by Caro Land
She glanced again at Robbie. He’d moved on from Fruit Pastilles to chewing his nails. ‘Are you okay? Want to talk?’ she asked. Then after a minute, ‘You know you can change your mind.’
He nodded, so she took that to be a yes. That he was okay. And why the hell not? She’d been amazed by his maturity. His certainty too. Going through the family liaison officer who had looked after him ten years ago, he’d instigated everything himself. The PC had contacted the driver to see if he still wanted to meet and when he’d said yes, he and Robbie had done the rest by email, deciding to meet informally rather than through official channels.
As instructed by the satnav, Nat took the slip road off the motorway at Stockport. ‘Are you still okay about meeting on his turf, so to speak?’ she asked. She didn’t want to fuss, but couldn’t help it.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he replied with a hint of a smile. ‘It’s where he works; it’s not his home. I could hardly do it at my dad’s.’ He looked at his hands. ‘By the way, Chantelle told me what happened when he came to the office. Sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘Not your dad’s either; not really,’ she added, surprising herself. But perhaps it wasn’t Jed’s fault, at least not entirely. Since coming back from Mallorca she’d discovered the old proverb was true; everyone said it, but didn’t believe it: there were two sides to every question.
The satnav spoke again. They had reached their destination, apparently. Nat peered through the windscreen. Oh right; a side street in Stockport between two towering red mills. She sat back. Well, this was a coincidence; she’d been here before. Still, there must be any number of businesses hidden behind the rows of identical windows. Surely?
A horrible sense of déjà vu spreading, she parked up and turned to Robbie, but he’d already climbed out. ‘Do you want me to wait here or should I come with you?’ she called.
Taking his nod for a ‘yes’ to the latter, she scrambled from her seat and followed him to the old gated lift shaft. Even before he pressed the button, she knew it would be for the sixth floor. Oh God, really?
The lift came to a clunking stop. ‘What did you say the driver was called again?’ she asked.
His muttered reply was drowned out by the hum of sewing machines. Not knowing what to say, Nat opened her mouth, but it was too late anyway. She would have recognised that soft owl gaze from a hundred yards, but Mr DeMille was only a few strides away.
‘Hello, Robbie,’ he said, holding out a trembling hand. ‘And Natalie, hello.’ He might have been surprised to see her, but his eyes were so magnified behind his thick lenses, it was difficult to judge. ‘Thank you both for coming.’ He glanced at her. ‘Do you…? are you…?’
Nat finally found her voice. ‘God, no, I’m just the…’ She almost said ‘driver’, but caught herself just in time. ‘I’m Robbie’s friend.’ She pointed to the staff room. ‘Is it okay if I hang around in there while you…?’
He gave a small bow. ‘Absolutely, please help yourself to a drink. It’s Samira’s birthday today, so we have cake.’
She watched the two men walk away. What the…? The sensitive and altruistic Mill Man was also the drunk-driver-killer. Bloody hell. He’d have been imprisoned for sure. Causing death by careless driving when under the influence was definitely a custodial offence. How long had he served?
Yes, she needed a drink; preferably something stronger than squash. She headed for the kitchen, but instead she turned back, walking towards the thrumming sound of the machines. Hiding at the corner of a long window, she watched the women at work beneath the bright strip lights. Some elderly, some young, some brassy-haired, some black. Dressed in dark colours, several ladies wore headscarves, other pink-skinned girls sported shorts and vest tops. But above the steady strum, she heard chatter and laughter.
‘A good man,’ Jack had said.
Thinking about Jack and his own altruistic tendencies, Nat smiled and shook her head. When she’d discussed her working future with Wes, she’d mentioned the car, saying she’d have to give it back if she left Goldman Law. Wes had put her straight with a wry smile. It had never been a ‘company’ car; Jack had personally bought it for her, but she wasn’t to let on that she knew.
She sniffed back the emotion. Of course, one couldn’t compare herself and these ladies, but in a way they were connected; they had been given a chance to work and earn a salary when they’d needed it.
Deciding not to wait up here after all, she texted Robbie: Take as long as you need. I’m going to listen to the radio. I’ll meet you at the car.
After half an hour he returned. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked, noticing the scar on his temple. Then after a mile. ‘Was everything okay?’
‘Yup,’ he replied.
Not a lot to go on, but there was no sign of nail-biting, stuttering or tears. ‘Where shall I drop you?’ she eventually asked.
‘Dad’s,’ he replied, staring ahead.
‘Okey-dokey.’ She swallowed. ‘Just tell me where I’m going…’
He finally turned to Nat at the Kingsway traffic lights. ‘Thank you. You’re a really nice person.’
She felt herself flushing. ‘I’ve been named many things, but I’m not sure anyone would recognise that description.’ Then after a moment, rubbing her tummy. ‘Don’t think I won’t call the debt in one day with free babysitting!’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ He was still gazing with clear, sincere eyes. ‘I meant looking out for me. At work and the driving lessons. With Dad too.’
He went back to the windscreen. ‘The lights have changed.’ Then after a beat, ‘Thing is, I already knew about the money, my damages. You know, through college. But he’s my dad, so…’
Nat nodded and drove on. Not exactly a ‘fix’, but good enough. This young man was brave and bright; he had a great future and he’d deal with it his own way. And it was his private business after all. She was happy with that.
35
Feelings
Her foot hard on the accelerator, Nat shot past the Issa and JP service station, so musings about Chen were inevitable. But today she was thinking of him for another reason. Although she was chuffed the police had asked Lewis Foster to attend the station for a formal interview, he was bound to be as slimy as his mother.
What had Jack said at the brunch? That’s right: Lewis was blaming the offending paperwork on a ‘rogue employee’.
Nat groaned. Yup, she could picture the scene clearly: wearing his expensive suit and equally as expensive smile, Lewis would hold up his hands in surrender. ‘Of course I must take the ultimate responsibility, officer, but the manager of DFS Debt Advisers had the day-to-day dealings. If he made unintended mistakes with the documentation, or if he was doing something underhand, which I struggle to believe, it was absolutely without my knowledge…’
Her jaw clenched at the thought. A year or so back, Lewis had been charged for a sexual assault. A woman in a nightclub had had the audacity (in Danielle’s view) but the balls (in Nat’s) to make a formal complaint about him forcefully pawing her. Frustratingly, he charmed, smarmed or possibly bribed his way out of it, but what particularly got Nat was his attitude of entitlement.
She blew out the outrage. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising; Lewis had been brought up to believe he could have anything and everything he wanted; why would a girl he fancied for a quick shag near the bins be any different? God, she wished she could stop his meteoric rise and his bloody invincibility, but even if a civil claim was made against him by Michal or others, she just knew he’d wriggle out of it by claiming he wasn’t vicariously liable.
‘My manager went beyond the scope of his employment duties, and terrible though I feel about it,’ he’d say, with a suitably apologetic smile, ‘I’m afraid I’m not liable for his actions. But of course you do have the option to sue him. Indeed I encourage you to do so in the interests of fairness…’ Goodness knows who the poor fall guy would be.
She sighed. At least Gavin was onto it. Hopefully he’
d kick up enough fuss to encourage the police and the Insolvency Service to dig deep, but if all else failed there was the likes of Chen out there, investigative reporters who might be interested in a tip-off. Even a TV journalist? Get the bit between someone’s teeth and who knew? Not that she planned to say such a thing to Issa. Today’s plan was for a light-hearted, (slightly) boozy lunch, albeit with one baby in utero, the other in a highchair.
‘Time out from all the angst,’ Issa had said on the telephone; they were to talk about anything but that.
Keeping an eye out for road signs, Nat negotiated the Wirral streets. She stroked her bump at the crossroads. It had grown since the start of the week, she was sure, and though the fluttering movements were more pronounced, she still said a silent thanks every time she felt one. She hadn’t yet mentioned the pregnancy to Issa, so that would be a starter for ten. She smiled; she and Jose’s sister would be baby buddies – who would have thought.
As the roads became wider, the route to Lower Heswell and the Harrow home slotted in like a bolt. The first time she’d visited, she’d been struck by the obvious affluence of the area. Hidden by laurel bushes and tall trees, the Victorian houses were set back in half acre plots, a very far cry from her small childhood home in Oldham.
Turning into the long, leafy road, she shifted in her seat. The last time she came here, she was all but a member of the Harrow family. Should she have travelled by train and met in town instead of offering to chauffeur so Issa could have a few drinks? She blew the apprehension away. It was fine; Issa’s parents were still away on their cruise, and anyway she didn’t have to step inside the house. She could text to say she was outside in the car.
Wondering which property it was, she drove slowly. Had she ever actually known the number? Or was it baby fug? She’d always looked out for the postbox in the wall next to the iron gates. Her tummy flipped. God, there it was, the scarlet red colour almost hidden by ivy.
She pulled up and turned off the engine. I’m here! she texted. I’ll wait in the car.
Sure, it might appear odd hovering at a safe distance on the road instead of parking in the large driveway, but she could live with it.
For a time there was no reply, so Nat listened to the news headlines before checking her mobile wasn’t on mute. After two or three minutes she sent the message again. After another three, she called Issa’s number.
Voicemail.
Unsettled and hot, she climbed from the car and peered over the stone wall. Issa’s Mini was parked to one side of the pebbly terrace and lights were shining through the bay window. Okay, what now? She tried Issa’s phone again. No answer. Maybe she had popped out? She looked over her shoulder. Pop out where, exactly? There were no local shops. And why wasn’t Issa answering her mobile? She turned back to the house. Perhaps she was busy with the baby; maybe she was listening for the crackle of tyres or a knock.
With a sigh, Nat locked her Merc and crunched across the drive to the pyracantha-strewn door. The dark wood was a surprise. In her mind she’d remembered it as red. But perhaps that was the postbox. Colour association or false memories, she supposed; the mind could play all sorts of tricks. Lifting the lion-faced knocker she tapped a couple of times, but when there was no answer, a chill of concern settled in. She rapped much harder, then searched for the shrouded doorbell and pressed it.
Again no reply. Strange and unsettling, for sure. Tapping her foot, she stared at her mobile, willing a message to appear. What did one do in these circumstances? Call the police or go home? As if; she wasn’t about to do either. The Harrow house was huge; Issa might simply be without her phone in a top bedroom or in the garden. She hammered one last time, then turned to the side gate. It was taller than her, so that was no good. Could she possibly climb around it? Maybe go via next door?
A rattling sound interrupted her inspection of the bushes at the side. Then a hoarse voice, a croaky male voice, called out. ‘Hello?’
Her heart thrashing, she retraced her steps to the door. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, a bare-footed man was standing on the top step. He was still tall and blond, but a blown-up version of the one she remembered.
The word came out clotted. ‘Jose.’ Trying to hide her obvious shock, she looked down at her feet. She hadn’t for a moment expected him to be here. But it wasn’t just that; his bony cheeks had been replaced with jowls and his skin was almost yellow; if she’d seen him on the street, she’d have unknowingly walked past him.
He snorted. ‘You never could hide your feelings,’ he said, turning tail.
She followed him in, her mouth dry from the whammy. Trying not to compare him to the twenty-something skinny bloke in the Harrow family portrait adorning the wall, she took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. I just didn’t expect to see you here. Issa said you were thinking of coming back, but I didn’t know–’
‘You’re here to see Issa, then?’
‘Yes, that was the plan, but if I had…’ she began.
She sighed. She was going to say that had she known, then of course she’d have visited him. But what was the point of false civility? Lies, basically. So instead she opted for the truth. ‘I should’ve come to see you in the hospital, Jose. For a long time I didn’t know what had happened, but still, when Hugo told me before Christmas… My intentions were good, but I didn’t see them through. I’m sorry.’
He smiled thinly. ‘It’s fine; I wouldn’t have welcomed you.’ Then after a moment, ‘Not just you. I was in a bad place. Hugo got it in the neck every time he visited.’ He looked at his trembling hands. ‘It didn’t stop him persisting, though.’
Feeling a stab of guilt, Nat swallowed. She’d let Hugo down too. ‘How is he?’ She tried for a smile. ‘Still leading the ladies around the dance floor?’
Raking his hair like he used to, Jose returned the smile and for an iota Nat glimpsed her Jose inside the fat suit. ‘He was good when I left.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘A wife appeared–’
‘You’re joking. A wife?’
‘Not only a wife, but a long-standing one. No idea where he’d hidden her all those years. They’re buying back the bar when they’ve sorted the valuation and finances.’ He briefly touched Nat’s shoulder. ‘I left it in his hands, but I guess a cheque will be coming your way fairly soon.’
‘The dark horse,’ she replied, shelving the thought of her investment and the horrible assumptions she’d made.
Jose appeared to drift, so Nat took a breath to ask after his sister, but he rubbed his face and the focus came back. ‘Have you been here for long? The doorbell’s bust and I was asleep. The drugs make me tired. So, you’re here to see Issa? I didn’t know you two were friends…’ He seemed to notice Nat’s bump for the first time. ‘Oh, right. I didn’t know,’ he said, his face flushing. ‘So, yeah, Issa. Where is she? The kitchen probably, it’s…Well, of course you know. I’ll come too.’
Still shaky from surprise and emotion, Nat listened to the echo of her own heels as she accompanied him along the panelled corridor to the back of the house. Surreal, so surreal to see this man who’d been integral to years of her life. When he’d blanked her after Mallorca, there’d been anger and frustration, but most of all deep, deep hurt; her mum was dangerously ill; he’d abandoned her when she’d most needed him. Then she’d learned about his own illness and the anger had turned to apprehension and guilt.
How did she feel now? Sorrow. Yes, she simply felt sad.
‘Issa?’ Jose called, pushing a door. ‘Are you guys in here?’
Jose’s voice interrupted Nat’s thoughts. She’d almost forgotten the reason she was there – a ‘light-hearted’ girl’s lunch. Sniffing the sentiment away, she straightened her shoulders, armed her face with a smile and followed him in.
It took a moment to register why the kitchen felt odd. It was the absence of warmth and noise, smell too. Her memory was of a room filled with sunshine, the aroma of cooking, the constant sound of the radio, and of course Harrow’s huge presence.
Apparently obliv
ious to their entrance, Issa was engrossed in a chore at the central island, but she abruptly turned when Jose spoke, her arms stretched as though hiding something behind her.
‘Nat’s here,’ he said again. ‘You ignored the front door. She was waiting.’
Her face almost white, Issa stared at them blankly.
Nat rushed to fill the silence. ‘It’s fine; I was early.’ She gestured to Jose. ‘And we’ve had a chance to catch-up so–’
But Jose was stepping towards his sister. ‘What are you doing?’
Turning back to the granite, Issa hurriedly piled papers and packets with shaky hands, then clumsily pushed them into a shoebox.
Much like her brother, she raked fingers through her hair and didn’t quite meet Nat’s gaze.
‘So sorry, Nat. Did you call?’ She glanced around. ‘My phone must still be… Sorry; I was absorbed, I didn’t realise the time.’ She tried for a smile. ‘Harrow’s seventieth is coming up. I was sorting stuff for a book of memories. You know what it’s like once you start a job like that.’ She scooped up the box and held it under her arm. ‘Were you waiting long? The doorbell is broken and you can’t hear a sound back here. I should have said.’ Then blushing, ‘Carlos usually alerts me. My own little chime. His nursery is in the front bedroom; he’s asleep, or at least I hope…’
‘What stuff?’ Jose asked.
‘Nothing useful.’ She peered at her watch. ‘Look at the time. Nat and I had better–’