The Perfect Life

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘Just as well, as it turned out,’ Molly said, relieved not to have to carry anything. ‘Before midday tomorrow, I’ll have it sorted. Thank you, you’ve been very kind.’ With a grateful smile, she turned and left the office.

  Outside, the rain had returned, heavy and cold. It was perfect weather for the mood she was in. The head office of her bank was in Bayswater. Walking as briskly as she could, feet splashing heedlessly through puddles, she made her way to Paddington station. Minutes on the Circle line and she was back out on the street.

  There were only a few people in the bank, and none were at the customer service desk. ‘Good afternoon,’ Molly said. ‘I’d like to speak to the manager please.’

  The assistant looked at her with a helpful smile. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  Molly clenched her fists. ‘No, but this is an urgent matter which has come up. It’s vital that I see him.’

  ‘Mr Victor, the manager, is always happy to see customers,’ the assistant said, in a well-rehearsed line, ‘but unfortunately an appointment is necessary.’ Her smile was forced, insincere.

  Glaring at her, Molly put both hands flat on the desk and leaned forward. ‘I need to see him. If you can’t make that happen, get me someone who can.’

  Her expression must have mirrored her thoughts because the young woman’s smile vanished to be replaced by a slightly anxious stare. A hand went to the phone, and without taking her eyes from Molly, she picked up the handset, dialled a two-digit number and asked for assistance.

  Hoping it wasn’t a secret code for call the police, Molly stood back from the desk and waited.

  Only seconds later, a well-dressed man came through a door behind. He glanced at the anxious assistant who nodded slightly to where Molly was standing, and immediately approached her. ‘You’ve a problem?’ he said, without bothering with pleasantries.

  A problem? Her life seemed to be collapsing around her – did that count as a problem? She swallowed and took a shuddering breath that echoed loudly in the quiet bank.

  ‘Come with me,’ the man said, putting a hand on her elbow and leading her through the door and down a long, narrow corridor. He guided her into a small, neat office and pointed to a chair. ‘Sit,’ he said before going to the other side of the desk and taking a seat.

  Molly opened her bag, took out a tissue and dabbed her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking across at him. ‘It’s been a nightmare of a day.’

  ‘I can see that,’ he said gently. ‘I was afraid you were going to pass out on me.’

  She managed a shaky laugh. ‘If I had, it would have been the second time today. Are you the manager?’

  ‘No, not the general manager, if that’s what you mean,’ he admitted with the merest hint of a shrug. ‘My name is Spenser Roberts, I’m the customer service manager. Perhaps, if you tell me what the problem is, I’ll be able to help you.’

  She would have preferred the general manager, but she wasn’t in a position to make demands. The frown between her eyes deepened and she reached into her bag for her purse. Taking out her two credit cards, she put them on the desk and pushed them forward. ‘I tried to use them this morning to settle a bill, and they were declined.’ She couldn’t stop the quiver in her voice when she added, ‘Both of them.’

  There was no change in Roberts’ expression as he picked the cards up. Without a word, he turned his chair slightly to face the computer screen on his desk. One-handed, he tapped a few keys, picked up one of the cards, tapped some more. A single crease appeared between his eyes. Picking up the second card, he tapped the keys and stared at the screen. Apart from the single crease, his expression didn’t change.

  He put the cards back on the desk, then using both hands he tapped keys, his focus on the screen in front of him.

  Molly watched as his lips tightened and his eyes narrowed slightly; whatever he was reading there, it wasn’t good.

  It was another minute before he turned to look at her.

  ‘It’s not good news, is it?’ she asked, hoping he’d laugh and disagree.

  Instead, he looked at her for a moment with calm assessing eyes as if trying to decide how much he should say.

  ‘It’s better to tell me,’ she said, lifting her chin. So much had been thrown at her recently, she was almost getting used to it.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not good.’ Roberts reached out and tapped the two cards. ‘These access a joint account with your husband. Both have reached their maximum limit. What I shouldn’t be telling you, is that your husband also has two more, in his name only.’ He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘They also have reached their maximum limit.’ As if he knew she was going to ask, he added, ‘That’s ten grand per card. Forty grand, in total.’

  Forty thousand pounds. Molly blinked and gulped.

  Roberts’ eyes flicked to the computer screen before coming back to meet hers. He lifted a hand and rubbed it over his mouth.

  Molly didn’t need a psychology degree to know what that meant – the fear of speaking because what you were about to say was going to cause pain or distress. She wanted to beg him to get on with it. To throw whatever it was into the maelstrom that was whirling around her. It couldn’t make it much worse.

  It could.

  ‘Are you aware that you’re also behind in your mortgage repayments?’

  Molly stared at him for a moment then gave a confused laugh, stopping abruptly when she saw his face. Whereas before it had been expressionless, now, with downturned mouth, he looked sympathetic, almost pitying.

  ‘I think you must have made a mistake,’ she said, raising her voice a little. A mistake, that’s what this was. A customer with a similar name, maybe. It would be sorted, they’d apologise, then they’d all laugh about it. It would be a story they could tell for years to come to entertain their friends. ‘We don’t have a mortgage on our home, it was cleared a few years ago.’

  Roberts looked back to the screen then slowly shook his head. ‘Six months ago, you remortgaged it.’

  Not a mistake then. Molly stood, paced the room from wall to wall and sat again. ‘How much for?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand.’

  A quarter of a million pounds. Molly fought to keep her expression neutral. ‘And you say we’re in arrears?’

  ‘Two months. A letter was sent after the first repayment was missed.’ He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘You are obviously unaware of all of this, Mrs Chatwell but’ – he waved toward the computer screen – ‘we have the remortgage application on file, you have signed it.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, I remember now.’ She managed a shaky smile that she held despite his eyebrows rising in disbelief. She had to keep it together until she got out of there. ‘So how much are the arrears?’

  ‘You took it out over ten years. The repayments are three thousand a month. Currently, you are six thousand in arrears.’ He held up both hands. ‘The interest rate on the arrears are high, Mrs Chatwell, you’d be advised to clear it as soon as possible.’

  Her eyes widened. Between credit cards and the arrears, they owed almost 50K, so she wondered how they were supposed to do that. They had used almost all their savings to pay for Freya and Remi’s university fees. She remembered being surprised that Jack had insisted they paid the full amount up front. Now, she knew why. At least the children wouldn’t suffer for his stupidity, or for hers. Because, of course she’d signed the damn remortgage application.

  She remembered distinctly; she was in the middle of cooking when he had come in with a sheaf of papers.

  ‘I’m changing our insurance,’ he’d said, tapping the papers with his fingers. ‘I want to make sure Remi and Freya’s belongings are covered while they’re away.’

  She’d been touched that he’d thought of it. ‘I’ll sign later,’ she’d said, lifting fingers that stank of raw onion. But he’d insisted, and she’d given in and signed each page beside the X he’d so considerately marked. And no, of course, she hadn’t read what she’d
signed.

  Her eyes were bleak as she looked across the desk at the customer service manager whose sympathetic expression made her want to cry… no, howl… she wanted to howl for the perfect life that was slipping from her grasp with such speed she was stunned. From somewhere deep inside, she managed to drag up anger that strengthened her. ‘We may need time to get this sorted,’ she said, meeting his eyes.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Please be aware, Mrs Chatwell, that the next mortgage repayment is due in two weeks. If you can make some payment towards that. Any payment,’ he added, seeing her tightened look. ‘It would be viewed kindly by the bank.’

  They didn’t have money saved anywhere else. They were both well paid, but even their combined salaries wouldn’t clear the arrears and the next payment. She closed her eyes. She still didn’t know why Jack had been suspended. If he lost his job? She gulped again and met the manager’s worried look with a shake of her head. ‘I’d better go and see what I can do, Mr Roberts,’ she said and stood.

  He got to his feet. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ With his hand on the doorknob, he turned to her. ‘Do what you can to make repayments,’ he said, ‘keep the bank informed, if you can’t. We’ll be able to work out some form of repayment schedule.’

  In a daze, Molly headed back to the Underground. She remembered Jack’s blasé statement that he played the tables. At a rough estimate, he’d done so to the tune of over three hundred thousand pounds.

  31

  Outside the bank the rain still fell, heavier now, a deluge that pounded Molly’s head and ran down her set face, rivulets running down her neck to slip under the collar of her coat and soak into her shirt. Passers-by glanced at her from under their umbrellas or as they ducked under the shelter of storefronts, but nobody stopped to ask if she was okay as she walked robotically, arms rigid by her sides, feet heedlessly splashing through puddles, kitten heels slipping and sliding so that she jerked from side to side.

  She should have felt pain but all she felt was numb… too numb, too shocked for thought, her feet automatically taking her back to the station. On the busy, noisy platform, waiting for her tube, her brain swirled, trying to make sense of everything. It took a few seconds before she realised her phone was vibrating. Hoping it was Jack, she took it out, her eyes widening when she saw it was DI Fanshawe.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, holding the phone to her ear. She tried to shut out some of the noise that surrounded her by pressing her free hand against the other ear. Unfortunately, being deep on an Underground platform meant the signal was poor anyway and being jostled by impatient commuters didn’t help.

  ‘Hi, it’s DI Fan… I just… to… that we’ve…’

  ‘Inspector, I’m in the Underground, I’m losing you.’

  ‘We’ll call… this aft…’

  She pressed the phone more tightly to her ear, knowing it wasn’t going to make any difference. ‘Did you say you’re coming to see me this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll fill…’

  The line went dead. When he didn’t phone back, she sent a short text to say she’d see him that afternoon. Maybe he had some news for her. She couldn’t rustle up any interest. If it weren’t for Freya and Remi, she didn’t think she’d care that someone was trying to kill her. The numbness and the soul-destroying emptiness lasted until she was almost home. She walked down Elystan Street and stood outside their house for several minutes. It was a lovely house, on a beautiful street. Anger broke through the numbness, rushing up, white hot. She gripped the gate as it doubled her over, a scream of rage and frustration erupting, the sound lost in the growl of traffic behind her.

  Anger was quickly overlaid by sorrow. She didn’t want to lose her home. It was brimful of memories. Jack had proposed to her in the kitchen. In the garden that stretched behind, they had made love, had moonlight drinks and daytime picnics. Freya and Remi had taken their first stumbling steps in the living room, she and Jack on their knees cheering them on. Jack had put together a climbing frame in the garden for the children and Molly had sat on a rug on the grass and watched them, Jack taking photo after photo, she laughing at their antics, her heart swelling with love for all three.

  Molly had danced around the kitchen with Freya when she’d been accepted to the Sorbonne, remembered running up the stairs with Remi’s letter from MIT, waiting while he’d opened it before gathering him into a hug where tears of happiness mingled on their cheeks.

  It had been a home filled with love and laughter, a home fit for the perfect life she thought she’d been living.

  She opened the front door, the beep-beep of the alarm telling her that Jack wasn’t home. Where was he? Fear settled in her chest. He’d probably guess that the hotel would contact her, so he’d know she knew the full extent of the trouble he was in. He’d be feeling guilty, maybe even desperate. She took out her mobile and left him a voicemail. ‘I know everything, Jack. Ring me, we need to talk.’ She added, ‘I love you. We can get through this.’ In case he was ignoring voice messages, she quickly sent a text.

  She stood looking at it for a minute, willing Jack to reply. Then, with a grunt of frustration, she peeled off her wet coat and hung it over the newel post, kicked off her water-stained muddy kitten heels and padded into the kitchen leaving wet footprints behind her on the wooden floor.

  The collar of her shirt and bottom of her trousers were wet through but she ignored both, lowering herself onto the sofa and looking around the room. She would have to sell some stuff. The car. They’d paid cash for the BMW, using both their Christmas bonuses and some of their savings over a year ago to buy it. The mileage was very low, she might get 30K for it and be able to pay off the arrears and reduce some of the credit card debt. She shut her eyes, remembering she’d yet to arrange to get the car back.

  She considered what else she could do. There was some jewellery she could sell. Her eyes dropped to her diamond engagement ring. That too would go. Whatever it took to keep the house from being repossessed. They could manage the three grand a month repayment on the mortgage, if they cut back on everything. No more weekends away in expensive hotels, no more five-star holidays. No more designer clothes.

  If Jack lost his job? She still had no idea what that was all about. She wasn’t a fool, it had to be linked to his gambling. If it were, if he lost his job, then it would be a struggle. She could almost cover the mortgage with what she took home, but it left nothing for bills, food. She really needed to talk to Jack. Picking up her phone, she checked for messages before ringing him. As before, it went straight to answerphone.

  With a grunt of frustration, she dropped it onto the table and swung her legs up onto the sofa. The stress, the pain, everything was wearing her down. She was exhausted. Closing her eyes, she fell into a restless sleep where burly men broke down her door shouting that they owned the house.

  It was the doorbell that woke her, and panic shot through her until common sense kicked in. Burly bailiffs wouldn’t be calling quite yet. Checking the time, she realised she’d slept for a while. It was four, the doorbell was probably the police. She pushed up from off the sofa and walked into the hallway like a decrepit old woman; although the pain wasn’t as severe, every part of her continued to ache. But she’d suffer the pain, she needed her wits about her.

  The doorbell rang again, the sound resonating as her hand reached for the knob. She turned it and pulled the door open. As she guessed, it was DI Fanshawe and his less-than-welcome sergeant. Standing back, she waved them inside. ‘Go straight through,’ she said, shutting the door.

  They stood watching her as she made her way back. She was trying her best to move normally, but knew she was failing dismally when she saw Fanshawe’s eyes narrow.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ he said bluntly. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  She lowered herself back onto the sofa. ‘I’m fine, honestly. The painkillers they recommended make me woozy, so I haven’t been taking them.’

  ‘Is your husband here?’ he asked.

  With a s
light smile, she shook her head. The question he wanted to ask, she knew, was why her husband wasn’t there to look after her. She could have told him, and if he had been there alone, she might have done. He might have been able to advise her on what to do. It was tempting, and she was about to blurt it all out when she caught Carstairs’ mean eyes looking at her. No, she’d given them enough ammunition to think badly of her, she wasn’t going to give them more to think the same of Jack. ‘He’ll be home soon,’ she said instead. ‘Please, if you want something to drink, help yourselves.’

  ‘We’re fine,’ Fanshawe said, taking the seat opposite her. Carstairs, meanwhile, stayed standing, leaning a shoulder against the wall. His eyes never left her, she could feel them boring into her. She had to keep reminding herself that she was the victim.

  ‘Have you news for me?’

  Fanshawe shook his head slowly. ‘The investigation is ongoing. Lucien Pleasant, like most people who use blackmail as a means of extorting money, kept a low profile, but he wouldn’t have been invisible. We’re working our way through his contacts. We’ll find something, eventually.’

  Molly gave a bark of laughter. ‘You’re no closer to knowing why someone tried to kill me.’ For a change there was no sneering grin on Carstairs’ lips. ‘Tell me,’ she said, looking straight at Fanshawe. ‘Do you still think the person who killed Pleasant, is the same person who tried to push me under a car?’

  Fanshawe shrugged. ‘So far, we’ve not turned up any links between you, or to anyone you have in common.’

  ‘But you do still think there’s a link.’

  It looked as if he wasn’t going to reply and then he rested his elbows on his knees and leaned towards her. ‘You meet Pleasant. A day later he turns up on your doorstep. The next day he is murdered and two days later, someone tries to kill you. So yes, bizarre as it is, I think there’s a connection. But as yet, we’ve no idea what that could be. We’re still checking a number of people. Stuart Mercer, who you were heading to meet the day you were knocked down, and your husband, of course.’