2cool2btrue (32 page)

“Dad, that’s quite a lot of money.”

“I can afford it,” he says defiantly, turning round and watching the TV monitors. I give up on the hope that he’s going to answer the big questions unprompted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He says nothing. I can feel anger and tears welling up inside me but I keep control. “Why didn’t you say when I first got involved with 2cool? You must have been in on the start. You knew all along. Why did you pretend not to know Guy and Piers? No wonder you popped up at the Huntsmans’ thing. You got that first article about it faxed to you in New York. Why have you lied to me?”

When my dad turns to look at me there are tears in his eyes and his jaw is shaking.

“I wanted to protect you. I, I’ve just been caught up in this thing.”

“Caught up in what thing? 2cool? How? Why?”

“Something bigger.”

“What?”

“Charlie, I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask.”

“For God’s sake, Dad, what is it?”

“Never mind. Look why don’t you and Lauren go on a holiday. Get away from it all, now you’ve been cleared and this whole thing is all over. You could go somewhere nice—relax, talk about your relationship—”

“Dad, what’re you talking about?”

“I’ll pay for it.” He opens a drawer and takes out a cheque book. “Remember last year, I went to the Gazelle D’Or with, er…” He starts writing. “With…er…what’s her name? We had a great time. Why don’t you take Lauren there?”

However weird and alien this conversation might seem, I can recognise my father now—practical solutions. Do something. Identify the problem and develop an effective response to it. After all, that’s why those hip funky off-the-wall guys in the offices further down the corridor employed him. That’s why he thought little trips to Thorpe Park would sort out his relationship with his children when his marriage was breaking up.

I watch him write the cheque, tear it out and hold it out to me. It’s for £5,000. Bloody hell, what kind of holiday would that pay for? I look up at him. He has blinked back the tears and his face is set with a positive, upbeat look. It must be killing him. I take the cheque and put it down on the desk between us.

“I don’t want to talk to you again until you tell me the truth,” I say and walk out of the office.

O
ut in the street again I ring Nora at the office. Someone else answers, sounding rather hassled, and snaps at me that she’s not there, could I call back later? I end the call without saying anything and then try her mobile. Voice mail. I leave a message for her to ring me immediately.

I walk around the streets of Mayfair for a while thinking. There are smart offices in old houses with brass nameplates below the entry phones. Some of them are just surnames or initials—solicitors? PR companies? Accountants? Others have more obvious names such as West African Oil Exploration Inc. or Anglo American Data Solutions Ltd.

I make my way down to Green Park tube and go home to Chiswick. I potter around trying to decide what to do. Then I pour myself a whisky and then lie in the bath where I can think. A couple of times I think I hear Lauren’s key in the lock for some reason and I sit up.

As well as being angry with my dad, I also feel very sorry for him. Watching your father cry is a weird experience. He’s seen me cry thousands of times when I was a kid. A kid? I bawled my eyes out when I discovered that that cow Karen Sutton was seeing my mate Tony behind my back and I was sixteen then.

Having the roles reversed is strange, though. Like when you realise for the first time that your parents are not the all-knowing omnipotent beings you thought they were, like when you explain to
them
how some bit of technology works or what something means that they’ve read in the paper or when you say good night to them but they’re the ones who are going to bed.

When the father helps the son, both smile. When the son helps the father, both cry. It’s a Chinese saying, I think. Watching your father cry while you’re dry eyed is even worse.

You sort of assume that a wealthy man behind a big desk is safe but perhaps not. Oh, Dad, what is it? Why can’t you tell me? What have you done? Something illegal? Criminal? No, surely not. Did you just get a bit greedy? Has someone got something on you? If so, what? And what—or who—are you protecting me from? I slip under water and stay there as long as I can manage. When I come up, my mobile is ringing.

I reach across to the towel rail and dry my hands and then pick up the phone. It’s a breathless Nora, obviously out on the street.

“I’ve just been talking to Piers. We’ve had a long, long talk. He’s been talking, really talking. Spilled his guts, man. I had to bully it out of him—told him I’d tell everyone where he was—but, my God, what a story! I know why all those people including your—I know why they haven’t sued.”

“Why not?”

“Because he and Guy have got something on them.”

“Blackmail?”

“That’s what I said and Piers said ‘What an ugly word’ or something. He called it ‘encouragement.’”

“So what has he got on them?”

Nora laughs hysterically.

“You won’t believe it. Let’s just say it’s about badgers again.”

“Badgers?”

She laughs again.

“Yeah, look, we’re going to a party again tomorrow night.”

“Nora, what are you talking about?” I’m hanging over the edge of the bath now. “What did he say about my dad?”

“He and Guy
do
know your dad. It most certainly
was
Guy who rang for your dad.”

“Yeah, I know, I spoke to Dad this afternoon.”

“Oh, right! What did he say?”

“He told me he was involved in something, something more than just 2cool.”

“That would be it!” says Nora. “Charlie, this is huge.”

That phrase again. I shiver in the steaming bathwater.

“Stop saying that. What have you found out?”

There is a rustle of fabric and a muffled cry.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” I hear Nora say. “Are you all right?”

“What’s going on?”

She comes back to me.

“Sorry about that, bumped into someone. So, what else did your dad say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“He just suggested I…Lauren and I go on holiday.”

“On holiday? What? The two of you? Really?” The suggestion seems to bring her down to earth for a moment. “Are you going to?” she asks quietly after a while.

“No, I don’t think that’s very likely.”

“Really?”

“No.” I know she wants me to say more but I can’t.

“Oh, I see.” I listen to hear her walking for a moment—more slowly now.

“Anyway, what’s this party?”

“It’s in Mayfair. Lots of people, famous people,” she says, her excitement growing again.

“What’s it got to do with 2cool?”

“Everything,” she says, the old Nora coming back. I can visualise her wicked grin.

“What do you mean?” She says nothing but I can still hear the sounds of the street around her.

“You’ll find out. Now, where shall we meet? Um, let me think. I know. The bar of the Metropolitan Hotel in Park Lane. At 8:30
P.M
. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“See you then, babe.”

I drop the phone on the floor and slump back in the bath.

I sleep fitfully that night rehearsing over and over in my mind the various conversations that I could have with Lauren when she gets back. I know that whatever I say to her she will somehow be able to top or knock down in debate. Perhaps it’s because she so good at that sort of thing or perhaps it’s because she really is just right.

I’m also thinking of what Nora said. The party. Guy and Piers knowing my dad. I begin to dial his number a couple of times and then stop. He can ring me when he’s ready to tell the truth about what he’s been up to. Then I’m back to thinking about Lauren and what I’m going to tell her.

By six thirty I give up on sleep altogether and get out of bed. I go into the kitchen and begin to make some coffee but somehow the smell makes me feel sick. It’s too early and I’m feeling jittery enough already. If only I knew what time she would be back. It occurs to me that the health club down the road is open now. I’ve never been at this time of day before—why would I?

I get dressed quickly, grab my swimming trunks and a towel and set off. Even though it’s not yet seven, Chiswick High Road has swung into life—shops open, people getting onto buses, cafe staff putting out chairs. I walk into the club where the girl smiles at me, swipes my card and buzzes me in. There is one other bloke in the pool, ploughing up and down monotonously. I follow suit.

By eight I’m back home where I have a shower and a shave and make some more coffee. I open a copy of
The Post
which I bought. Only after I’ve read it right through to the sport do I realise to my great relief that there is no mention of 2cool anywhere in it.

Pottering around the flat, trying to guess at what time Lauren might be home, my mood ranges from one of deep depression to agonising confusion to a strange sense of calm detachment. I’ll see what Lauren has to say, decide how I feel when I see her and we’ll just take it from there. I clear the place up, as much to give myself something to do as to try and please her.

I nip out later and buy some food. I use my 2cool credit card which, to my surprise, seems to go through the system okay. I am aware as I’m signing the receipt that I’m probably breaking the law but such is my state of numbed preoccupation that I really don’t mind if I go to jail. Anyway, they offer all kinds of welfare services and emotional support to prisoners these days, don’t they? Maybe I could get some advice on what to do about my life.

As I put my key in the door, my heart starts racing. I double locked it before I went out, didn’t I? No, maybe not. Anyway, she’s not there. I eat some bread and pâté and tomatoes out of their packets for lunch. I decide not to have a glass of wine so that I can keep my head clear. Then I laugh at the idea of being clear about anything at the moment. I put the rest of the food away and then go and see what is on TV. There’s an old Western with John Wayne. I lie down and begin to watch it.

For some reason—perhaps it’s the noise of the gunfire—I don’t hear her key in the front door and so one minute I’m just staring at the TV, thinking about her and the next minute she is there, standing in the doorway of the living room. I notice her first in the mirror. I get up slowly and face her. She is tanned and beautifully dressed as always, but her eyes look like she’s been crying quite a bit and not sleeping much.

She looks at me for a moment in silence and then mutters something about putting her bag in the bedroom. I nod and stay where I am. She is back moments later, saying something else.

“Sorry?” I whisper.

“I was going to make a cup of tea, would you—?”

“Yes, oh, yes, please. Are you hungry? I’ve just been to the store and there’s masses of food—some fruit and some nice bread—” But I’m gabbling.

“Erm, no, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Sit down, I’ll get the tea.”

She comes into the room to let me pass and I go out into the kitchen, trying to work out from what I have seen so far whether we can make a go of it again or whether we simply need to discuss the mechanics of splitting up.

I come back with cups of tea for both of us and she asks:

“So, how are you?”

“Okay, thanks. You?”

“Not bad.”

“How was France?”

She looks slightly surprised by the question. She did go to France, didn’t she? I look enquiringly at her. She looks down at her mug.

“It was very nice. Lovely, thanks.”

We sit in silence realising that there is no point in continuing this small talk.

“Lauren, we—”

“Charlie, I’ve been thinking—”

It’s all I need to hear. I know from her tone that she has made up her mind to end it. I feel shocked but relieved at the same time.

“Oh, right. Okay.” I stand up and take a deep breath.

“I haven’t said—”

“You don’t have to.”

“Charlie…” Her face creases and she begins to fight back tears. I can’t bear to see her like this, I keep wanting to hold her but I know I can’t anymore. I turn away and look at the TV. “I love you, I probably always will but…”

“Have you met someone else?” I realise that I want her to say yes for the sake of my conscience.

“No.” She sounds surprised. “No. And there was nothing like that going on between Peter and me, in case—”

I laugh.

“I know.”

“How do you mean?” She isn’t laughing.

“I found him in bed here with a young guy.”

“Oh, right. I said he could borrow the flat. I didn’t think you’d be back.”

“Neither did he.”

There is a long silence between us.

“I’m sorry I thought you and Peter were having an affair,” I say at last. “I made a fool of myself because of it. And I’m sorry I slept with Nora.”

“Are you?” she says quietly.

“Sorry? Well, yes I…” But even as I’m saying it I’m not sure that I am. I’m sorry I was unfaithful to Lauren—she didn’t deserve to be treated like that—but I’m not sure that I’m sorry beyond that. Sleeping with Nora was special, it felt right when I did it and somehow it even feels right now. Lauren obviously understands what my trailing off, my pausing for thought means.

“The thing is, Charlie, you’ve changed. Since you’ve been involved in this whole crazy 2cool thing I hardly recognise you. You’ve shut me out, ignored my advice.”

“Your
advice?”
I laugh irritably. “Is that what you think I need?”

“We just don’t talk any more. You don’t even want to listen to me.”

“Lauren, I told you why I wanted to see this thing through, what I wanted to do. Yes, I have changed—and I’m glad I’ve changed. I’m not ashamed of it. I want something else in life now.”

There is silence for a moment then she says what I’m thinking:

“And I’ve changed too, Charlie, I want something else too.”

We’ve both changed, become different people. We both want other things. That’s it. There’s no better reason for ending it.

I’ve been sitting at a cafe in the High Road fingering my mobile and trying to work out who I want to talk to when I find myself ringing Nora at the office. Am I the bearer of good news for her? It doesn’t feel like it. I want to talk to her though. Inevitably I get some rude, hassled colleague who snaps that she’s not there. I try her mobile and get her voice mail. When the beep comes I can’t think of what to say to her other than that I do want to go to the party tonight, after all. I get the feeling that if I even mention Lauren’s name to her I’ll break down.

It’s not that I don’t want to break down in front of her, it’s just that if I do, I want her to be alone with me, somewhere quiet where we can talk and hold each other.

My mind is flooded with the consequences of splitting up with Lauren. We’ll have to tell people. We’ll have to sort out the flat. Our flat. Weirdly it’s the small practical things that I keep thinking about, that make me almost ache with unhappiness. The thought of Lauren packing up her things in our flat. Undoing our life together. The end of our little rituals.