The Queen of New Beginnings (5 page)

The simplest thing could set them off, such as a disagreement over who was the greatest living artist. “Hockney?” Alice’s father would roar with incredulity as if his wife had suggested Donald Duck. “You can’t be serious!” They would hurl themselves into a screaming match, sometimes throwing things at each other, not caring what they were smashing or what physical injury they might inflict. During one argument, Alice’s father caught a hardback edition of
Roget’s Thesaurus
full in the face and ended up with a bag of frozen peas pressed to his swelling eye. An hour later they were laughing and joking in each other’s arms and skulking upstairs to their bedroom for a kiss and make up session.

Less than a year later, the same headmistress who had informed Alice that her mother was dead informed her that she now had a stepmother.

Her father had by now established a habit of delivering good and bad news by proxy.

At first, Clayton thought it was his mobile. But the ringtone—the sound of an old-fashioned telephone ringing—wasn’t coming from his phone, but from the one on the kitchen table next to Katya’s bag. He decided to be helpful. He took the mobile and went to look for her, following the noise of the vacuum cleaner.

By the time he’d tracked her down his bedroom—he couldn’t think what she’d found in there to hoover up—she’d only done it a few days ago—the mobile had stopped ringing. She looked surprised that he’d gone to so much trouble. “Thank you, mister,” she said, taking it from him.

“Sorry I wasn’t fast enough,” he said.

He watched her check to see who had called and saw her trying but failing to suppress a smile. It was a smile of undisguised delight. The mobile started to ring again. He left her to answer it.

But something made him hover halfway down the stairs. It was the fact that the phone was still ringing, that she hadn’t answered it straight away. And then the bedroom door closed.

It was wrong what he did next. Wholly wrong. But he was curious. He wanted to know what or who had made her smile in the way she had. He crept back up the stair and went and listened at the door. Initially he couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing. Katya was speaking perfect English.
Proper
English. Queen’s English. There wasn’t a trace of foreign accent to her voice.

Holy hell, she was no more Latvian that he was! What the devil was she up to?

• • •

Alice switched off her mobile. She punched the air and danced a little jig. James Montgomery had called to invite her to have lunch with him. Oh, yes! The girl was hot. Hot, hot,
hot!

• • •

Downstairs, Clayton debated with himself what to do next. Challenge Katya the moment she finished cleaning upstairs—was Katya even her real name?—or wait and see just how much further she would take this charade?

Agitated, he paced the length of the room. Something strange was going here. But what exactly? Why would she pretend to be foreign, go to such lengths to conceal her true identity?

Then it hit him. And the thought chilled him to the bone. She was a journalist! She was pretending to be a Latvian cleaner just so that she could get some kind of a scoop on him.

Now it was his turn to close the door and talk in private. He called Glen. But Glen wasn’t answering his mobile.

What should he do? He raked his hands through his hair. Should he call the police? And say what? If he did get the police involved, it would come out who he was and then he’d have God only knew how many other journalists banging on the door. That was going to happen anyway. Whatever he did he was screwed. Either way—whether he challenged the girl or continued to play along—she was going to write a humiliating piece about him. That was a dead cert.

All he could be grateful for was that he had sussed her before she’d got anything out of him. As things stood, what did she have so far? That he was calling himself Mr. Shannon and was staying in a house in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t much of a story, was it? But that could be worse for him. No story meant the newspaper would make one up.

One thing was for sure: he had to get rid of her. He would have to do it with good grace. He would have to say something like, “No hard feelings, but I’ve sussed what you’re up to; the show’s over. Please leave me alone.” If he displayed any kind of anger, he would be portrayed as unbalanced. A nut job.

Well guess what, right now, this very minute, he did feel unbalanced!

A knock at the door made him jump. He steadied himself with a deep breath, went to the door and opened it.

There she was staring back at him. As cool as you like. “I go for shopping now,” she said, hitching her bag onto her shoulder. “You have list? I see you have only little shampoo. You want me get you some?”

The sound of her fake bad English was too much. “No,” he said, “I don’t have a list for you and I don’t want any shampoo. But I’ll tell you what I do want, and that’s for you to go.”

“I sorry,” she said, a startled look on her face. “I no understand.”

“I think you understand all too well,” he replied, “so do us both a favour and drop the act. I know you’re no more from Latvia than I am.”

Her face blushed crimson and her gaze wavered. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes; she was weighing up how best to proceed. She readjusted the bag on her shoulder.

“Let me help you,” he said. “I know exactly what you’re really doing here. How about you just get your things and go? I’m sure you’re disappointed you haven’t got the story you hoped for, but I’m equally sure you’ll fill in the blanks where necessary. For the record, which newspaper are you from?”

“Newspaper?” she repeated, her gaze back on his again. “Why do you say that?” But at least she had dropped the fake accent.

“You know what? I’m surprising myself here at just how calm I’m being, but please don’t test my patience any further. I’ll ask you again: which newspaper do you write for?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I don’t write for a newspaper.”

“I’m using the term ‘write’ loosely. You put words one after the other and sometimes they even make sense. Sound familiar to you?”

“Um…look, this is getting a bit weird. Do you think we could sit down so I can apologize properly and try and explain why I did what I did?”

“An apology from a journalist? That’s a first.”

“You think I’m a journalist?”

“I think you’re a lot of things, but the word journalist will suffice for now.” He stepped away from the door. “Be my guest. Come on in and make yourself at home. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t sit down; I may need to rush to the nearest loo to be violently sick if your apology is too much to take.”

He watched her go over to the sofa, but she seemed to change her mind, and skirting round the back of it, she went to the fireplace. Perched on the worn green leather of the club fender, she looked up at him. “Usually I don’t get found out. What gave me away?”

“I heard you talking on your mobile.”

“You eavesdropped on me? That’s outrageous.”

“Hey, you’re in no position to try and take the moral high ground.”

She sighed. “You’re right. The thing is, I used to be an actress, now I do voice-over work, and sometimes I can’t help myself; I just love slipping into a character. I hadn’t intended to do it when I turned up here to work for you, but it was…” she hesitated. “Well, can we just say extenuating circumstances made me do it?”

“No we cannot!” he snapped. “And frankly, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that load of bull before I accept your apology.”

“I’m telling you the truth. And if you hadn’t been so rude to me when you opened the door I might not have got myself into this mess.”

“Oh, this gets better and better. Now it’s my fault.” He laughed bitterly. “Where have I heard that before?”

“You’re not a very happy man, are you?”

“My happiness has got nothing to do with you.”

She shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“No you weren’t. You were looking for a way to make me open up to you. Well, forget it. I’m not that stupid. Confide in a journalist? I’d sooner stick a wasp up my arse!”

She shrugged again. “Each to his own. Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t think you’ve figured how this works. I’m the one asking the questions.”

Ignoring him, she said, “Why do you think I’m a journalist?”

“Because what else could you be? Certainly not an actress.”

She sat up straight. “Don’t you go disparaging my acting skills. Not when I convinced you every step of the way that I was Katya from Latvia. I was acting my socks off there. But you know what intrigues me?”

He rolled his eyes. “I can’t begin to think.”

“The question I keep asking myself is why you think a journalist would be so interested in you, to the extent she would adopt a false identity while shopping and cleaning for you. Who are you? Or more to the point, what have you done that makes you so incredibly newsworthy?”

“Who said anything about me being newsworthy?”

“You with your paranoia, thinking I was a journalist. Which I’m not. I swear it. Hand on heart.”

“Hand on heart,” he mimicked. “You expect me to believe that you’re telling the truth when you’ve done nothing but lie since you showed up here? Don’t make me laugh. By the way, you were breathtakingly rude to me.”

“Yes, I was. Sorry about that. But once I got into the character of Katya, I couldn’t stop myself. She just seemed naturally bossy.”

“Does that mean in the real world you’re nothing like her?”

She smiled. “I spend as little time in the real world as I possibly can.”

“Meaning what exactly? That you’re crazy?”

“Aren’t we all from time to time?”

He faltered in his response as the image of a rabbit’s head—all ten feet of its monstrous circumference grotesquely illuminated—popped into his mind. He blinked and chased the image away. “What’s your real name?” He asked. “In the
real
world?”

“Alice,” she replied. “Alice Shoemaker.”

“Yeah, right, and I’m Michael Shumacher. I’ve never heard a more made up name.”

“All names are made up,” she said indignantly.

“True, but Alice Shoemaker sounds like it was snatched from the ether fifteen seconds ago.”

She rooted in her bag, pulled out a wallet, opened it and crossed the room to him. “See, there’s my driving licence. It clearly states my name.”

It did. And her address. “You’re local? You’re not from London?”

“I’m as local as it’s possible to be. In fact—” She broke off.

“In fact what?”

“I was born in this very house. Upstairs in my parents’ bedroom. I arrived two weeks early in the middle of the night and there wasn’t time to get my mother to the hospital. I grew up here.”

Clayton raked a hand through his hair. It was all becoming too much for him. “Have I got this right? Your name is Alice Shoemaker, you used to live here and you’re an actress. So why then, are you keeping house for me? Are times that hard that you clean while you’re ‘resting’?”

“Sorry to correct you, but as I said earlier, it’s voice-over work that I do, not acting per se. And not that it’s any of your business, but times are far from hard for me; I’m doing this job as a favour for my neighbour who runs the cleaning agency.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Prove what? That I’m not strapped for cash?”

“That it’s voice-over work you do and you’re not a journalist.”

“You really are paranoid, aren’t you?” Once more she rooted around inside her bag, pulled out her wallet again. “There,” she said, “my equity card. Satisfied now? Or would you like to speak to Ronnetta who runs the cleaning agency? She’ll corroborate everything I’ve told you. Well, except the bit about me having grown up here. She doesn’t know that.”

“And the reason why not?”

“It’s complicated and nothing to do with you,” she said.

“Excuse me, but I think it’s got everything to do with me. You’ve been working here under false pretences.”

She stuck out her chin. “So shoot me!”

“Please don’t tempt me!”

Shoulders squared, they glared at each other, the atmosphere between them suddenly scorched with hostility.

Then Clayton lost it. For no real reason he could think of, he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed. He laughed so much his sides and jaw ached and he had to collapse onto the sofa.

• • •

Unnerved, Alice didn’t know what to make of this strange man now sprawled on the sofa. “Are you all right?” she asked when his manic laughter finally subsided.
All right?
What was she saying? The man was deranged! He was probably a raging psycho! She had to be a few screws loose herself still to be in the same room as him. Especially as she’d just invited him to shoot her.

“Couldn’t be better,” he said. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands.

Dear God, was he crying? “Look,” Alice said, inching away from him and towards the door and safety. “I’d better be going.”

“No!” he said, snapping forward.

She stepped further away from him. “I’ve caused enough trouble here for you. I’ll get my things and go.”

“No,” he said, “don’t go.”

Now he really was creeping her out. “You were very clear about wanting me go to a short while ago.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He sat up, wiped his eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he said, hauling himself to his feet. “I lost it there for a moment. I’ve…I’ve been under a lot of stress recently. I think I need a drink. Have one with me.”

• • •

This was insane! How had she got herself into a situation whereby she was being held hostage by a mad man insisting that she have coffee with him? She had to be glad that it hadn’t been an alcoholic drink he’d had in mind; at least she was spared the prospect of having to fend off a drunken mad man.

As she sat apprehensively at the kitchen table, Alice waited for him to finish fossicking around with the coffee machine. It was one of those complicated-looking machines with buttons and levers that made cappuccino and espresso coffee. It seemed to be taking for ever. She wished he’d opted to use the kettle as he had before.

Eventually he brought two goldfish bowl-sized cups of frothy coffee to the table. “Biscuit?” he asked.

“No thank you.”

“Mind if I do?”

I don’t care what you do, she thought, so long as I get out of here alive. And so long as it isn’t in ten years’ time when I’m found chained and emaciated in the cellar.

Once he was settled at the table and had managed to wrestle open a packet of Jaffa Cakes, she started the process of negotiating her freedom by engaging him in conversation. “Um…you mentioned something about being under a lot of stress recently. Problems at work?”

“Problems with everything would be a more accurate description,” he said glumly. “My life’s hit the skids and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing I can do about it. I’m a cliché in my own lifetime.”

“Oh, we’ve all been there,” she said airily. If he was looking for a sympathetic hostage, he was out of luck.

“But did you have your every misfortune, failure and cock-up written about in the newspapers? Did you have journalists doorstepping you all hours of the day and night?”

Alice thought of her mother’s death and then of the events that took place some years later. There had been a brief flurry of press interest and speculation, but not on the level he appeared to be talking about. “No,” she said, “I can’t say that I have.”

“Then count yourself lucky.”

His tone was morose and it made her wonder. There was something going on here. She had been right to think there was more to him than met the eye. What’s more, she sensed the only hostage sitting round this table was the one opposite her. She took a sip of her coffee. It was surprisingly good. Feeling that she was now the one in control of the situation, she helped herself to a Jaffa Cake. “Having established
my
true identity,” she said, “how about we do the same with you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smiled her best winsomely enticing smile, the same smile she would be putting to good use during lunch with James Montgomery tomorrow.

He looked at her strangely. “You’ve got—” He flapped his hand vaguely across his top lip, “coffee froth on your…” His voice trailed away.

She wiped her mouth. So much for winsome and enticing. “What did you find so hysterically funny earlier?” she asked.

He shifted awkwardly in his seat, closed his eyes. They stayed closed for some moments as if he were in pain. When he opened them, he said, “I think it was the absurdity of it all. That and remembering something Beckett once said, that there’s nothing funnier than unhappiness. Haven’t you ever thought how futile and ludicrous life is sometimes, and that if you don’t take refuge in laughter you’ll end up in a far worse place?”

“That’s quite profound.”

“What can I say? I’m a profound kind of guy.”

A profoundly unhappy guy, she thought. “Shall I tell Ronnetta that she needs to find a replacement for me? I don’t know how long it will take—she’s short-staffed at the moment. Which is why you landed up with me. She scraped the barrel and there I was.”

A silence fell between them.

“I’d rather not have anyone else,” he said after a lengthy and uncomfortable pause.

“Will you be able to manage on your own?” she asked, surprised. “What about your shopping? How will you do that without a car? You could walk, I suppose. It’s over three miles to the nearest shops, though. You could always use a taxi. I can recommend a good firm to you.”

He picked up his coffee cup and looked at her uneasily over its rim. “I thought maybe you could keep coming.”

“Even though I lied to you and you think I’m untrustworthy?”

“Who’s to say the next person won’t lie to me? But at least I know you.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong. You know my name, my profession, that I grew up here, and that I live locally. But that’s all. You don’t know
me
from a bar of soap.”

“Wrong. I know that you take your coffee without sugar—sorry, by the way, about the sugar I put in it the other day. I know that a certain man called James makes you smile and turns you pink at the edges, and that you’re probably unhappy with your life the way it is. Maybe you never have been happy with it. Oh, and I also know that you’re thirty-one years old.”

“That’s nothing but a load of supposition and guesswork.”

“You think so? How old are you, then?”

She frowned. “OK, you got that right. But how?”

“Your driving licence.”

“Mm…you’re sharper than you look.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“The beard—it’s a new thing for you, isn’t it?”

“It could be.”

“I think you probably look better without it. Maybe even younger. Are you hiding behind it? Just as you’re hiding here at Cuckoo House?”

“Have another biscuit and be quiet.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

He didn’t say anything.

“I won’t tell anyone. I’m very good with secrets. Just as long as I’m in on them.” She gave him what she hoped was a deep, dark, penetrating look.

“That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”

“In the nicest possible way.” She leaned across the table and smiled. “Tell me who you are. Please.” Back to being winsome and enticing. Good cop, bad cop all rolled into one: how good was she?

“And if I don’t?”

“You’ll have to manage on your own.”

He face twitched with something that could have very nearly passed for a smile. “I think I preferred it when you were Katya. She wasn’t half so manipulative.”

“You only saw the good side of her.”

“And which side of you am I currently seeing?”

“Oh, definitely my good side. Believe me, you don’t want to see my bad side. Why did you say you thought I was unhappy with my life the way it is?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who isn’t a journalist.”

She drummed her fingers on the table. “Waiting for your answer.”

“It’s obvious: why else would you choose, and I quote,
to spend as little time in the real world as possible
, if you were happy with it?”

Ouch, thought Alice. “And what about you? Are you happy with your lot as you sit here in a strange house wearing a strange comedy beard?”

“Don’t forget the strange girl I’m sitting with.”

She drummed her fingers again. “And waiting once more.”

“I’ve been happier,” he admitted.

It would be difficult not to have been, she thought. “Well,” she said, “this has been tremendous fun but I really ought to be going.” She stood up, took her cup and saucer over to the dishwasher.

“What about my shopping?” he asked.

She closed the dishwasher and looked at him, determined to try one last shot at reeling him in. There was a mystery here and by hook or by crook she wanted to get to the bottom of it. “You know deal, mister. You tell Katya the truth, then she shop for you.”

He let out a short bark of a laugh. “Not even in the game, kid. I’ll walk.”

She switched back to Alice again. “Sure you will. All three and a half miles there and all three and a half miles back. With those big heavy bags. In the rain. In the wind. And the snow. We often get snow here in November.”

“I’ll ring for a taxi.”

“And he or she will help to keep the house clean for you? Come on, let me help you. Tell me who you really are.”

“We seem to be stuck in a rut here. Backwards and forwards we go but never getting anywhere.”

“I hate to break the bad news to you but that well of cynicism will dry up one day.”

“But it’s working a treat for me now; it’s what makes me so cute and adorable.”

“If you say so. If there isn’t anything else I can do for you, I’ll be going. Enjoy your stay here.” She pulled on her coat and began gathering together her cleaning things.

“How does it feel?” he said.

She stopped what she was doing. “How does what feel?”

“Being back in this house, where you grew up?”

“You have no idea.”

• • •

From the window of the room he’d claimed as his den, Clayton watched the small red car drive away. Well, he thought. That’s that, then.

He retraced his steps to the kitchen. Lunch. He needed something to eat. A sandwich. A nice cheese and pickle sandwich. He opened the bread bin and found a solitary crust.