When in Rome... (26 page)

“It went missing?” I ask in as casual a manner as I can muster.

“Yes. I just can’t understand it. I had it, and now it’s gone. But it’s worse than that. I think someone’s trying to set me up. Someone has actually been searching through my files—when I started to boot up my computer this morning, it had already been turned on and not shut down properly. And now my firm suspects that I’m trying to bury evidence. They got a tip yesterday that I’d been blackmailing Mike and demanding money in return for “losing” the disk. And money’s been appearing in my account. I didn’t even notice. My firm thinks I’m a criminal, Georgie. This morning they had the police in.”

He looks like he’s going to cry. “It’s looking really bad. I’m not sure how I’m going to get out of this.”

The waiter comes over to take our order and David stops talking. He stares out of the window, trying to compose himself. I ask if we can have a few more minutes. Seeing the state David’s in, the waiter backs away quickly.

Everything has gone hideously pear-shaped. If what David says is true, then Mike has been lying to me. Which would be nothing particularly new. But if Mike has been lying to me, then what I have done is . . . more terrible than anything in the world. Suddenly I start to feel sick and now I’m the one who’s sweating as I piece together the events of the past month.

“How . . . how long did you say you’ve been following Mike?” I’m trying to sound perfectly normal, but my voice is cracking.

“About six months in all, I think. I’ve been on the case for about a month.”

“So, what, you joined the case about the time we bumped into Mike?”

“A couple of weeks before.”

“And he would have known, he would have been aware, that you were on to him when we bumped into each other.”

“Yes, yes. Look, that isn’t important. The thing is, I think someone I know may be trying to frame me. Someone must be working with Mike. I just can’t work it out.”

I think I might be about to faint. All I can think about is the package Mike gave me to carry to Rome; the disk I stole from David; the phone call in Italy from Mike’s “family.” Everything is going black. But I’m not fainting. I’m just realizing how stupid, how utterly stupid and horrible I’ve been. I want the ground to swallow me up.

“It was me.”

I say it quietly. All my muscles are tense as I wait for David’s reaction.

He looks at me strangely.

“What do you mean, it was you?”

I am very hot and uncomfortable.

“It was me who took the disk.” I’ll leave the money issue to one side for now. I mean, David doesn’t need to know that, right?

David’s face is deathly white. I can feel my skin go all prickly and I feel like I’m somewhere else watching this episode played out by a body double. It’s far too awful to be really happening.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says in a strangled voice. “How could it be you?”

“Mike told me you were trying to frame him because you were jealous. I thought you might get into trouble. Mike told me that you’d do anything to stop him being a success, and I didn’t want your firm to find out . . .”

David takes in a sharp breath and doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. Then his eyes narrow. He looks up at the ceiling as if he’s trying to count to ten before saying anything.

“You took the disk?”

I nod glumly.

“And you still have it?”

I shake my head, even more glumly.

“Where the fuck is it?

“I sent it to him.”

“You sent it to him.” I don’t think it’s a question, so I don’t answer. It’s like when I used to be bollocked by a teacher at school. Saying anything just works against you. Better to stay silent and stare at the floor. I look up quickly to see David’s expression. His face has blackened. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry.

“You stupid, stupid girl.”

He is almost shuddering with rage. My nails are digging into my palms as I fight to remain calm.

“You do realize what you’ve done?”

I look back down at my plate.

“Mike said you were fabricating evidence against him, said you were jealous of him . . .” I trail off. It all sounds so implausible now. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to believe him.

“He said I was jealous of him.”

I almost think David is going to start laughing, that we can start joking about how stupid I’ve been, but then I see that his eyes are still flashing with anger.

“I told you not to talk to him. I asked you not to have any contact with him. And instead, you merrily let him feed you a whole load of bullshit, which you believed. You believed that fucking prick and thought that you would wreck the bloody case, wreck my career, and probably wreck my entire life. Just who the fuck do you think you are, Georgie?”

I fight hard to keep tears from pricking my eyes.

“It’ll be okay, though, won’t it?” I look beseechingly at David, desperately hoping that there will be a solution, a way out. “I’ll tell your employers what I did. They’ll understand, won’t they?”

David’s eyes are cold and hard.

“You do realize what you’ve done, don’t you? It’s called aiding and abetting. It’s illegal, you know. If you tell the police that you stole a disk from me, they probably won’t believe you, and if they do, you’ll be the one with a criminal record.”

He puts his head in his hands.

“Of all the people. I just can’t believe it was you.”

A huge lump has been developing in my throat for the past ten minutes and I know that within about thirty seconds big fat tears will be cascading down my cheeks. I can’t bear to cry in front of David, can’t bear for him to see how utterly pathetic I am. I have doubted and betrayed him and he might even go to prison, and it is all completely my fault. Everything.

Grabbing my bag, I stand up and run out of the restaurant. Outside, I crumple on the pavement, ignoring concerned passersby as I bawl my eyes out. My throat is hurting, my eyes are red and raw, and still the tears come. David is right. I am a stupid, stupid girl and I don’t deserve him. I suppose there is some justice in the world after all—after what I’ve done, he’ll never want to see me again.

I manage to stand up and start walking down the street toward Green Park Tube station. The last thing I want now is for David to leave the restaurant and find me wailing on the pavement. I can barely walk straight, but I need to get home and work out a plan. Somehow I have got to get David out of trouble. And somehow I have got to make sure that Mike pays for what he has done. My mind racing, I hail a cab. Once I’m sitting down, I have another thought, and I reach for my mobile phone.

My mother is waiting for me at the door as the cab pulls up. “You look a mess,” she says matter-of-factly as she gives me a perfunctory hug and leads me into the kitchen where a hot cup of tea is waiting. “I would have preferred wine, but I know what you and David are like when it comes to tea,” she explains.

At the mention of his name I nearly start crying again, but I don’t seem to have any tears left. I sit down, and wait for her to join me. And then I tell her everything.

I tell her about Rome, about seeing David with his colleague and how I thought he might have been having an affair. I tell her about Mike, about Candy and the baby. I tell her about David at the restaurant, about the police. It takes about an hour, and by the end I feel almost purged.

I take a sip of tea and look up expectantly. This is where my mother always comes into her own—ask her for advice and she manages to sort your life out and anyone else who happens to be around. She will be able to tell me exactly what to do. She always has done in the past. But now, right when I need her, she seems to have nothing to say.

For a good five minutes she just sits and looks at me. And then she says “Georgie, David is right, you know. You are very stupid.”

Great. I mean, I knew that already. I have enough people telling me how stupid I am. What I’m looking for here is someone to tell me how I can get out of this god-awful mess. If I can’t turn to my mother in my hour of need, who can I turn to?

“You know,” my mother continues, “you have to grow up and realize what you have. If you keep letting yourself get sidetracked, you’re going to lose everything that matters and you’ll be left with absolutely nothing.”

“I am grown-up,” I mutter.

“If you’re so grown-up, then why are you here telling me about how terrible everything is instead of focusing on the real issue?”

“But this is the real issue,” I shout. “I love David, he hates me, and I want to get him back.”

“No, Georgie.” My mother stares at me the way she used to when I was little and had done something really bad. I feel about five again. “The real issue is that a really good man, who has only ever been wonderful to you, is in real trouble, and it’s your fault. And another man, who has only ever been a complete time waster, is going to get away with a great deal of money that belongs to other people. And that is also partly your fault. If you can stop, for just one moment, thinking about yourself, then there may be a chance that you can do something about this terrible state of affairs. So stop trying to work out how you can get David to like you again, and instead try to work out a way to get him out of the mess that you have got him into.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. It’s just that right now I don’t want to know that she’s right. I want her to give me a hug and put me to bed and tell me that everything will be okay. I was hoping she’d just be able to make a few phone calls—to the police, to David’s bosses, telling them that it was all a bit of a mix-up, and probably best not to mention it again, particularly in front of me. I have a sinking feeling, however, that this particular mess is going to take more than a couple of phone calls to make things right again. I swallow my pride, and look up at my mother beseechingly. “Will you help me?”

==================================

ABC Amber LIT Converter v2.02

==================================  20

We’re sitting outside Mike’s flat in my mother’s battered Mini. Well, not exactly outside his flat, more opposite and along a bit, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. My mother is dressed as a cleaning lady. (I’m not convinced that white linen trousers and an apron with red poppies all over it constitutes typical cleaning lady dress, but my mother is in no mood for questions.) James, who has driven us there, is looking extremely uncomfortable. My mother refused to let him bring the Jag because it would stand out, but I can’t help thinking that James looks so wrong in a Mini that anyone looking at us would be convinced we were up to something. And a Jag would hardly stand out in St. John’s Wood, whereas a Mini looks completely out of place. But what do I know?

“Call him,” instructs my mother, and I take out my mobile. As expected, Mike’s home phone rings until the answerphone picks up.

“I told you. He’s in the office waiting for the disk to arrive. He won’t be coming round here for ages, if at all.” I wish Mum would just take my word for it sometimes.

“Right, I’m going in.”

Mum lets herself out of the car and walks purposefully down the road. She takes a bunch of keys out of her apron pocket and lets herself into Mike’s house, taking a quick look around her before going in.

“And Mike’s not going to notice that his keys are missing?” James asks me.

“No! He’s in a meeting.”

It wasn’t too difficult getting Mike’s keys. I popped into his office to assure him that the disk would be arriving “any minute” and just accidentally on purpose picked his keys up off his desk on my way out. He’s always losing things so he’ll never notice. If all goes according to plan he will be sitting at his trendy round desk for the next few hours wondering when the postman is going to arrive with the envelope. Which gives us plenty of time. All we need to do is to pick up the disk from his flat, where I actually sent it, and then I can get the keys back to Mike. Easy peasy.

The Mini is getting increasingly uncomfortable. I’m charged with adrenaline, and being cooped up is torture. James and I don’t have a great deal to say to one another, so we sit, waiting.

Suddenly my mobile rings. It’s my mother.

“You’re going to have to come in,” she tells me. “There are lots of letters here and his desk is covered with papers and I don’t know which ones to take.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “You don’t need papers, just the disk.”

“Darling, I am not going to leave with just a disk. Mike has all sorts of papers here. I’m sure we can find something more interesting than just the disk.”

I can’t decide whether to be terrified that my mother seems intent on searching Mike’s flat, or delighted to have a reason to leave the car. Either way, I have to go in. I give James a quick peck on the cheek and cross the road, looking around me. I know there won’t be anyone looking, but . . . I can’t help feeling like I’m starring in a “Starsky and Hutch” episode as I approach Mike’s building. As soon as I reach the main door, the buzzer goes to let me in. And when I get upstairs Mike’s door opens almost immediately. My package is lying on the floor and I pick it up gratefully, putting it straight in my pocket. I then follow my mother into his study, where piles of paper are all over the floor.

“What a mess!”

“We can tidy up afterward,” says my mother. “Just find what you need.”

I stare at her. “You mean these papers weren’t all over the floor when you arrived?”

“We do not have time to sift through files,” my mother says slowly but firmly. “Now kindly get on with it.”

I start sifting through the papers, but I can’t make head or tail of them. There are investment agreements, letters from banks, business plans, all in piles on the floor. But I have no idea what I need. Banking information must be a good place to start, though, if Mike has been stealing money. I pick up a few credit card statements, but other than proving that Mike eats out a lot, they don’t tell me very much.

“Hurry up!” hisses my mother. “Come on, darling, you work in the City. You must know what these things mean.”

“I do not work in the City,” I say pointedly. “I work in the West End. And I am not a financier. I research stuff.”