Fatlands (4 page)

It was so dark in there it took me a while to realize there was nothing worth buying. Mattie flicked idly through the rails. She seemed ill at ease, but when I asked her if she was looking for anything in particular she treated me like a salesgirl, a distinct touch of the get-your-handsoff-me Mattie back again. I left her to it.

Across the shop floor a woman in a chador was fingering
her way through some garish costume jewellery. She appeared to be alone, but then he or she would hardly stand right next to her, would they? I spotted him lurking by a make-up counter opposite, and he didn't look happy. Could be he just didn't like having to be so obvious. Or maybe he thought the job was beneath him. Either way you can see now why Frank passes certain assignments on to me. I looked away. He left it a second, then glanced in my direction, just to check I wasn't someone he should be worrying about. I gave him a wink. He looked right through me. I thought about going over and telling him what a good job he was doing, how no one would know he was there, but it seemed unduly cruel, even for me. After all, we both have a job to do.

When I looked round, Mattie was gone. I went in among the rails, but there was no sign. I checked the changing rooms and the rest of the boutique. After the service station incident I was more pissed off than anxious. Or maybe just disappointed. So when I finally tracked her down at the lifts, doors open, about to step in, I'm afraid I lost it a little.

I grabbed her by the arm and yanked her back. Not the most private place for a public showdown, but there you go. ‘Where do you think you're going?'

She didn't look at me, just tossed her head: Scarlett O'Hara caught trying to wreck another marriage. And pretending she felt OK about it. ‘Downstairs.'

‘Come on, Mattie, you know the deal. You want to go somewhere, I go with you.'

She shook her head angrily. ‘You're not my father. I don't have to ask your permission.'She still hadn't had the grace to look me straight in the eye.

‘Oh yes you do. I'm being paid to look after you, remember?'

She pulled open the zip of her money belt, grabbing a
handful of notes and waving them in front of my face. ‘How much? I'll give you the same again to leave me alone.'

I sighed. We were evidently providing entertainment for the little crowd waiting at the lift. I wondered what they thought. Not mother and daughter, surely. God save me from that. I pushed down her hand. ‘Put it away.' Then louder: ‘Put it away, Mattie.'

I could feel all my good work slipping away. I lowered my voice, keeping it steady. ‘Listen, I know you don't like this. I don't like it, either. But look at it from my point of view. If something happened to you, it would be my fault.'

She closed her eyes tight, more petulance than anger now. ‘I told you. My mother doesn't want me. She's too busy with her lover. It's an excuse. My father's not paying you to protect me. He's paying you to make himself feel better about preferring work to his daughter. You're his guilt money. Just like me.'

Over the top of her head I spotted the bodyguard from the make-up counter, smirking from behind his client's flowing robes. I looked back at Mattie. And my heart went out to her: to be so alone that she was forced to row with someone who was almost a stranger. I put my hand on her shoulder and this time she didn't shrug it off.

‘OK,'I said quietly, ‘OK. Your father's a shit. So let's go spend some of his money, all right?'

She pursed her lips, then nodded. I took her by the arm and we stepped together into the lift. The crowd watched us go. I stood by the lift buttons and turned to her.

‘One,'she said quietly. I raised an eyebrow. She gave a little shrug. ‘Underwear,'she said defiantly.

It struck me later that she hadn't so much wanted her independence as her privacy. Certainly I was impressed
by her sophistication. When I was her age it was Marks & Spencer cotton all the way. Maybe things had changed. I had this vision of Debringham College for Girls as a Cynthia Payne training school with Mrs Parkin as the madam. I even made a joke about it.

She gave me the cockroach look, but not without a certain affection. ‘You don't think this stuff's for me, do you?'she said disparagingly, looking through an unexpected but clearly deliberate hole in a designer piece of satin. ‘It's a present. For Helen …'

Of course. Helen and her gardener. ‘Don't tell me. He's into topiary.'

‘What?'

‘Nothing. It's just in my day the whole appeal of schoolgirls was their grey serge knickers.'

She gave a grin, but you could see that for her it was really a serious business. A costly one, too. The smaller the garment the bigger the price tag. My mind kept slipping back to D. H. Lawrence, too busy with the life force to check out the lingerie prices. Did men really care that much what it was, so long as it came off? Maybe that was my problem: not enough spent on underwear. The last time I had been lingerie shopping it had been a clever device to check I wasn't being followed. Frank's idea, I should add, not mine. I hadn't bought anything that time, either.

Mattie, however, was making out like a bandit. She finally settled for six little numbers. And then, rather charmingly, bottled out at the last minute when it came to paying for them. So I got landed with it, along with a bundle of notes to cover the damage. The woman at the till lifted up each garment to fold it properly. Her face was impassive. On balance it must have been easier than selling condoms. ‘Will it be Fetherlite, or Rough Rider,
Madam?'I stuffed the Harrods carrier into my shopping bag and headed back to Mattie. She stood waiting with an expression caught midway between mischief and pleasure. I was surprised how happy it made me feel to see her so relaxed. ‘Well, let's hope they do the trick,'I said, smiling. She hooked her arm over mine and propelled me towards the exit.

The afternoon was easier. The erotic purchases behind her, she seemed happy to be her age again. It was she who picked the Science and the Natural History museums and there proceeded to dazzle me with her knowledge. Of course, being on first-name terms with the dinosaurs is a prerequisite of childhood, but Mattie was something else again. It was biology mostly, but with enough hard science to have me outmanoeuvred within the first half-hour. Either Debringham College was doing a better job than she was willing to let on or she was a very bright cookie indeed. I wondered if it was her natural bent, or if she had tailored her intelligence to what would impress her father. I just couldn't believe that he wouldn't be interested in finding out.

On the security front I decided to keep an open mind and, more important, open eyes. But no one showed any undue interest in either of us. In the end I think I probably got careless. Although I don't believe that would have made any difference to what happened later. But then that's for you to judge.

We headed off at around 5.00. Her father's place (she insisted on calling it that, rather than home) was in Sutherland Avenue, in one of those gracious, generous houses overlooking communal gardens at the back. In my student days someone I'd known had had a bedsit in one of them. It was the time of the Notting Hill rapist. All I remember were the bars on her windows and the fear of
leaving too late at night. Now it looked different, plush and with less sense of threat. But then now it's my job not to be so scared of everything.

When we arrived she didn't want to get out of the car. I sat for a while trying not to notice, but her aggression made the silence too noisy to stand for long. I put my hand lightly on her sleeve. ‘Come on,'I said gently.

She shrugged me off and opened the door. I let her lead the way. At the top of the stairs an impressive array of locks presented themselves. I looked at her questioningly.

‘He's paranoid,'she said. ‘He got burgled last year.'She rang the doorbell. The housekeeper answered. The hall behind her swung up into a wonderful spiralling staircase, shiny dark mahogany banisters against bright white paint. The whole place looked as if she had recently finished licking it with her tongue, not a hint of dust anywhere, no sign that anyone actually lived there at all. Except maybe the houskeeper. She was a nice enough woman, elderly and a little stout, with a strong face and steel-grey hair styled in one of those pensioners-get-it-cheap type perms. She welcomed Mattie with a hug, which the girl did her best to squirm her way out of, but it was clear they had once been sort of pals.

Mattie stalked off into the living room, a huge double room with windows looking out on to the gardens, and flung her coat and bag on to the sofa in what looked like a blatant attempt to untidy the place. Then she flung herself on top of them. Home sweet home. Even her body language had closed up again. We both watched her from the door, then Mrs Dayley (I kid you not) set off for the kitchen. I trailed after her.

On a spotless table a tray was already laid, tea with cakes on a boldly designed china service. Classy stuff. Shame about the family.

‘She looks thin,'she said as she clattered about with the kettle.

‘I wouldn't know,'I replied. ‘I only met her today.'

She gave a bit of a snort, as if it was my fault. ‘Has she been all right?'

I assumed she was referring to the eight hours we had spent together. ‘Depends what your expectations are,'I said, then regretted my harshness. ‘She's been great. Interesting company.'

‘Good. Dr Shepherd's going to be late.'

‘Ah …'

‘He rang. Asked me to stay on and let you know.'

‘How late?'

‘He said he'll be back by seven. In time to go the theatre.'

Wonderful. So much for the end of my day. Then another thought, even worse, struck me. ‘Who's going to tell her?'She looked at me as if to imply that I was probably earning more than she was. But I had just spent the day perfecting how not to be bullied. ‘I think you know her better than I do.'

She picked up the tray and pursed her lips. As she was on the way out of the kitchen I said quietly, ‘Can I ask you a question, Mrs Dayley? Mattie's mother—I mean … how did she leave?'

She used it to get back at my cowardice. ‘Badly,'she said as she exited.

I waited in the kitchen. From the other room I heard the murmur of voices, then some clumsy bashing of crockery. That's the trouble with tea services, break one cup and the whole set is in trouble. Much better just to go for the mugs that come with petrol coupons. A few moments later the housekeeper came in with her coat on. ‘Poor child,'she said, under her breath. Then up at me, ‘I think it's a crying shame, I really do,'but she sailed out
before I could inquire as to whose shame exactly. I heard the front door slam after her.

In the living room Mattie was now sprawled horizontal on the sofa, the television blaring out in front of her, the remote control on her lap. It was an old film, black and white, Bette Davis with an improbably high forehead and a ruff like a gigantic starched doily—the virgin Elizabeth making up to the Earl of Essex.

‘You know it's only an extra hour,'I said. ‘He'll still be here in time for the theatre.'She ignored me aggressively. ‘What are you going to see?'

‘A play,'she replied in a voice not dissimilar to the one that Ms Davis would use later to crush the Spanish ambassador.

‘Fine,'I said, mad at her despite myself. I sat down on the chair near by and poured myself a cup of tea. She sighed in exasperation at the noise and flicked the sound up a couple more notches. Errol Flynn's whispered passion boomed out across the room. But even at that volume you could see he didn't stand a chance. Less a question of desire than politics. Reverse the sexes and there'd have been no problem. Elizabeth, like her father, could have had her leg over as many times as she wanted. As it was, gender ruled: the queen kept her crown and slept alone.

On the sofa Mattie was doing a good impersonation of watching, but the room was full of her fury. I dragged my eyes away from the screen (I'm a great Bette Davis fan) to look at her. In the end the problem was less her anger than her pain. The poor kid was so storm-tossed, trying not to care. It made her as vulnerable as she was volatile. Maybe that was why no one—her father in particular—had tried hard enough to break through.

‘Mattie,'I said after a while. ‘Maybe it doesn't have to be like this. I mean I know it feels as if he doesn't love you.
But maybe he's as scared of showing it as you are, scared that if he tries to get close you'll push him away. When families smash up, there's so much pain that everyone gets caught in the fall-out.'I paused, she wasn't looking but I knew she was listening. Ah well, I thought, what have I got to lose? ‘I know adults are supposed to cope better than children, but believe me, there are some things that being older doesn't help with at all.'

So it was a little pompous. But that wasn't what blew it. What blew it was the vocabulary.
Children
. I of all people should have known better. Since when had I been a child at fourteen, except to thoughtless adults?

‘Thanks,'she said coolly. ‘You should work for a women's magazine.'

The more they like you the more they know how to twist the knife. That's what Kate always tells me. So Mattie liked me. Big deal. To my surprise I let my disappointment show. She stared at me for a second, then dropped her eyes, gnawing slightly at the bottom of her lip. You could see she was tussling it out with herself, to trust or not to trust. But I think by then she was too deeply into bad habits. She turned her head back to the screen. I did the same. Out through lattice windows an execution block was being prepared. Of course there is a theory that Elizabeth was less the virgin queen than the black widow spider. Either way, poor old Errol.

A few minutes later she stood up and flung the remote on the sofa. ‘I'm going up to my room.'

I thought of stopping her, but decided maybe she'd feel better alone, less exposed. I listened while she climbed the stairs. A door opened and closed. I heard the sound of music, the insistent bass beat thudding through the flat. I looked at my watch. It was 6.15. Outside the daylight was starting to seep away. Something nagged at the back of my brain. Something about the evening that I had forgotten.
But sometimes trying to remember only makes you forget more completely. It would come back to me.