Rich Deceiver

by Gillian White

  ‘Quite,’ said Ellie, looking at her pink seafood bisque.

  And then they had gone on to talk of other things, mostly to do with Gabriella—the people she knew and the places she’d been, and Ellie took the opportunity of asking her, ‘Did you ever know the Beaselys?’

  ‘I knew Bella Beasely once, but not very well—horrid, intense sort of person, bit of a do-gooder. She tried to lure me into helping with her frightful prison activities once, asked me to display some of their work in the gallery! It was all pretty embarrassing as you can imagine. One doesn’t really know what to say, does one? We fell out over it in the end.’

  ‘So you don’t keep in touch?’

  Gabriella shook her head and rinsed her mouth with a sparkling white wine. ‘No, we were never that friendly. Why, did you know them?’

  ‘No, not really, but I thought Malc did.’ Ellie was just testing, testing for safety.

  ‘No, I don’t think he did. They weren’t friends, if that’s what you mean.’

  Ellie was relieved to hear this. In spite of what she considered to be his great betrayal, she was certain that Robert Beasely would not have been so unprofessional as to give her secret away to anyone other than his wife. Now, living and working three hundred miles away, no matter what happened he’d never be tempted. Yes, Ellie was quite safe.

  ‘And what are your plans for the future?’ Ellie enquired innocently. ‘You must have already decided what you want to do when you’ve finished here.’

  ‘That all depends on how this goes,’ said Gabriella seriously. ‘If I make a good job of this the world is my oyster. If not, I’ve had it, I suppose you could say.’ She laughed and dabbed her mouth and her anchor earrings rattled nautically. ‘But that’s not very likely. Everything is going wonderfully well. We’re having a big open day in April, important people coming up, you know the sort of thing, sausage rolls and canapés and, if the weather’s nice, tables outside, music and displays.’ And then she said, ‘You must come! Remind me to give you a VIP ticket.’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ said Ellie.

  ‘And what about you, Ellie? How are you honestly feeling, about Malcolm and me? Is it still as hurtful, is it still just the same?’

  ‘It is hurtful, to be abandoned. Yes, that is hurtful.’

  ‘But that’s only if you’re determined to see it in that light. The word abandoned is surely quite wrong. He hasn’t abandoned you at all. I would think that since you’ve been living apart you’ve had more meaningful contact than you’ve had for years! And you’re both able to get some of those old resentments out.’

  ‘It is quite different meeting someone occasionally from living with them day after day, year after year.’

  ‘Yes—much more valuable in some ways, because after so long surely it’s impossible not to take the other one for granted! And that’s awful,’ said Gabriella sincerely. ‘That’s terribly wrong.’

  ‘But it’s also to do with trust,’ Ellie added.

  ‘Trust!’ shrieked Gabriella daintily. ‘Trust is the most unfair demand you can make on anyone, because how can you honestly promise always to be trustworthy, never to let them down, never to fall short, never ever to betray.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you are right—maybe you can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can’t, and it’s wicked to expect it.’

  ‘So Malcolm will never be able to trust you, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I would never use trust as a basis for anything, no. Malcolm and I are two separate individuals who happen to be sharing a home and a bed, and it’s important we remember that, and respect that. Anything could happen to either of us at any given moment in time, and I don’t see why we should turn our face from the world and feel guilty. Trust is a threat, and it almost begs for betrayal.’

  And Ellie feels a great deal better when she hears that, since she is beginning to suspect that Gabriella trusts her! She is freed by the naïvety of her enemy’s words.

  Poor Malc. Hung up with his old-fashioned, working-class values, he will be shattered. Ellie must hurry up and rescue him, but dammit she’s going as fast as she can!

  So, after lunch they move on. Ellie Freeman owns three flats in this block… and it is a block, whatever the residents might prefer to call it. So it is with a proprietorial interest that she enters, and far more confidently than when she came here the first time, tripping along behind Malc all decked out in her new blue silk and scared half to death at the prospect of meeting Gabriella.

  ‘Isn’t it… it can’t be… Jackie Skinner!’

  ‘Mrs Freeman!’

  ‘Oh, please call me Ellie! I have always told you to call me Ellie. What on earth are you doing here?’

  Jackie Skinner is pregnant again but not in maternity clothes, oh no. Her badly stained shirt gapes open across her stomach and the zip at the back of her skirt has been left undone. Standing squarely, she takes a lank strand of hair and hooks it behind her ear, looking vague and harassed as always when she says, ‘I live here now.’

  Gabriella stops and turns round. ‘Do you know these people?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. It is extraordinary! Jackie lived in the same street as us. You were there for, what must it be, at least ten years, weren’t you, Jackie?’

  Jackie nods eagerly. The gap between her two front teeth is very wide. She is taking a plate of green things to the creature in the hutch and a good inch of ash hangs from the fag in her mouth. Gabriella thinks about it first and then says slowly, ‘Then Malc must know them, too.’

  ‘Of course Malc knows Jackie. Why, hasn’t he said?’

  Gabriella turns round and makes for the lift entrance. ‘No,’ she casts back over her shoulder, ‘he hasn’t said.’

  Jackie calls out, ‘Pop in on your way back out, why don’t you? We can have a fag and a gossip.’

  ‘I have given up smoking,’ says Ellie with pride.

  The lift is still working but there are two half-bare children playing on the floor with a box of broken cars between them and where has that puddle of water come from? Ellie watches as Gabriella, stepping cautiously, decides whether or not to turn them out. ‘You see!’ she spits at Ellie with her eyebrows fiercely raised. She decides against it and the lift rises, the children play on undisturbed, and the whole party reaches the third floor with an expensive chunk and a click.

  Gabriella pauses for a moment before she exits, and looks nervously around her. ‘He sometimes waits up here,’ she says, obscurely.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The vile old man from the first floor. This is where he waits sometimes and I don’t know why or what he is here for.’ This top landing is pervaded by the stench of rancid chip-fat, and Ellie hurries after the retreating figure of Gabriella as she dashes up the small stairway to the safety of the penthouse.

  ‘I can see what you mean,’ Ellie tells her, as the door closes behind them.

  ‘It’s not that I’m a snob,’ Gabriella says quickly, making for the kitchen. ‘As you well know, I have firm beliefs about people’s rights to rise in the world, about the divisions between us being all in the mind.’

  ‘Yes, I remember, you said that before,’ nods Ellie.

  ‘But some of these people are mentally ill,’ says Gabriella, removing her earrings with care. ‘They must be to behave like they do! I mean, that mother hasn’t the first idea about looking after children… they could be caught in that lift, it could nip the ends of their fingers off! And I daren’t come home on my own at night!’

  ‘Why ever not?’ There is not one item out of place amidst all this white and chrome; there is nothing in here that does not match exactly.

  ‘Because of HIM! That’s why.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That man on the first floor! I can’t begin to tell you what he looks like.’

  ‘Poor old thing,’ says Ellie, and Gabriella looks at her sharply.

  ‘If it happens again I’m going to ring the police whatever Malcolm says. It might b
e no use but nevertheless they should be informed. Malcolm is much too patient and easygoing about all of this and sometimes his attitude makes me furious!’

  ‘If what happens again?’ Ellie watches as Gabriella plugs the percolator in and prepares two china cups. But she knows, oh yes, Ellie knows.

  ‘He stands there behind corners with his horrid prick out, and it’s really just not on. I have never been a nervous person,’ and they move into the sitting room. The central heating is on so there is no need to light the gas fire. Gabriella fiddles with a pile of artistic magazines before she sits down. ‘I am not easily given to hysteria, but honestly, Ellie, it’s not just his prick, the man is so sinister and ugly… limping along with his long hair swinging… and the bent wheel of that damn barrow squeaking!’

  ‘You sound as if you’re describing someone else I used to know!’

  Gabriella sits on the edge of her chair. She says wearily, ‘They say that his name is Sugden.’

  ‘Not Dwarfy Sugden, surely!’ Ellie is relieved to be able to let her face move into a laugh, but it has to be a sympathetic one, and it is.

  ‘When did you know him?’

  ‘Well, there was a man like that used to live over the back of Nelson Street.’

  Gabriella does exercises with her neck. ‘But this is incredible!’

  ‘Not really. I suppose most of Liverpool knows Dwarfy Sugden—that he lived not two blocks away from me must be purely coincidental.’

  ‘For God’s sake—the local tramp, the local flasher! And he has managed to move in to the Waterside apartments along with the most problematic family in the city and two old tarts and their entourage!’ Gabriella leans forward and narrows her eyes; it feels, for a second, as if she considers the possibility of this dire situation being Ellie’s work before she instantly dismisses it. ‘How, Ellie? How have these people moved in here? Who is paying for them and why? Why would anyone waste their money like this?’

  ‘Well, it certainly seems a peculiar way to spend a fortune, and you’re talking about somebody with more than enough to throw around. Sounds like the act of a lunatic to me.’

  ‘Or some charity that nobody’s heard of.’

  ‘Or some political body trying to cause trouble. There was a big fuss when this development was first talked about… you know the sort of thing, locals being pushed out, toffee-nosed yuppies with more money than they know what to do with moving in. You were around at the time, you must have known all about that. I remember what this area used to look like…’ Ellie rubs the possibilities in.

  ‘But nobody’s going around with this sort of money, nobody’s prepared to spend these sorts of sums in order to prove a point, surely! Why would they need to do that, to take it this far? That is absolutely ridiculous!’

  ‘Goodness knows,’ says Ellie, ‘but it must be terribly difficult for you. And, when you think about it, it can only get worse. Perhaps, if it’s upsetting you so much, you should think about moving out?’

  ‘Never!’ Gabriella’s voice is sharp. ‘Never in a million years! I had to contend with a hundred others, I had to have my name pulled out of a hat to get this penthouse. It would take more than this to drive me out, and the rest of the residents feel exactly the same. These people,’ and Gabriella’s nose wrinkles up, ‘are going to have to learn to fit in with the rest of us. They are not going to be allowed to remain here and pull everything down to their level!’

  The coffee plops in the kitchen and as Gabriella gets up, Ellie says, ‘They’re off to a good start, though. It looks as if they are already doing quite well.’ She makes sure that her voice is most sympathetic. She does not allow herself to smile until she’s quite sure that Gabriella has left the room.

  29

  THIS HABIT OF CATEGORISING people, summing them up and working them out—well, Malc might disapprove and scoff at Ellie for doing it, but you’ve got to admit that it works. Here is the fearful Gabriella, who represents all the human attributes that Ellie can’t understand, reacting in the same way as anyone else, and pathetically predictable when it comes to stressful situations.

  It is all extremely pleasing, and Ellie feels her self-confidence soaring. She’s getting on with Gabriella rather successfully, too, these days. She even suspects that Gabriella quite likes her, as she is always wanting to be with her and meet for lunch!

  How is Gabriella going to react when Malc makes a fool of himself? One thing is quite certain—the slut will goad him into it. She can’t help herself because she is frightened—threatened and surrounded as she is by the sounds and sights of the underprivileged and defeated. Everything that she stands for and all that she hopes for, is threatened.

  Ellie visits Malc for further practical discussions. She takes her car into the city, but before she goes to the Canonwaits offices she drives to Ridley Place to see how the contractors are getting on.

  As always, when she approaches the house her heart lifts. She is unaccountably upset to see the skips outside and all the splintered old pelmets and floorboards, although she knows that this has to happen before any progress can be made. Nor does she quite trust the builder. Although she likes him, she would feel far happier if she were strong enough and skilled enough to carry out the whole process herself. She realises that she has personalised the place, and that she identifies with it, and she knows she would not want Pete Sparrow poking away with his pick in any of her little nooks and crannies.

  He is too rough with it. She doesn’t like to see old skirting boards being flung so carelessly out of the windows. She considers the whole process would be more bearable if it were done in private, behind awnings.

  ‘How’s it all coming along, Pete?’

  He pokes at his cap. ‘Fair and nicely, Mrs Freeman. We’re down in the basements now. We’ve cleared all the rubbish from the attics down and soon the men’ll be in to deal with the rot.’

  ‘Good.’

  Ellie is not even slightly concerned about protecting her identity here. Liverpool is a large city—there are hundreds of people with the name of Freeman. If her name did ever get back, if anyone gossiped, nobody would dream of associating this grand house with her. She does not move in Malc’s circle. She does not move in any circle—as far as Ellie is concerned, she is going in a straight line.

  She does not make a habit of talking about herself and nobody asks.

  She resents the presence of the builders, their knapsacks and their thermos flasks, and the hammering sounds that come from every part of the house, and although she puts a smile on her face she always tries to find an empty room and then she closes the door—if there is one—and she sits in it. In three or four weeks’ time the necessary destruction will be finished and the pain will be over. The constructive process will begin and Ellie will be able to take a more active part. She can’t wait; she has so many ideas and plans that they topple over in her head at night. They bombard her, they set her brain on fire, she is afraid that she might die or go mad before she can accomplish anything.

  She compares Gabriella’s dream and her own with interest, for they are surprisingly similar. It is just that Ellie prefers the old and the solid while Gabriella goes for the flimsier, less permanent structure. Gabriella likes to look out of her window and see an array of fascinating life floating by, while Ellie isn’t bothered so much by what goes on out of the window, it is what is inside that is all-important to her. But to both of them their homes are extremely important.

  Perhaps Ellie is just more frightened that hers might be taken away, while Gabriella is more confident and doesn’t need such firm foundations.

  ‘Gabriella is more trusting, actually, than I am,’ muses Ellie to the voice, ‘in spite of her protests to the contrary.’

  And when she feels a tiny prick of conscience the voice reassures her, ‘That’s her lookout, nothing to do with you. You press on, you’re doing all right.’

  ‘I am still afraid of her,’ Ellie confesses.

  ‘Well, so long as you’re not show
ing it, that’s what matters,’ the voice replies firmly.

  The Canonwaits offices are vast and impressive, and convey solidity and purpose. When you look out all you can see is grey sky and seagulls. She passes along glass-walled corridors that divide enormous, whitely-lit spaces in which the machinery of money whirrs round, armies of people sit at desks and the sound that dominates everything else is the tringing of telephones and the clacking of Faxes. Paper is piled up everywhere, crying for help; it fills wire bins and it litters desks and gets spiked on sharp little hooks. Malcolm’s office is right at the end. It is one of the few rooms in this building which has four walls and a door, apart from the lavatories.

  ‘Ah… Ellie,’ he says, as if she is a rep. He just manages not to stand up and hold out his hand. He looks tired, dazed by the suddenness of events, most probably.

  ‘You’re looking tired, Malc,’ Ellie says as she sits down.

  ‘That’s no wonder. Gabby’s told you about what’s been going on?’

  ‘She told me last week when I had lunch with her, yes. Are things no better?’

  ‘Not really,’ and he passes his hand across his eyes in that tired old gesture. ‘We can’t get anywhere with the developers. All they’ll give us is the name of a firm of solicitors in London and they are as tight as a duck’s arse. It’s Gabriella, really. I’m not around most of the time, so it’s she who has to put up with most of it. All that happens to me is that I slide on motorbike oil whenever I go into the hall and now, to cap it all, the bloody lift isn’t working.’

  Ellie smiles sympathetically. ‘It looks as if some of your old life is dogging your footsteps, doesn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when I saw Jackie Skinner, and old Dwarfy Sugden. It really is very strange.’

  Malc seems to be overwhelmed by gloom. ‘And it’s not all that easy, being hassled by an ancient prostitute on your own staircase when you come home late from work.’

  ‘No,’ Ellie agrees quickly. ‘That can’t be very nice at all.’

  ‘Last week there was a pool of vomit outside their door.’