because he seems a nice chap. Second, his expertise on “degenerate art” might be valuable to us.’
I didn’t see why. Unless Beresford had concrete information on how Novak’s father came to own the Picasso, his knowledge was of little benefit. Certainly, it didn’t warrant kowtowing to the pompous little shit.
‘Come with me a moment,’ said George, as we exited the elevator. ‘I have something interesting to show you.’
Once inside his room, he removed a disintegrating cardboard box from a drawer and carefully removed a small painted tin toy together with a wind-up key.
‘What is it?’
‘A submarine—my mother bought it for me the day I took the train. This toy and a few photographs are the only links to my old life. She told me it would whizz along underwater in the bath, and I could try it out when I reached my new home. She also said she’d be over to England very soon.’
He paused, as I glimpsed the raw emotions bubbling away beneath his composed façade.
‘So as soon as I was allowed a bath, I wound the submarine up and put it in the water.’
He paused, before delivering the punch line.
‘It sank to the bottom, like a stone.’
I understood, without him explaining, how this was a metaphor for the greater disappointments which followed. The submarine had sunk and with it, if only subconsciously, the hope of ever seeing his mother again. Despite my understanding of his emotions, I had little empathy with his reasons for keeping the submarine. One legacy of growing up with a hoarder was a lack of any emotional bond with physical possessions, to the point where “sentimental value” meant nothing to me. By my standards, hanging on to a broken toy for eighty years seemed positively hoardy.
I was tempted to make a flippant comment about asking for a refund, but shrank from belittling his feelings by heavy-handed humour. It was difficult for men of George’s generation to speak of their emotions, and he’d been more open with me than I had any reason to expect. I wondered how he’d have fared with the prying therapists at the Priory.
‘And here’s a picture of my parents and me, in happier days.’
To judge from little George’s age, the scruffy black-and-white photograph had been taken in around 1936. The family’s relaxed, contented pose at a picnic gave no hint of the horrors to come, lending poignancy to an otherwise ordinary snapshot. Just as well they weren’t clairvoyant.
‘What a lovely family—makes me sad to look at it.’
‘I needed to come back. You understand.’
I did. Coming back was a different way of describing what those therapists always advocated—closure. Closure had eluded me thus far, and might never be achievable. Thirty years on, I was still angry with my father for “selfishly” dying young and leaving me to my mother’s tender mercies. I still raged at my mother for her appalling parenting due to her mental illness. And I was mad as hell at my mother’s po-faced pretentious friends for not intervening to save me.
More recent events had reopened the wounds—so much loss, anger and sadness. But no closure—just more loose ends becoming tangled up in themselves. If, even at George’s age, I had the chance to assemble the jagged pieces of my life into a coherent whole, I would jump at the opportunity. But there was little hope of closure at the moment, and now the insignificance of my own suffering compared to that of George’s family added a layer of guilt to my sorrow. I retreated to my room, chastened.
Out of habit, rather than expectation, I checked my phone and found a text message waiting. And it wasn’t yet another communication from Vodafone welcoming me to the Czech Republic. It was an actual person trying to contact me.
When I saw who, I nearly dropped the phone in surprise.
6
Mel.
How do I begin to describe Mel? Ordinary, mousy, frumpy, mediocre—all these words are superficially apt. Yet this nonentity of a woman packed a powerful punch. She defrauded her employer of a six-figure sum, befriended me, conned me, saved my life, and then promptly vanished.
And now she was back.
Check your bank x
Incredibly, the £15,000 she’d stolen from me had been credited to my account. I couldn’t help but speculate about where she’d got the cash, though with her previous form it was odds on she hadn’t come by it legally. Funny how banks take it for granted that a deposit is legitimate for money laundering purposes if it comes from another UK bank. Yet if you try to withdraw a large sum in cash, they give you the Spanish Inquisition.
I hesitated momentarily before calling Mel’s number, but a return text felt inadequate as a response. She must have been expecting my call, as she answered on the first ring.
‘Hi, Amy, how’s it going?’ she asked, as though we were catching up after a couple of weeks, rather than several eventful months.
‘Not too bad. I was calling to say thanks for the money—I never expected it.’
‘Well, I fell on my feet financially and I hate to be in debt.’
‘How are you otherwise?’
Because the less said about the money the better, I reckoned.
‘Great, thanks. Changed the name, and I’m below the radar with the police. Do you fancy catching up sometime?’
‘I guess so—I never thanked you properly for saving my life—but I’m in Prague at the moment.’
‘Prague—what the hell are you doing there?’
She sounded astonished, but I had no proper job, or other commitments. Why shouldn’t I travel?
I could have told her I was chilling, but succumbed
to the temptation to brag.
‘Trying to prove ownership of a Picasso painting.’
Which silenced her momentarily.
‘Cool. How did you get into that?’
‘I’m helping someone out.’
‘Am I allowed to ask who?’
‘Ed Smithies’ father.’
‘What? The toxic idiot who had his head blown off in the shootout?’
I winced at her graphic but casual description of the incident that left me traumatised for months.
‘Yes, but the father’s alright,’ I said, a touch defensively.
‘Any money in it for you? Not that you need it.’
I detected a slight sour note in her voice. It had always rankled that I’d been in the mega job while she’d been forced to finance her disabled brother’s care home fees by swindling her employer. George had offered me a flat fee of £10,000 plus expenses, but I had no plans to disclose this to Mel.
‘As I said, I’m helping him out.’
Somehow, I could tell she didn’t believe me.
‘And his connection with the Picasso?’
‘Too complicated to explain.’
‘Are you getting anywhere?’
‘I only arrived today.’
‘So do you need any help?’
I considered the offer. Mel had skills you might describe as complementary to mine. In particular, she had an instinct for who was trustworthy while a catalogue of misjudgements sullied my record. If, as I conjectured, Beresford had dubious motives, she’d sniff it out in an instant.
Could I trust Mel though? I weighed up the evidence. She’d stolen from both her employer and me, but there were mitigating factors. And she’d repaid my money, even if out of the proceeds of another con. But when the chips were down, she’d saved my life when she could more easily have stood back and allowed me to die. More to the point, this heroic action had exposed her crimes, forcing her to flee. Based on the evidence so far, I’d prefer to trust her than Beresford.
‘I might, if it’s a serious proposition.’
‘Sure—I’m at a loose end, and you probably need a minder even if you haven’t figured it out yet.’
Based on recent experiences, she was likely to be correct.
‘Thanks a bunch—I love the way you tell it how it is.’
‘And you’re no slouch in that department yourself.’
‘How soon can you get here?’
‘I’ll see if I can bag a flight tomorrow and I’ll text you once I’ve booked it. Where are you staying?’
I told her, hoping she didn’t expect me to finance her trip out of the money she’d returned.
‘I’ll see you at the hotel then, and we’d better get our story straight. I’m Mel Johnson and I’m an old school chum of yours.’
‘You kept your first name,’ I observed. ‘If I took on a new identity, I’d change the lot.’
‘Much easier all round, and besides, I enjoy being a Mel.’
I couldn’t imagine why.
‘But you’re several years younger than me. George will never buy the old classmates line.’
‘I don’t have as many vices as you,’ she said in a crisp rejoinder. ‘Nobody will be surprised I look younger. See you tomorrow, I hope.’
And with that, she rang off, leaving me with mixed sentiments and eying the minibar. Although I’d drunk more than enough for one day, a celebratory small bottle of champagne might be justified, not least after months of sobriety.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ said Little Amy. ‘Not another drink. Will you never learn?’
I should point out that Little Amy’s sanctimonious attitude did not spring from a blameless life—far from it. Even at fourteen, she smoked and drank, and not in moderation.
‘If you gave up your bad habits, I wouldn’t still have them. I keep telling you, like it or not, you’ll grow up into me, and the sooner you get that into your thick skull the better.’
Now I’d demolished her line of argument she departed, as she often did when backed into a corner. Which was a shame, because I’d have loved to hear her views on Beresford, as she above all people would have an axe to grind. I’d been unwilling to explain to George why Beresford wound me up, but it was rooted in his similarity to many of my mother’s so-called friends. These “clever” people must have questioned why they were never invited into the house, yet none of them probed further. It was strange how curiosity could be flicked off like a switch when it might lead to awkwardness or embarrassment. I mean, the next-door neighbour even had a key, but never used it. Yet those guys, who allowed a child to live in squalor, had the nerve to pride themselves on being ethical as well as smart.
And now Beresford had the temerity to despise me. I’d seen the condescending wrinkle of the nose as George had introduced me as a former partner of Pearson Malone. Beresford reviled me for earning pots of money, yet simultaneously castigated me for having left the job. For why would anyone leave unless they’d failed? My mother’s friends would be no different, gleefully picking over my fall from grace. Try as I might, there was no way to meet the lofty standards of these snobby sociopaths.
‘Christ—you’re so insecure.’
She couldn’t resist commenting, even though she didn’t dare to show herself again. But in this case I had to at least consider her opinion. Little Amy was supremely confident, yet she’d grown up into a woman who hid a seething mess of self-doubt behind a brittle veneer. Had I misinterpreted Beresford’s arrogance, because I viewed him through my distorted filter? Maybe one-upping me or anyone else didn’t motivate him at all. Why, he might be appalled at the very idea he’d caused offence.
I googled the Wadham College website. Sure enough, there he was with those ghastly spectacles and his winsome little smile. But he appeared innocuous enough, and I resolved to give him a second chance to make a first impression.
With Little Amy out of the way, I popped open the champagne, toasted my windfall, and turned my mind to the plan for the next day. I was under no illusions—my detailed knowledge of compulsive hoarding didn’t supply me with magic “Open Sesame” words to get through to Novak. And as I hadn’t spoken to my mother in a decade my hoarder management skills were, at best, rusty.
I decided my best hope was to establish myself as a “wonderful stranger” in his life. This was a phenomenon much discussed in the Children of Hoarders support group I’d joined, whereby hoarders lavish excessive praise and affection on mere acquaintances. My mother had gone in for this big style—the manager of the dry cleaners and the woman who ran the mobile library were both venerated as paragons of virtue. The key criteria for becoming a “wonderful stranger” were an unquestioning acceptance of her tragic life story and having no clue about her hoarding.
For sure, I wouldn’t make the same mistake as Beresford and ring the doorbell, which meant connecting with Novak outside the apartment. And if he was as reclusive as the press implied, it might be a long wait for him to emerge. Next, I’d have to strike up a conversation with him, before switching the subject to the artworks. Tricky, as even hinting at an intention to deplete his hoard would instantly terminate my wonderful stranger status. But then it came to me—if he didn’t already possess it, he might be interested in acquiring the Picasso self-portrait that the toad Beresford had mentioned. So suggesting that I had an idea of the painting’s whereabouts might give me an opening line. Of course, if he already had the self-portrait, he wouldn’t be interested and I’d have to find another way in—but I’d worry about that later.
I drained the last of the champagne and decided against another drink. Beresford wasn’t the only one who needed a clear head for the coming day.
7
I met George for breakfast in the dining room at eight sharp as arranged. Beresford was coming out as I entered and, full of bombast, wished me well for my meeting.
‘Hope your lecture goes OK too,’ I said, making a token effort.
‘Oh, lectures are as easy as pie after you’v
e done enough of them,’ he blithely assured me, obviously assuming I had no experience of public speaking.
No—bugger second chances—the condescension wasn’t a product of my insecurity. He fully intended to disparage me, and his haughty attitude got under my skin. Hell—I’d been a partner in a global financial firm, on half a mill a year, until my life had gone tits up. Didn’t I deserve even the teeniest bit of reverence? Still, at least his aversion to modern technology meant he was unlikely to discover I was Crazy Amy, which was some consolation.
‘See you tonight at ten in the bar,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget.’
As though I was likely to forget, however much I wanted to.
George appeared well-rested and full of enthusiasm for the challenges ahead. His appointment with the lawyer was at four pm, and he planned a sightseeing expedition beforehand, hoping to reconnect with places from his lost life. Meanwhile, I would pursue Novak.
‘Much of the city seems familiar,’ George said, as he leafed through the guidebook. ‘Perhaps because I’ve seen so many pictures over the years.’
We agreed that if I was through in time, I’d join George for his meeting, otherwise we would reconvene for dinner. I told him I’d reserved a table in one of the hotel’s two restaurants—my treat.
‘Is it the Michelin-starred one?’
‘No, it was full, but the other one’s supposed to be excellent too—same chef. By the way, the reservation is for three.’
‘Seriously? You invited Beresford?’
I laughed and explained Mel’s arrival by spinning him a tale of the old school friend, lonely after a relationship breakup.
‘Fed up with me already?’ he asked, with a wry smile.
‘Not at all. And I’m sure Mel will be terrifically helpful.’
‘Why—is she an expert in Czech law?’