by Simon Booker
‘Aquarius: a day of potentially dramatic developments. You’ll prosper as long as you put your trust in an older, wiser advisor. Now is not the time to rely on people younger than yourself – especially anyone born under the sign of Libra.’
Which happened to be Tom’s sign.
I know.
So sue me.
* * *
After the show, Harriet and I went our separate ways until the rendezvous in the North Audley Street café. Tom was already there when I arrived, eating a sandwich and drinking coffee. There was no sign of George. I felt a flicker of relief. The last thing I needed was for him and Tom to become bosom pals.
I looked away as Harriet greeted Tom with a hug and a peck on the cheek. I was on high alert for any sign that their relationship had stepped up a gear during rehearsals for his musical – a look, a tell in their body language – but there was nothing. Which proved sod all. With Harriet carrying Damian’s baby it was hard to predict if she was more or less likely to succumb to Tom’s charms – or mine, for that matter. That she was growing increasingly angry with Vance was a good sign but would her ire make her more or less keen to go it alone?
As for Tom, how would he feel about taking on another man’s child? Was he the jealous type? Or did he, like me, view her pregnancy as a chance to show what he was made of? There was only one way to find out – ask – and that, of course, was out of the question.
Tom drained his cup. I checked my watch. 1.25 p.m. The appointment with the estate agent was for 1.30. Vance’s apartment was less than two minutes’ walk but there was no sign of George.
‘Is he reliable?’ said Harriet, chewing the inside of her lip.
‘Quite the opposite,’ I said.
‘He’ll be here,’ said Tom.
His sangfroid grated on my nerves. To make matters worse, he was right. As if on cue, George sauntered through the door wearing dark glasses and a bottle green corduroy suit with a yellow pocket square.
‘You look like a gangster,’ I said.
He gave a thin smile.
‘Is there no end to your charm?’
Without waiting for a reply George turned to Harriet.
‘Did you bring a handbag?’
She raised a large leather bag for his inspection.
‘Perfect,’ he said. Then he did the oddest thing. He took hold of her arm and drew her closer.
‘You’re nervous,’ he said. ‘Am I right?’
Harriet nodded. I noticed for the first time that she was trembling.
‘The thing is…’ she said then fell silent. George smiled.
‘Yes?’
Harriet took a breath then continued.
‘The thing is, it’s a performance. I know it’s only an audience of one, and if it was the radio show I’d have no problem, but it’s an actual person.’
George smiled.
‘Try not to think of him as a person,’ he said. ‘Think of him as an estate agent.’
Harriet shook her head.
‘Snobbery doesn’t help,’ she said.
George’s expression grew serious.
‘In my experience,’ he said, ‘the whole of life is a performance, what Americans call a high-wire act. A tightrope walk, if you like. Do you know what prevents tightrope walkers from falling, Harriet?’
She shook her head.
‘The secret is simple,’ said George. ‘Just keep going and never look down. Got it?’
Harriet blinked and smiled.
‘Got it.’
‘Say it,’ said George. ‘Keep going and never look down.’
She looked him in the eye.
‘Keep going and never look down.’
‘Excellent,’ said my father, his smile broadening. ‘So, are we ready?’
Harriet nodded.
‘Ready.’
Tom left a tip then headed for the door and left the café. As Harriet followed in his wake, George raised an eyebrow in my direction.
‘We can manage without you, if you’d rather stay here?’
I took a step closer and breathed in his ear.
‘Tell him and I’ll kill you.’
He looked stricken. I hadn’t planned on saying anything but it was clear that my words packed a punch. Hardly surprising. They’d been a long time coming.
‘You have my promise,’ he said.
‘Which is worthless.’
A sigh. ‘I’m trying to do a good deed in a wicked world, Richard. Let’s get this done.’
‘Then what? Your wedding? Chelsea Town Hall? Lunch at the Savoy?’
‘Are you coming or not?’
I walked past him, out into the street where Tom and Harriet were waiting. George sent Tom to the corner of Oxford Street, to keep watch in one direction. I was dispatched to the other end of the road, nearer Grosvenor Square, to stand lookout in the unlikely event of Damian deciding to pop home at lunchtime.
George was right, of course – better safe than sorry – but there was something about the enterprise that felt both shabby and absurd. All the same, I could feel my pulse quickening as I watched my father and Harriet approach the black front door and shake hands with a sharp-suited estate agent before crossing the threshold of what might prove to be an Aladdin’s cave.
HARRIET
Keep going and never look down…
I’d lost count of the number of times I’d been inside the flat, and being there with George but without Damian felt weird. The estate agent droned on as the three of us wandered from room to room. The master bedroom is south facing and has plenty of light… The ensuite bathroom has underfloor heating… blah blah blah.
Like most rental apartments, the place was sparsely furnished. Damian had always been fussy about tidiness so there wasn’t much clutter. After a couple of minutes I started to lag behind, as arranged with George, leaving him to fire a barrage of convoluted questions designed to distract attention from what his ‘granddaughter’ was up to.
Alone in the kitchen, I tried to ignore the pounding of my heart and feigned interest in the ‘soft close’ mechanism of the drawers, all the while keeping my eyes peeled in a way I never had during previous visits. I knew the rumours about Damian’s father, of course, but the idea that Vance Senior might have bequeathed his son a dodgy legacy had never crossed my mind. What was I searching for anyway? Cash? Jewellery? A will? No one knew what the Mayfair vault had contained but the best guess seemed to be diamonds. Lots of ’em.
I left the kitchen and joined the others in the sitting room, feigning interest in George’s queries about the feasibility of extending the lease and trying to ignore the voice inside my head that was telling me HOW EASY IT WOULD BE TO OPEN THE DOOR ONTO THE BALCONY AND JUMP OFF! Pushing The Thoughts away, I braced myself for the next phase of the performance, George’s words playing in my ears.
Never look down…
‘Mind if I look around by myself?’ I said.
George turned to the estate agent.
‘Okay by you?’
The man smiled.
‘Of course.’
So I left them to it and walked into Cockweasel’s bedroom. Not so long ago, I’d spent many deliriously happy hours here. As a human being, Damian had turned out to be less than zero; as a lover, he scored top marks. Perhaps it was the hormones, but quelling The Thoughts and running my hand over a pillow, I felt a surge of sadness so intense it almost made me fall to the floor and weep. The fact that it was followed immediately by an equally powerful craving for a Scotch egg slathered in mayonnaise confirmed what Nan said about pregnancy: baby wants what Baby wants.
Damian had always been a neatnik but I’d never seen the place so tidy. I checked the drawers, careful not to disturb his belongings as I rifled through his neatly folded socks, boxers and T-shirts. The wardrobe was next. I patted down his shirts and the pockets of his suits then checked inside his shoes. Nothing.
I could hear George in the adjoining room, asking about the differences between leasehold and freehold.
Despite the circumstances, there was something about being in the company of this old man that made me feel safe and secure. I thought back to the horoscope Richard had read on-air. You’ll prosper as long as you put your trust in an older, wiser advisor. George was certainly older. Whether or not he was wiser remained to be seen.
I checked the pillows and looked underneath the bed, then slid my hands between the mattress and the divan. Kneeling down, I detected the smell of Damian. His body. His hair. He was everywhere. The duvet. The sheets. The pillowcases.
I felt another bitter-sweet pang of sadness then a surge of anger. I had adored this man – trusted him – and he had let me down. But did the betrayal justify snooping through his belongings – with intent to steal?
I summoned the memory of well-heeled Wifey. Our Starbucks showdown.
There’s usually more than one on the go. Lucy, I think her name was. Or was it Lottie? Not that it matters; they all look the same. A bit like you.
The thought stiffened my resolve. I called to the other room.
‘Okay if I use the loo?’
The estate agent called back.
‘No problemo.’
I walked into the bathroom and bolted the door. Everything was immaculate, like an ultra posh hotel suite. Cockweasel may have been a shit-bag but when it came to personal hygiene he was a prince among men, just the right side of prissy. I can’t pretend that I didn’t scrutinize the medicine cabinet for traces of other women but there was nothing to arouse suspicion and no sign of a second head for the electric toothbrush. Somehow, I managed to resist the urge to examine the shower’s plughole for traces of long hair.
I flushed the loo then studied my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks had a rosy glow. Another telltale sign of the hormones raging through my body? Thinking longingly of that Scotch egg (and maybe a pork pie with piccalilli), I washed my hands while letting my eyes rove over the contents of the chrome rack. A bottle of shampoo. Conditioner. A can of shaving foam.
Peering more closely, I frowned. Despite his fastidiousness, Damian had never been the type to use moisturiser. In fact, he mocked men who did. So why was there a tub of Nivea? On impulse, I took it from the rack and slipped it into my bag. Then I unlocked the door and joined the others in the sitting room. My mouth was dry. My pulse was racing.
TOM
It was Harriet who insisted on taking a taxi all the way from North Audley Street to Walthamstow. An Uber not a black cab, but even so, I remember thinking, She’s changing, going up in the world. Dad offered to pay, flashing his cash as usual, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
‘I’m earning decent money for a change so I’m paying my own way.’
Independent, smart, kind, funny, talented and gorgeous. I mean, come on – what’s not to like?
George was quiet, staring out at the traffic. He piped up once, as we were driving along Walthamstow High Street and passing an estate agent’s window.
‘That used to be a bakery,’ he said. ‘Best sausage rolls in the world. Pastry like you wouldn’t believe.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘You don’t strike me as someone who spends much time in Walthamstow.’
He smiled. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, my lad.’
‘Look at that pigeon,’ said Dad.
I followed his gaze but there was nothing out of the ordinary. I had the feeling he was trying to, like, change the subject.
It wasn’t until we were inside Nancy’s kitchen and introductions had been made that Harriet told us about the pot of Nivea from Damian’s bathroom.
‘It’s probably nothing. I acted on impulse.’
She drew the blue tub from her bag and placed it on the table.
‘Does it rattle?’ said George, his voice filled with hope.
Nancy frowned. ‘It’s cream. Why would it rattle?’
Harriet unscrewed the top of the tub then peeled back the foil seal and scrutinized the contents. Her face fell.
‘It’s cream.’
‘Got a sieve?’ said Dad.
As Nancy rummaged in the cupboard under the sink, I thought I saw George checking out her legs.
‘Will a colander do?’ said Nancy.
‘Perfect,’ said Harriet.
George dipped his fingers into the tub and slopped a dollop of white gunk into the colander.
‘Put it under the tap,’ said Dad.
Harriet did as instructed, turning on the tap and holding the colander under the running water. I held my breath, watching as the cream washed away, leaving… nothing. George’s face fell.
‘Try again,’ he said.
Harriet followed his example, scooping another handful of cream into the colander then holding it under the gushing water. We watched it disappear. Leaving some kind of residue. Like small shards of glass…
‘Ohmygod…’ said Harriet.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Dad.
‘Blimey,’ said Nancy.
‘Hallelujah,’ said George.
Harriet scooped the remainder of the Nivea into the colander and repeated the rinsing exercise revealing more diamonds.
At a guess, I’d say there were fifty or sixty stones, the size of coffee beans. George took a pair of black-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and peered at them. The stunned silence was broken by Nancy.
‘Will someone tell me what’s going on?’
While Harriet brought her grandmother up to speed about Jack Vance and the legacy he’d left his son, George busied himself making a pot of tea. He didn’t ask permission, just made himself at home, finding teabags, mugs and milk.
‘Do you take sugar?’ he said, turning to wink at Nancy. ‘Or are you sweet enough?’
She blinked at him, as though seeing him for the first time.
‘Do I know you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said George.
She peered closer.
‘Didn’t you used to be a singer?’
My father gave a snort of derision but George smiled from ear to ear.
‘I was hardly Elvis,’ he said, ‘but I did once cut a record. It reached number eighty-six in the hit parade. It was called…’
‘ “The Days Are Long…” ’ interrupted Nan.
‘ “… But The Years Are Short”,’ finished George.
‘I loved that song. You had a good voice.’
‘I could tell you were a woman of taste.’
Dad rolled his eyes then turned his attention back to the diamonds.
‘What are we supposed to do with these?’
Nancy prised her eyes from George’s face and frowned at my father.
‘Don’t ask me. I’m a dinner lady not the Pink Panther.’
‘I might know a chap,’ said George.
Harriet raised an eyebrow.
‘A fence?’
‘Yes. I could have a word.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Dad.
‘I don’t know about you,’ said Harriet, ‘but stolen diamonds aren’t my thing.’
‘Nor mine,’ said George. ‘But I know people who know people. I could have a word, find out what these beauties might be worth. It’s not as if you can take them to Bond Street and get an estimate.’
My father shook his head.
‘Out of the question.’
‘Isn’t that Harriet’s decision?’ said George. ‘Surely the whole point of the exercise was to provide funds for her baby.’
All eyes turned to Harriet. She stared intently at the diamonds, as though unable to believe what she was seeing. Upending the colander, she tipped the gems back into the blue plastic tub.
‘I think I’m in shock,’ she said.
George handed her a mug of tea and gave an avuncular smile. ‘Perfectly natural.’
She returned his smile and in a flash I could see how the man’s charm must have worked its magic on women all over the world. Like my father, he was a man who genuinely liked women – he listened to what they had to say and came alive in their presence. I stu
died Harriet’s face. Even with everything that was going on, it was clear she felt calmer, grateful for his reassurance. I could feel my spirits sinking. Could I ever make her feel that way?
Nancy opened the fridge and took out a pot of peach yoghurt. She poured the contents into the tub of Nivea, covering the diamonds.
‘So it doesn’t rattle. Can’t be too careful.’
‘Wise woman,’ said George, handing her a mug of tea.
She peered at him.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘George.’ He held out his hand. ‘Enchanté.’
‘Likewise.’
‘And you’re Nancy. Like the song: “Nancy With the Laughing Face”.’
George began to hum the melody. My father clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his temper.
‘Can we get back to the matter at hand?’ He stared at the motley crew in the small kitchen. ‘Two radio presenters, one copywriter, one ageing roué and a dinner lady. What are we supposed to do with a stash of stolen diamonds?’
RICHARD
I hate to admit it but the old bastard was right: it was Harriet’s decision. The North Audley Street sting had been planned with her and the baby in mind. It was hardly unreasonable for her to decide she needed time to work out how to handle the riches that had landed in her lap.
I could scarcely believe that the plan had worked so smoothly. At the same time, I was annoyed it had been George who’d devised the ruse: a false name and phoney contact details had conned the estate agent, and Harriet had done the rest. A simple ploy but I should have thought of it. Still, at least the brainwave hadn’t been Tom’s, earning him points with you-know-who.
As Harriet gazed at the diamonds, I studied her lovely face. In just a few weeks she’d gone from working as a minimum-wage barista to being the Voice of London and co-host of the most popular show on Silk FM. She’d captured the hearts of two men and rekindled an ill-fated romance with a third, resulting in heartbreak as well as the pregnancy that would change her life. All this she’d taken in her stride, making the most of each opportunity or rolling with the punches without being fazed or overwhelmed, or so it seemed. And now, with a fortune in ‘hot’ diamonds she was still acting cool, as if everything was normal. Bloody brilliant.