2cool2btrue (20 page)

“Latest squeeze?” asks Scarlett.

“No, no. Me and Nora? Not at all.” I look at the paper again. “And they’ve got this wrong too. Nora isn’t Piers’s cousin—how can she be?”

But even as I’m saying it I realise how very possible it is. That’s how Piers knew her in the first place. She’s done it again. How could she? She’s lied to me again. Tricked me again. Fucking betrayed my trust. The bitch, how could she? I think about that moment on her doorstep last night. We nearly kissed. Let’s be honest, I wanted to kiss her. I actually felt very close to her, and all the time she was taking me for a ride. Lying to me. Again. I begin to feel more hurt than angry.

“You all right?” It’s Scarlett.

I look round at her. She squeezes my hand.

“Yeah, just…why didn’t she say?” Somehow, even though I didn’t mention her much when I was talking about the party, I think Scarlett can tell that I feel something for Nora.

“She’s bad news, that girl.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Why did Piers lie as well? I
knew
there was something funny about it when he first mentioned her—he couldn’t seem to decide whether they were old friends or whether they’d just met.”

“Perhaps
she
told him to say that.”

“That’s no excuse, it’s just pathetic.”

Scarlett looks sort of pained and shrugs her shoulders.

I go back to my desk, take a moment to collect my thoughts and then ring her.

“Hello, did you get back all right then?” she asks brightly.

“Yeah, thanks. Look, Nora. Have you seen the
Standard
today?”

“The
Standard?
Oh, that piece. Horrid isn’t it? Talk about shitting on your own. And the thing about you being my squeeze. How embarrassing. I hope your girlfriend doesn’t see it. Just blame the journalist if she does.” I let her gabble on for a moment.

“What about this stuff about you being Piers’s cousin?”

“Oh that.”

“Yeah, that.” I give her a moment to say something but there is no response. “It’s not true, is it?”

“Oh, honestly, who really bothers about these things?”

I grip the receiver tight and my teeth are gritted. I know the others are listening in intently but I don’t care.

“Nora. Tell me. Is it true? Are you and Piers cousins?” There is a pause. “Listen. I don’t want any more surprises, okay? I can’t stand it. Either you’re honest with me, completely honest and tell me everything, or we never speak to each other again, do you understand me?”

The silence at the other end goes on for so long that I’m just about to ask whether she’s still there when she says in a small voice, “All right, we’re cousins. I just forgot to tell you. I’m sorry. I know it’s silly, I know I should have but I just forgot and then it didn’t seem relevant. We’re not exactly close.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re not close. You’re still cousins, you’re still related. Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

“Charlie, what difference does it make?”

“But you could have told me. What else are you lying about?”

“Excuse me, don’t speak to me like that. I don’t have to listen to this. We
are
cousins, yes, but as I said, we’re not close. It didn’t have any bearing on what I wrote about 2cool or our attempts to find him.” The best form of defence is obviously attack, she’s decided. I can sort of see her point.

I take a deep breath. “From now on we’re completely honest with each other, you understand me? We tell each other everything.”

“Of course, Charlie.”

“No ‘of course’ about it. Do you promise?”

“Yes, I promise. Now I’ve said I’m sorry so let’s just leave it. I’ve got some more calls to make about Piers. Just because I’m his cousin and we share grandparents way back, doesn’t mean I have any more of an idea where he is than you do. Less in fact. We’ve hardly seen each other since we were kids. Now, listen, I’m getting a number for that Huntsman girl so you can call her.”

“Okay, ring me when you’ve got it,” I tell her and put the phone down.

“I wouldn’t trust that woman as far as I could spit her,” says Scarlett.

She’s so right.

T
he people I least want to speak to after Nora are the police, so naturally DI Slapton calls—on the entry phone. He’s downstairs. It doesn’t help that Scarlett, who picks up the receiver, announces him as the “pig-lice” with the receiver inches away from her mouth. I hope he just thinks she’s got a stutter.

“We need to take some documents away with us, as well as your computers,” he says, arriving at the top of the stairs and panting slightly. He is accompanied by three junior officers carrying large plastic boxes.

“You’ve got a warrant and everything then?” I ask, trying to make it sound like I’m not a total soft touch.

Slapton looks surprised at my question and then contemptuous. His sarcasm is all the more intimidating for its subtlety. “Oh, yes, we’ve got all the right paperwork,” he says, standing very close to me. “You see, we’ve done this before, son.”

The four of them move in.

“Stand away from the computers, please,” one of the other officers tells Scarlett and Zac. Uncertainly, they get up and move away from their desks. The officer takes out a Polaroid camera and photographs the computer screens, then begins to pull plugs out of the wall.

“Hey,” says Zac, suddenly animated. “Let me close these things down properly, will you?”

“Sorry, sir, can’t do that. We have to take them as they are,” says the officer, grimacing slightly as he pulls at a particularly reluctant plug under a desk. The Macs and the other pieces of hardware die slowly in front of us, fans slowing, lights flickering off.

“It’s standard practise,” Slapton informs me. “We’ve got the photos to show what’s on the screens when we unplugged them. You see we don’t want it to look like we’ve changed any documents, or allowed you to amend or delete anything that could be incriminating,” he adds, snapping on some rubber gloves.

From their boxes the officers produce piles of clear polythene bags which they begin filling with our carefully sorted invoices, ripping off strips and sealing them, one officer laboriously filling in the form printed on each one of them, near the words “Police Evidence” in big letters.

Slapton consults some printed notes, obviously telling him and the others what to take. I notice him fill in a series of forms to show where in the office the various papers and computers were seized from. After a couple of hours they’ve filled almost all the evidence bags and they seem satisfied. Loading the computers and the processing units into evidence boxes and bigger polythene bags takes some time. I offer to help one officer who is obviously struggling, but he grunts, “Can’t allow you, sir, I’m afraid,” and carries on.

Having packed up computers belonging to Guy, Piers and Zac, they’re obviously debating whether to take the remaining machines when I jump in, because we’ll need something to keep the site going and also, it has to be said, to continue making our own enquiries.

“There’s nothing interesting on these. All the financial stuff is on the ones you’ve already got—Zac can give you the passwords if you want. If you could leave these it would mean we can still keep the site going.”

The other policemen look to Slapton for guidance.

“Look, erm, the thing is,” says Scarlett, getting up from her desk. “It’s not just about the money, we’ve never been much good at that.” She blinks and sniffs. “The site means a hell of a lot to us; we’ve put our whole lives into it for the last month or so. We’ve been working on it twenty-four seven, hardly slept or eaten.” A single tear rolls down her left cheek. “I know you’ve got your job to do but we’d really appreciate it if you could just leave us enough to keep 2cool going, keep our dream alive for a bit longer. That would be very kind, thanks…”

I’m more stunned than our visitors. I had no idea that it was so important to her. Slapton approaches her, smiles kindly at her and says very quietly, “No.”

I see a couple of the other officers exchange glances and smother grins. Then Slapton asks me a few questions, most of which I can’t answer, and gets me to sign his notes as well as a receipt for the goods taken.

“When do you think we might get them back?” I ask.

His bloodshot eyes narrow. “You’ll get them back when we’ve finished with them, son.”

As the door closes I hear a slow hand clap behind me. I turn to see the ever horizontal Zac grinning and looking at Scarlett.

“Zac, just…” I tell him. But by this time Scarlett is grinning too and wiping away her tears.

“Thank you,” she says, bowing deep. “Thank you, all.”

“And the Oscar for Best Actress Talking Bullshit goes to…” announces Zac.

“I’d like to thank my agent, my mother, Krishna, and all the producers I’ve ever slept with,” gushes Scarlett, clasping an imaginary Oscar to her breast.

We’re all helpless with laughter for a few moments then I manage to say, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Au contraire,”
says Zac. “You’re very plausible. Just not quite plausible enough, unfortunately.”

“Oh, well. Thank you, anyway. It helped slightly that I’ve got my clit ring caught in my knickers,” says Scarlett, wriggling around and pulling at her crotch.

We take it in turns to stay in the office and fend off the calls demanding payment while the others go out shopping or in Zac’s case to play pinball. I try to ring Lauren but I just get her voice mail, and leave a message asking her to ring me. A magazine journalist rings up wanting to do a piece following up on our survey about the number of men spending more on clothes than their female partners, so I give her a quote, explaining that it is all part of broader, socioeconomic developments in society and the changing self-image of men or some such bullshit.

When Scarlett comes back to do her shift and I’m unplugging my mobile from the charger, ready to go out, I tell her, “Look, you don’t have to keep coming in if you’ve got better things to do.”

She looks slightly embarrassed. “Oh, well, I’ll give you a hand for a while…”

“I know we’re all getting paid but there’s nothing else we can do.”

“No, but…” She pauses, looking down, and then says quickly, “You’re a good bloke, Charlie, I don’t want to leave you in this shit on your own.” She looks up and smiles. “Besides, you might need someone to protect you from those attackers.”

“Thanks, Scarlett. I appreciate it.” I give her a peck on the cheek and then go out.

Because we haven’t got any computers I have to go to a café down the road to use the Internet. I look in the online newspaper archives for something more about Sir James Huntsman. There is nothing particularly interesting other than various stories about his companies and a story in the
Daily Mail
about Anastasia getting chucked out of some high-class boarding school for possession of drugs.

Then I check for “Nora Benthall.” Lots of her freelance writing comes up. But there is a piece in the
Observer
about her. Really it’s about her father, a doctor who has worked with other doctors in Third World countries. “Some of his friends have suggested that this extensive work abroad might be to escape personal and professional problems in the US,” it adds mysteriously. There is also a letter in
The Times
from him, berating the large drugs companies for not offering sufficient discounts to patients in the poorest countries.

I step back out onto the street, wondering what to do for the next few hours. The thought of shopping reminds me that even if my 2cool salary goes through this month, and that’s looking increasingly unlikely, I’ll need to earn something for the following month. I ring Karyn. Unfortunately, Brad from the women’s division answers the phone instead of her.

“Jet Models. Can I help you?”

“Is Karyn there, please?” I ask.

“Sure, who may I say is calling?” he says, smoothly.

“It’s, er, it’s a personal call.”

“A personal call? One moment please.” I know he’s recognised my voice but he can’t prove it’s me, can he? And anyway, I can’t be bothered to talk to anyone else.

There are a few seconds of dance music and then, “Karyn speaking.”

I realise how much I love her soft, clear voice.

“Hi, darling, it’s me, Charlie.”

“Oh, hi.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” she says awkwardly.

“Can’t talk?”

“No, that’s right.”

“Sorry, shall I call back?”

“Er.”

“Or you could call me back a bit later? I’m on my mobile.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, will do, babe.”

I end the call. I decide to sit at a café and ring Lauren again about the
Standard
piece.

“Charlie Barrett?”

I look up and am immediately blinded by a flashbulb “What?”

It happens again.

“Oh, fuck. Stop that! Who are you?”

“Just look over here, matey.”

A photographer is dancing around me, shooting from different angles before darting across the street and taking some pictures with a telephoto lens. I walk away confidently until I’ve turned the corner into the next street. Surely Nora hasn’t put them up to this. It can’t be her, can it? Not after our conversation this morning.

“Someone took pictures of you just now?” she says when I ring her.

“Yes, just as I was walking out of the building,” I say, adding sarcastically, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?”

“No, Charlie, I promise. I’m certainly not writing anything about 2cool at the moment. I’d tell you if I was. Let me ring the picture desk and see if they’ve sent someone.”

“Nora, if this
is
anything to do with you—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Charlie, believe me. Please! Let me find out and I’ll come straight back to you.”

“Okay…thanks.”

A few moments later the phone rings again. “Hi, Nora?” I say.

There is a pause.

“No, Charlie, it’s not Nora.”

It’s Lauren’s voice.

“Hi, babe.”

“I saw the piece in the
Standard
today.”

“Oh, God, I know. Did you get my message? I’d have called you sooner but I didn’t see it. Scarlett pointed it out and we’ve had a hell of a day. The police have been round again.”

“So what? What the hell’s this piece about? When were you going to tell me that you and Nora are going out together?”

I laugh in disbelief and frustration. “Don’t be ridiculous, babe. It’s completely wrong. Of course we’re not going out. How could you think that?”

“Because I read it in the paper, like hundreds of other people we know probably have.”

“It’s just crap; that was a troublemaking article that got it all wrong.”

“So your new girlfriend Nora isn’t related to Piers then?”

“She
isn’t
my new girlfriend! But, yeah, that other bit about Piers is right.”

“It’s also right when it says that 2cool is going down the tubes, isn’t it?”

“Yes, probably.”

“For God’s sake, Charlie, just leave it will you? Walk away.”

“I know, you’re right. Look, I’m waiting for a call from Karyn at Jet. I’m going to go back to modelling.”

“That’s very sensible. I’m glad to hear it,” she says, like a mother talking to her son who’s decided he will go back to college after all, this term. I always used to love Lauren’s self-assurance, her absolute conviction, but at the moment it’s just a bit annoying.

“First, though, I want to find Piers and Guy and find out what’s going on,” I say.

“I don’t believe it. Just forget it, will you?”

“I told you I
will
forget it—when I’ve found Piers and Guy and asked them some questions.”

“Well, I can’t stop you,” she says quietly. “But just stay away from that Nora woman, she’s trouble.”

“Seeing Peter tonight are you?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m going out with Sarah, but my work with Peter is totally different to your, your
relationship
with Nora. He’s helping my career, she’s destroying yours.”

I think about it for a moment and then I hear the “call waiting” bleep.

“I’ve got to go, I think that’s Karyn from Jet.”

“I’ll see you later.”

As I press the button to get through to the other call I wonder why Lauren and I cannot talk these days without rowing.

“Hi, it’s me,” says Nora.

“Hi.”

“No one at the
Post
has sent a photographer, and I checked with the news desk
and
my editor, and no one is doing a piece about 2cool.”

“So it must be another paper.”

“Yep. I’ll ask a mate of mine on
The Times
if they’re doing anything.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You all right, Charlie?”

I laugh bitterly. “Oh, fine. My career’s collapsing around me, my girlfriend has read in the paper that I’m seeing someone else, the police are visiting me almost every day and I’ve got no money.”