All That Mullarkey (36 page)

So they left Gav stabbing at a credit card machine presented on a scalloped silver salver. And Cleo had to listen to indignant and triumphant ‘I told you so!’s all the way back to the office. And it had begun to rain, slanting into their faces and making Liza madder than ever because her pompoms began to wilt.

And then the final straw. When Cleo rushed back to her desk, flustered and apologising to the office in general for being late, Francesca removed her switchboard headset to say, ‘But your husband rang ten minutes after you left, and said you wouldn’t be back this afternoon because you’d developed a bug.’

‘
Ex
-husband!’ Cleo snapped. Tricky bastard. Crafty conniver. Who did he think he could manipulate?

She reached for the Yellow Pages. Now, S … S, for Solicitor.

‘I hate to see you like this.’

Justin looked up dully. ‘If you tell me to cheer up I’ll top myself.’

Shona was in bed. Cleo and Justin sat at opposite ends of the sofa. The television was on to fill the silence while Cleo chewed her pen over a crossword and Justin stared at a book. As far as she could see, he’d been staring at the same page for twenty-five minutes.

‘It’s weird,’ she said. ‘You haven’t smiled in three days.’

He shrugged, still staring at the book.

‘Fancy a beer?’

He shook his head.

‘Coffee?’

‘No.’ After a silence, he added, ‘Thanks.’

The day before had been his thirtieth birthday. He’d condemned any suggestion of a celebration. Cards from family and friends had lain in a sorry heap until Cleo stood them around the room. She made a special dinner of duck in plum sauce, new potatoes and baby sweetcorn and Justin had barely eaten a quarter of his portion.

Cleo tossed her paper onto the table. It slid off the other side. She glared at Justin. ‘You’re letting them win, you realise? They set out to give you a hard time, they’ve devoted untold hours to it, and now they’ve got the satisfaction of watching you squirm.’

Slowly, he looked up. For once, his spectacular eyes were dead. ‘I couldn’t manage a squirm if I had the assistance of two nurses and a zimmer frame. They’ve destroyed me. My life’s black and grey, I feel as if I’m breathing in noxious gas. Each day I have to go into the studio and fart about with trivial projects in an atmosphere thick with suspicion. Everyone knows I’ve done something unspeakable, no one knows what it is. They speculate behind my back.’

Cleo sat up suddenly. ‘You have
not
done something unspeakable – you’ve done nothing at all,’ she cried. ‘And when the police bring your computer back they’ll confirm that.’

With his hand he shaded his face from her eyes. ‘Will they?’

Something cold and horrible clutched Cleo’s insides. ‘Won’t they?’

His voice was defeated. ‘What if they’ve got to my computer and nobbled it? Got into the studio and downloaded this filth, hidden the files for the police to find? I’ll go to prison.’

Her heart began to judder unpleasantly. ‘They couldn’t. Could they?
Could
they?’

He slammed shut his book. ‘I’m beginning to think they could do anything. Just look at the fight, the way they framed me. They’ve obviously got some very heavy friends.’ He shuddered. ‘It’s a nightmare.’

Cleo hitched up the sofa towards him, taking his hand. ‘You’ve got to battle, Justin. You can’t just give in.’

‘Can’t I?’ He lifted her hand, his eyes on their laced fingers. ‘They’ve got me. I can’t fight them because I can’t see them or where the next blow is coming from, they’re invisible, invulnerable. They’re more cunning than me. And they know it.’

Cleo gusted a huge sigh. ‘They didn’t seem particularly ingenious at first, did they?’

He laughed a creaky, bitter laugh, a mockery of the joyful cackle of the old Justin. ‘They got better, with practice.’

‘But don’t let them get the better of you.’

Slowly, as if exhausted, he closed his eyes. ‘Cleo, for God’s
sake
, they already have. They’ve won! Sometimes I look in the mirror at this stranger who gets into knife fights and fantasises over kiddie porn, and I want to set fire to myself.’

Chapter Forty-Three

Monday, and a Powerful Listening workshop. The members of the group were too young and heedless to listen to anything more demanding than James Blunt. The client, a leisure industry giant, had allowed itself to be seduced by the workshop’s groovy write-up instead of analysing what was useful for their employees, and hadn’t been inclined to listen to advice.

Cleo heard her customary bright and interesting tone rattling
out the tried and tested theories, got them going in the role playing, then had to watch them fall about laughing at their own uselessness. Listening wasn’t their thing and they did it
badly. She gritted her teeth and by the time she’d finished with
them they did it better; but very evidently didn’t see the point
and would probably never apply a single thing they’d learnt.

A relief, after such a frustrating day, to leave them behind. Queuing at the roundabout for the Soke Parkway she saw she’d be in good time to fetch Shona from Dora.

Dora and Sean. Sean and Dora; seeming so happy together. Dora was comfortable and content in the ordinary terraced house – in a way she’d never appeared to be in the Posh Pad where Keith now lived alone, except for, according to Gav, a mini harem.

Gav. She’d been trying not to think about his pushiness and how her flesh had shrunk from the contact with his. How things had changed.

It made her wonder whether she’d ever actually been in love with
Gav
– or just what she thought he’d been?

She shook off her introspection the moment her daughter tumbled into her arms, her face alight with the joy of being able to shout, ‘Mummee’s here!’

Cleo folded her arms around the light, tight-knit little body. ‘Hello, sweetie!’

This was love.

It wasn’t about possession or point scoring or getting your own way. It was about coming alive when your loved one walked into the room.

Justin was evidently already home. His car stood outside, the kitchen window was spilling light into a garden of bare twigs and mud. A bit like his life at the moment – no colour and nothing nice.

Cleo carried Shona, the familiar trusting weight snuggled into her side as they stepped into the warmth. Instantly, she was aware of the smell of something good cooking.

Then Justin hurtled through the sitting-room door. ‘
TARRAH
! Tan-tan-
TARRAH
!’

Shona reacted with a fluid ‘har-har-har’ of toddler chuckles like musical notes, while Cleo gasped. ‘You frightened me to death!’

But Justin was beaming, Justin was dancing on the spot, eyes sparkling. ‘GOOD NEWS!’ He snatched Shona from Cleo’s arms and tossed her once, twice, high up in the air. ‘BRILLIANT, FABULOUS, FANTASTICO NEWS!’

Cleo laughed, relief at seeing the lighthouse beam of his smile once more surging through her, but arms hovering as if he might make a mistake and let Shona fall. ‘Tell me.’

He hoisted Shona up onto his shoulders. ‘The CID returned my Mac today – TOTALLY CLEAN! THOSE BASTARDS DIDN’T GET TO IT.’ And then, in a more normal voice, ‘I’m completely cleared of suspicion. And Neil, wonderful, wonderful Neil, called the whole studio together and explained about me being set up and that if he finds out anyone in the studio is anything to do with this vendetta against me, it’ll mean instant dismissal.’ He began to twirl round, Shona, from her shoulder-carry perch, squeaking in delighted fear, fastening little hands tightly under his chin so it looked as if he was wearing a Shona hat.

Cleo was struck by such a hot rush of thankfulness and relief that she had to fight her way out of her coat. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she choked. ‘I’m so
relieved
for you.’ She ventured a brief hug of solidarity.

And then she was clamped against his chest in a one-armed embrace, his voice muffled against her hair. ‘I’ve been so scared –’

She patted his back. ‘I know.’

‘It’s been absolute hell.’

‘But it’s over.’

He gave her one final squeeze and released her. ‘And now we’re going to celebrate.’ He lifted both of Shona’s hands high in the air. ‘Yeahhhh!’

Shona instantly echoed him in her squeaky little toy voice. ‘Yeahhhh!’

It was a lovely evening.

Justin cooked his speciality, chicken and chips, setting a festive table with wine glasses and kitchen-roll napkins. Even Shona drank her apple juice out of a (very chunky) wine glass – messily – and giggled and gargled and banged her tray every time she ran out of chips.

Justin abandoned the dishes into the sink and herded Cleo away. ‘I’ll get up early and do them tomorrow.’ Then produced chocolate eclairs filled with fresh cream.

Shona piped, ‘Oooh, cake!’

Cleo protested, ‘I’ll never eat one of those.’ But did.

Justin devoured his in huge, silly mouthfuls, making yumming noises and rolling his eyes until Shona began to do the same and grew a rhino horn of cream on her nose, nearly choking Cleo with laughter.

Justin played Dire Straits loudly on the stereo and they all danced in a ridiculous, giggling, Men Behaving Badly way, spilling wine all over the orange-and-black carpet when they collided, Shona bouncing and wobbling at their knees.

Finally, Justin put a wilting Shona to bed and Cleo rushed to get the washing-up done but he came stomping into the kitchen to tell her off, pulling her away from the sink with suds up to her elbows and dancing her round in circles as he composed a song that mainly consisted of ‘Justin’s not a pervert, Justin’s not a per-er-er-vert!’

And something clanged in Cleo’s head.

It fell into place so heavily that the kitchen executed an extra spin around her.

She pushed him away, slapping both hands to her mouth, her hair standing up on her neck with horror.

‘What?’ His face was still creased into a great grin, his hair a nest of wild spikes.

Cleo felt her eyes burn as she gazed at his laughing face, his eyes shining with joyful relief. ‘It can’t be.
Can’t
be.’ She covered her eyes, pressed the heels of her hands hard against them until she saw stars. ‘It must be. Oh no.’

She felt his fingers on her wrists, pulling her hands away, the laughter fading. ‘What?’

This was what misery was, chewing you up and spitting you out, washing the bones from your legs. She crashed down into a kitchen chair. ‘When I saw Gav ... He called you a pervert. A man who drools over kids.’

Justin stared.

Cleo coughed up sudden tears. ‘I hadn’t told him anything about it.’

Justin sat down suddenly on the edge of the kitchen table, almost missing. ‘So how did he know?’

Cleo groaned and pounded her temples with her fists. ‘It must be him.’

Chapter Forty-Four

Cleo banged the brass doorknocker, hard. Then again, harder. Shona had been overtired to be left with Liza, but Cleo hadn’t been able to put off this confrontation for an instant. Through the panels of patterned glass she watched a wobbly person shape approaching.

Gav opened the door, shirt collar unbuttoned, tie missing, stocking feet peeping from under his trousers, hair tossed above his eyes. ‘Hello,’ he beamed. ‘This is a great surprise … oh.’

Justin must’ve stepped into view behind her, judging by the way Gav’s face stilled into aversion. Cleo’s throat felt stretched and strained, and she was sickened with guilt. Without speaking, she brushed past Gav and trailed across his rented-house brown cord carpet, aware of Justin’s following footfalls and Gav blustering, ‘What the hell’s going on? What do you think you’re doing?’

Cleo followed the sound of the television into a small, square sitting room containing the furniture that had been hers and Gav’s. And waited to face her ex-husband.

It was difficult. Unthinkable. If she didn’t feel so unbelievably, deeply implicated, she’d find it impossible. She swallowed.

A pale Gav swam into view. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Cleo? And why have you brought this bastard? I’d –’

‘Shut up,’ Cleo snapped. ‘Just shut the fuck up. We know it’s you.’

Shock washed over Gav’s face and he looked suddenly apprehensive. Cleo looked away. Flipped a glance at Justin. His eyes waited.

Silence.

Huddling into her coat, Cleo glanced about the room. Gav’s homecoming routine hadn’t altered. Jacket and tie flung over the back of the sofa, his watch, keys, mobile phone and small change parked in the blue willow-pattern bowl that used to be theirs, on top of the television. She went over. A bowl that, instead of fruit, hosted the miscellany of daily living: a credit card statement, a birthday card waiting to be written, keys. But no second mobile phone. Disappointing. She’d more or less convinced herself that that was where she’d find it.

She rifled her fingers gently through the bowl. And there it was, at the bottom, taking her by surprise: a tiny white oblong of plastic with a small, gleaming, gold square that she knew was the brain and heart for a mobile phone. A SIM card.