When in Rome

by Gemma Townley

  I take a sip of tea and look up expectantly. This is where my mother always comes into her own—ask her for advice and she manages to sort your life out and anyone else who happens to be around. She will be able to tell me exactly what to do. She always has done in the past. But now, right when I need her, she seems to have nothing to say.

  For a good five minutes she just sits and looks at me. And then she says “Georgie, David is right, you know. You are very stupid.”

  Great. I mean, I knew that already. I have enough people telling me how stupid I am. What I’m looking for here is someone to tell me how I can get out of this god-awful mess. If I can’t turn to my mother in my hour of need, who can I turn to?

  “You know,” my mother continues, “you have to grow up and realize what you have. If you keep letting yourself get sidetracked, you’re going to lose everything that matters and you’ll be left with absolutely nothing.”

  “I am grown-up,” I mutter.

  “If you’re so grown-up, then why are you here telling me about how terrible everything is instead of focusing on the real issue?”

  “But this is the real issue,” I shout. “I love David, he hates me, and I want to get him back.”

  “No, Georgie.” My mother stares at me the way she used to when I was little and had done something really bad. I feel about five again. “The real issue is that a really good man, who has only ever been wonderful to you, is in real trouble, and it’s your fault. And another man, who has only ever been a complete time waster, is going to get away with a great deal of money that belongs to other people. And that is also partly your fault. If you can stop, for just one moment, thinking about yourself, then there may be a chance that you can do something about this terrible state of affairs. So stop trying to work out how you can get David to like you again, and instead try to work out a way to get him out of the mess that you have got him into.”

  She’s right. Of course she’s right. It’s just that right now I don’t want to know that she’s right. I want her to give me a hug and put me to bed and tell me that everything will be okay. I was hoping she’d just be able to make a few phone calls—to the police, to David’s bosses, telling them that it was all a bit of a mix-up, and probably best not to mention it again, particularly in front of me. I have a sinking feeling, however, that this particular mess is going to take more than a couple of phone calls to make things right again. I swallow my pride, and look up at my mother beseechingly. “Will you help me?”

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  We’re sitting outside Mike’s flat in my mother’s battered Mini. Well, not exactly outside his flat, more opposite and along a bit, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. My mother is dressed as a cleaning lady. (I’m not convinced that white linen trousers and an apron with red poppies all over it constitutes typical cleaning lady dress, but my mother is in no mood for questions.) James, who has driven us there, is looking extremely uncomfortable. My mother refused to let him bring the Jag because it would stand out, but I can’t help thinking that James looks so wrong in a Mini that anyone looking at us would be convinced we were up to something. And a Jag would hardly stand out in St. John’s Wood, whereas a Mini looks completely out of place. But what do I know?

  “Call him,” instructs my mother, and I take out my mobile. As expected, Mike’s home phone rings until the answerphone picks up.

  “I told you. He’s in the office waiting for the disk to arrive. He won’t be coming round here for ages, if at all.” I wish Mum would just take my word for it sometimes.

  “Right, I’m going in.”

  Mum lets herself out of the car and walks purposefully down the road. She takes a bunch of keys out of her apron pocket and lets herself into Mike’s house, taking a quick look around her before going in.

  “And Mike’s not going to notice that his keys are missing?” James asks me.

  “No! He’s in a meeting.”

  It wasn’t too difficult getting Mike’s keys. I popped into his office to assure him that the disk would be arriving “any minute” and just accidentally on purpose picked his keys up off his desk on my way out. He’s always losing things so he’ll never notice. If all goes according to plan he will be sitting at his trendy round desk for the next few hours wondering when the postman is going to arrive with the envelope. Which gives us plenty of time. All we need to do is to pick up the disk from his flat, where I actually sent it, and then I can get the keys back to Mike. Easy peasy.

  The Mini is getting increasingly uncomfortable. I’m charged with adrenaline, and being cooped up is torture. James and I don’t have a great deal to say to one another, so we sit, waiting.

  Suddenly my mobile rings. It’s my mother.

  “You’re going to have to come in,” she tells me. “There are lots of letters here and his desk is covered with papers and I don’t know which ones to take.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “You don’t need papers, just the disk.”

  “Darling, I am not going to leave with just a disk. Mike has all sorts of papers here. I’m sure we can find something more interesting than just the disk.”

  I can’t decide whether to be terrified that my mother seems intent on searching Mike’s flat, or delighted to have a reason to leave the car. Either way, I have to go in. I give James a quick peck on the cheek and cross the road, looking around me. I know there won’t be anyone looking, but . . . I can’t help feeling like I’m starring in a “Starsky and Hutch” episode as I approach Mike’s building. As soon as I reach the main door, the buzzer goes to let me in. And when I get upstairs Mike’s door opens almost immediately. My package is lying on the floor and I pick it up gratefully, putting it straight in my pocket. I then follow my mother into his study, where piles of paper are all over the floor.

  “What a mess!”

  “We can tidy up afterward,” says my mother. “Just find what you need.”

  I stare at her. “You mean these papers weren’t all over the floor when you arrived?”

  “We do not have time to sift through files,” my mother says slowly but firmly. “Now kindly get on with it.”

  I start sifting through the papers, but I can’t make head or tail of them. There are investment agreements, letters from banks, business plans, all in piles on the floor. But I have no idea what I need. Banking information must be a good place to start, though, if Mike has been stealing money. I pick up a few credit card statements, but other than proving that Mike eats out a lot, they don’t tell me very much.

  “Hurry up!” hisses my mother. “Come on, darling, you work in the City. You must know what these things mean.”

  “I do not work in the City,” I say pointedly. “I work in the West End. And I am not a financier. I research stuff.”

  “Then do some research! Come on!”

  I knew it was a mistake letting my mother come. I sift through a few more papers. And then I see something interesting. It’s a bank statement in Mike’s name, but it isn’t a U.K. bank. It’s a Spanish one. And a lot of money has been deposited in the past month. Like hundreds of thousands of pounds.

  And it hasn’t come from Big Base Records, it’s from Proud Promotions. I’ve never even heard of Proud Promotions.

  “Proud Promotions,” I mutter to myself as I continue to sift through papers. “Who the fuck are Proud Promotions?”

  My mother looks up. “Don’t swear, darling, it’s so unbecoming,” she chides me. “Now, did you say Proud Promotions? There’s an invoice here to Proud Promotions for ?100K. And look, another one for ?50K. And another . . . and another . . . is this what you need? Will this get that Mike what he deserves?”

  I want to say yes, that we’ve cracked it, but to tell the truth I have no idea whether these invoices are important or not. I need more information and I have no idea how to get it.

  Unless . . . oh, but I couldn’t, could I?

  I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures. I take out my phone and dial a number.

  “Nige
l Lymes.”

  “Nigel! You’re there!”

  “Of course I’m here. Which you patently aren’t, Georgie. And unless you are ringing to tell me about a serious illness, I am going to be filing a report for HR this very afternoon.”

  “Yes, look, I’m sorry I haven’t been at work, but there’s been a bit of an emergency.”

  “I see. And would you like to elaborate any further?”

  “Nigel, look, forget about this for a minute will you? I need your help.”

  Nigel pauses.

  “And why would you need my help?”

  “I’m in trouble, Nigel. A friend is, too. I need to find out some information about a company—who runs it and stuff. It’s called Proud Promotions. Could you do a quick search for me?”

  “You could go to Company’s House, you know.” Nigel doesn’t appear to want to play ball.

  “I know that. I haven’t got the time though. Please, can you just see what you can dig out?”

  Nigel acquiesces and I hear him typing furiously.

  Mum is scrabbling around on the floor piecing together balance sheets, letters, and bank statements covered in scribbles.

  I can’t believe that just a couple of days ago I was in this flat being impressed by Mike’s decor. How convinced I’d been that Mike had turned his life around just for me. How could I be so naive? I shudder to think of it.

  I can hear Nigel’s computer whirring. “Okay,” he says, “we’re getting somewhere now. Not much information, I’m afraid.”

  My eyes are scanning the floor for something, anything, that might make some sense of all of this. I wish David was here—he’d know exactly what to take. Except if David was here, the police would probably turn up and then he’d be done for trespassing, too—again, all my fault. And then I see it. It is a statement of revenues from Proud Promotions, which has a company address in Switzerland. I pull it out from under a pile of press releases about the enormous success enjoyed by BB Records and the recent successful round of investment that had netted the company ?1.2 million.

  The revenue statement shows that over the past year and a half, Proud Promotion’s revenues have totaled over a million pounds. All the revenue has come from Big Base Records.

  “Nigel, are you still there?” I am breathless with excitement. “The company isn’t a U.K. one—it’s based in—”

  “Geneva,” interrupts Nigel. It’s a holding company, owned and set up by a Mr. Geoffrey Proud.”

  Geoffrey Proud. The name is sort of familiar, but I can’t place it.

  “Just Geoffrey Proud, or is there a partner?”

  “No, just Geoffrey.”

  “Nigel, you are so my favorite person, thank you,” I gush.

  “Is that all, then? I’d hardly call that an emergency.”

  “No, there’s one more thing. Nigel, how easy do you think it would be to break into an airline’s reservation system?”

  “You are joking, I presume?”

  “No. I need to know the details of a flight to Malaga. I know that it’s leaving tonight sometime; I just need to know which airport it’s going from and whether a Mike Marshall is booked on it.”

  “You just need restricted flight information? Oh, well, that’s easy,” Nigel says sarcastically.

  “Please. I know you can do it. Look, I will do anything if you help me out, I promise.”

  “Anything?”

  I hesitate. What could Nigel ask me to do? What am I saying? I quickly remind myself that I am doing this to save David.

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t call me ‘Nigel’ anymore.”

  “I’m sorry? What?”

  “Everywhere else I’m known as Steve. Steve is my middle name. I tried telling personnel when I joined but they didn’t remember. I want to be called Steve.”

  I take a long, deep breath. I can’t believe it! I am so close to laughter, but I know I have to suppress it. It’s just the idea of Nigel knowing how awful his name is and not saying anything for . . . how long can it be? He’s been at Leary much longer than me—it’s probably near to fifteen years. Poor old Nigel. Sorry, Steve.

  “Steve, consider it done. And I’ll make sure everyone else does, too.”

  “And you’ll say you found out by accident? You won’t tell them I asked you to?”

  “Of course. You know, if you don’t tell anyone about this.”

  Honestly, who needs colleagues you can go out to lunch with when I’ve got a pal like Nigel? Maybe when this is all over I’ll make him a cake with “Steve” written on it. Then again, maybe not . . .

  Suddenly Mike’s phone rings. Mum and I look at each other, not sure what to do. I mean, of course we’re sure what to do (not answer it, obviously), it’s just, you know, unexpected. We stare at the phone as it rings and then the answerphone kicks in.

  “Please leave a message after the tone.” Short and to the point, I guess.

  “Geoff, it’s Rob here from Foxtons. Your buyers are wondering when your keys are going to be delivered. I’ve had confirmation from your solicitors that the money has been transferred to the PP account, so if you could give me a call I’d appreciate it. I’ll try you on your mobile now.”

  Keys? Geoff? So that would make this Geoff Proud’s flat. But then why did Mike pretend it was his? Why is Mike’s stuff in it?

  And then it hits me. Mike Geoffrey Marshall. The second name he professes to hate. I would bet my bottom dollar that his mother’s maiden name is Proud—it’s the oldest trick in the book. Mike has set up another company under a false name, and transferred all the investment money from Big Base Records to his fake one in Geneva. And now he’s sold “Geoffrey’s” flat, and is planning to bugger off to Spain with all the money. Not if I can help it, he’s not.

  “Got them!” My mother holds up a cluster of bank statements triumphantly. There are a number of payments to solicitors, and some withdrawals from a Swiss bank account.

  This is all the evidence David needs, surely. My heart is beating so loudly I’m convinced Nigel will be able to hear it down the phone. David will be okay. Everything’s going to be fine. If only we can stop Mike getting to Malaga.

  “Nigel, sorry, Steve, are you still there?”

  “Yes.” He sounds annoyed. “Mike Marshall, you said?”

  “That’s right. Traveling to Malaga tonight.”

  There’s a pause. And then I hear Nigel’s breathing get quicker.

  “I’m sorry, Georgie, I just can’t get through. Their security measures are too complex. I’m . . . I’m only a first stager, you might say. I haven’t really got on to the advanced stuff yet. I’m really sorry . . .”

  He sounds distraught. I want to tell him that it doesn’t matter, we’ll find out another way, but I can’t think of another way.

  “Are you sure? Can’t you send someone an e-mail or something?”

  “Georgie, these systems are just out of my league. I’ve tried everything. I just can’t get in. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “No, no, don’t worry. Look, thanks . . . Steve.”

  “Yes, well. Be back at work tomorrow morning.”

  I quickly hang up and grab the statements. I’ve got to get this information to David. He’ll know what to do. And even if they can’t catch Mike, at least David will be in the clear. He probably won’t ever talk to me again, but at least I won’t be responsible for ruining his life.

  “Mum, help me clear up this stuff so Mike doesn’t suspect anything when he gets back.”

  My mother reluctantly tears herself away from Mike’s bank statements and starts to put them in neat piles.

  My mobile phone rings. It’s James. He is breathing fast. “There’s someone at the door,” he says. “There’s someone at the sodding door, and if your description of Mike is anything to go by, it looks like him.”

  My heart leaps into my mouth. “He can’t be here!” I whisper. “He’s at the office waiting for the disk.”

  “No he bloody isn’t,” says James. “Get out of there quickly!”

  The phone goes dead and I look at my mother with alarm. “He’s here. James says he’s outside!” Mum looks up with alarm. I sneak up to the wind
ow to have a peek, and sure enough a cross-looking Mike is reaching for his keys. Only he can’t find them. Of course he can’t, I realize with relief. I have his keys.

  He walks away from the door and I think we’re safe. But then he kneels down, and starts digging into a flower bed. He can’t have hidden a spare set of keys there, surely? He has. Oh my God. He’s coming in!

  This is not looking good. If Mike comes in, it isn’t going to be easy to explain ourselves. We have broken into his house, and are stealing his papers. Mike will be in his rights to call the police, they will lock us up, and David will go to prison because he never got the information and . . .

  Suddenly I hear a terrible crashing noise. Mike hears it, too, and turns away from the house. “Quick! Hide!” I hiss, and my mother and I dive behind the sofa next to the window. On the floor I see a postcard with a flamenco dancer on the front. I pick it up. The postmark is just two days ago, from London. “Can’t wait to dance the night away in Spain. See you in Malaga! Vanessa x.”

  Malaga? Vanessa? So Mike isn’t going on his own? I rack my brain to think of a Vanessa Mike has mentioned, but I draw a blank.

  And then I hear a familiar voice.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I think I may have driven into your car. Terrible shame. Probably going to cost the pair of us a fortune!”

  It’s James! Out of the window I see the Mini crumpled into the back of Mike’s BMW, and James is bumbling around pretending to look for his insurance details while Mike stares at the damage, aghast.

  My mother looks furious. “He’s been looking for an excuse to get rid of that car for ages,” she says crossly. “It’s a perfectly good run-around.”

  “Mum,” I hiss, “he did it to help us out. For God’s sake!”

  “Us?” Mike is shouting. “I am not paying for any fucking damage. You stupid fat bastard!”

  “How dare he!” exclaims Mum. “James is not fat. He is just carrying a little excess weight, and if that insolent young man thinks he can shout abuse at James, at my husband, well, he’s got another think coming.”

  She gets up as if to jump to James’s defense and I have to pull her back.

  “He’ll recognize you,” I hiss. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”