Constance (50 page)

The apartment was in darkness. Connie glanced out at the diamond grid of the city, then clicked on the lights.

‘Roxana?’ she called.

Roxana wasn’t at home. They had had one difficult encounter on Connie’s return from Bali, when Roxana had handed over keys for the new locks and blurted out apologies that Connie was too distracted to process, but since then she had made herself invisible.

Connie went down the corridor to Roxana’s room and
looked in. The bed was made, the beach postcard was in its usual place and Connie was reassured by the sight, but she would have liked it even better if Roxana had been there in person. In spite of the mushrooming chaos the girl had caused, Connie found herself wishing for her company. She didn’t work at The Cosmos Club any longer, and she wasn’t with Noah because he was with Bill in Surrey. She hoped that wherever she actually was, she was safe.

In the room that before the burglary had been her office and studio, she studied the place on the desk once occupied by her laptop. The drawers of her cabinets were closed on the ransacked files; she had done that much after the police concluded their cursory investigations.

The red numerals on her landline’s answering function indicated that she had eleven messages.

Connie sighed. She looked at her watch. It was only ten forty.

‘Ange? You’re not in bed, are you?’

‘What? It’s only just past teatime.’ Connie could almost see her I’m-hardcore-me-I-am face, and it made her laugh. Angela was launching into rapid questions and assurances, cutting across Connie’s incongruous giggle.

‘I hope the funeral went all right.’

‘Yes. It was done as these things have to be done.’

‘That’s good, at least. Con, I’m so sorry you’ve got all this shit to deal with as well. I just wanted to say, money’s no problem, I can lend you a couple of grand straight off and if you need more we can work a commission of some sort through the company, I’ve got a commercial coming up that you could…’

‘Angie, Angie, hang on. What are you talking about? Money’s gone out of a couple of my accounts and it seems my credit cards are maxed out, but I’m not quite destitute. Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need a loan…’

‘So what did you mean in that email? You said you were in trouble with money, just cash flow, because you’d been the victim of some fraud, and could I help out for a week or so? You gave the details of a new safe account that you’d set up. Remember?’

Connie sat down.

‘You didn’t transfer any money to it, did you? Please tell me you didn’t.’

‘No. I thought I’d speak to you first. But the money’s yours as soon…’

‘It’s another scam. It’s from them. I think that message has probably gone out to every single person in my email address book.’

‘But the new account’s yours, it’s in your name.’

‘They’ve used my details to set it up, yes, but the access to it will be theirs. As soon as money comes in from anyone I know who falls for it, the account will be emptied and they’ll be off.’

‘You can’t set up an account just like that. Money-laundering regulations.’

‘Angie, I know. But they’ve hacked into my laptop. They’ve got all my account details, all my personal information. They went through my office. They took my UK driving licence with photo ID, they even took my file of utility bills. Of course they can set up another account, that’s the least of it. They’ll probably be in the office tomorrow, trying to sell you the music I was working on. And now it seems they’ve got all my friends and business contacts thinking I’m out on the street, and transferring money so I don’t have to sit on a sheet of cardboard next to the cash machine with a sign reading
homeless and hungry
. Even Seb got the touch from them.’

‘Shit,’ Angie said.

‘What did the email actually say?’

‘I’d have to go and look, to tell you the precise words. But it sounded just like you.’

‘Clever.’

‘I feel responsible. If Roxana hadn’t met that man in our office…’

‘You aren’t responsible, Ange. Not even Roxana is, really. Any word on Signor Antonelli?’

‘The police interviewed Max. Antonelli was just coldcalling, blagged his way to a meeting, came back a second time on a pretext, and met Roxana in reception. He’s disappeared. No one in Rome knows him, it turns out.’

‘What a surprise. Was Roxana working today?’

‘Yep, she was here. Are you unhappy about that? Because…’

‘No. I’m glad. I’m worried about her. Look, Angie, I’ve got to try to contact people before they deposit money in that account.’

‘How, if they’ve got your laptop and the address book?’

Connie thought rapidly. ‘That’s no problem, I’ve got all my files backed up. I’ll go out first thing, buy a new laptop…’

‘Er, I thought your cards were all duff?’

I have no
being
, Connie suddenly realised. No ready money, no credit, no way of buying what I need to set myself back on track. As panic seized her she remembered how, when they first met, Roxana had owned no bank account, had no security, and no one to turn to for help except the Buntings and herself.

Angela said, ‘Listen, bring your disks or whatever you’ve got into the office first thing. I’ve got a spare laptop and Jez from IT will do the business on it for you.’

She did have a being. Of course the theft of her credit cards and a few personal details couldn’t undermine it.

‘Thanks, Ange. You’re a real friend.’

‘I’ll see you in the morning, then.’

Connie lay awake until she heard the sound of Roxana’s key in the lock, and her soft footsteps on the way to her own bed. Then she turned over and fell asleep.

‘I’ll come in with you,’ Connie said to her in the morning. Roxana spun round from the sink where she was rinsing her plate and mug.

‘What? Where to?’

‘To Oyster Films. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I still have some work for them, I do not know how long it will last.’

Roxana’s mouth turned down at the corners. Connie noticed that she had discarded her big-buttoned jacket in favour of her old Soviet-style denims, and her crest of blonde hair was showing dark at the roots. All the gleam and bounce had gone out of her. She looked smaller, with the doughy softness of vulnerability about her.

‘Come on then,’ Connie said gently. ‘We’ll get the bus together.’

They found adjacent seats. Roxana stared past Connie at the rush-hour streets and the bobbing heads of people bearing newspapers and Starbucks lattes and shoulder-bags weighted with work towards their desks. To Roxana, the city tide seemed to be streaming away from her and leaving her on an uncomfortable shore.

Connie sent another batch of text messages.

Please DO NOT deposit any money. All a hoax. I will explain today.

Then she stowed her phone away. Roxana’s face was turned aside.

‘Roxana?’

‘Yes.’ The syllable slid out between frozen lips.

Connie told her, ‘No one’s blaming you for anything. I
can imagine exactly how it happened. It was a mistake, and you won’t make it again.’

Roxana’s shoulders twitched. ‘I don’t know. There are too many things I do not understand. At first it seems a simple business, that you can step into another country and work hard and make yourself what you want. But that is only what you see at first look, because when you look again there are so many things you cannot see. How can you learn them? Not at English language classes. These do not teach you how to be English, do they? You and Angela, even that Zoe, you would know at once that Mr Antonelli is not a person to trust. But all I see is a man with a fine watch, and charming behaviour and a card that tells me he is in the movie business. So I believe what he says to me, and I take him and his friend as guests up to your apartment because I want to make them think I am someone who matters in this world. Then it turns out that he is not what he says, much more than I am not.’

Her lovely mouth twisted. ‘All I am is a stupid girl with stupid ideas about being an English girl. And this is the way I repay you for your kindness and for pulling me out of the sea. How much money have these men stolen from you, Connie? Because I will pay it back to you. I will do it if it takes me my whole life.’

Connie’s mobile rang in her bag. She thumbed it into silence without a glance.

‘I’m going to show you something, Roxana.’

She reached inside the collar of her coat, searching for where the thin cord lay next to her skin. She drew out a tiny silk pouch that hung from the loop of cord and eased it open, then withdrew the marcasite earring. Since the news of the burglary, she had taken to carrying it everywhere with her. She held it cupped in the palm of her hand for Roxana to examine.

‘Money, credit cards? None of that matters in the least. The bank and the card issuers will be responsible for most of it anyway. What else? Laptop, musical and studio equipment, a few rings and necklaces, a camera, some clothes? All of those I can easily replace. I am insured. Putting my affairs to rights again? That will take some time and a bit of effort, but I’ve got time to spare. This earring is the only thing, the one and
only
inanimate object I possess, that I truly value and could never replace. And I’ve still got it. It’s safe here, in my hand.’

Connie closed her fist over it, and smiled.

A spark had rekindled in Roxana’s eyes.

‘It is pretty, yes, but you have only one?’

Connie craned to see the bus’s whereabouts. They would reach their stop in not more than five minutes.

‘Long story. I’ll tell you quickly.’

Roxana listened. After a minute she kept her eyes on Connie’s clenched fist, as if the bus might give a more than usually brutal jolt and shake the earring out of her grasp.

At the end of the brief recounting, Roxana breathed out through parted lips.

‘If those men had stolen your mother’s earring away from you, I think I would have died,’ she said.

Connie was going to laugh with her, but then she saw that Roxana was serious.

They reached their stop. Connie slipped the earring back into its pouch and buried it beneath the layers of her clothes.

At Oyster Films, Roxana made her way, head down, to her desk where her pre-production legwork for the St Petersburg shoot was waiting. Angela was in her office, on the telephone, with the door shut. Connie collected the spare laptop from the receptionist and carried it off to Jez. He was frowning and clicking at the keys when her mobile rang
yet again.
Sorry
, she mouthed at him, and retreated to a quiet corner.

‘Hello, is that Ms Thorne?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Hello there, this is Annette from Harrods’ fine jewellery department? Just a courtesy call to make sure you’re happy with those adjustments to your necklace, Ms Thorne?’

A few questions established that Ms Constance Thorne had purchased a diamond and pearl necklace, had requested that two links be removed to ensure a better fit around her slim neck – urgently, because she was going abroad and wanted to take the lovely necklace with her – and had paid for the item (more money than Connie had ever spent on a single purchase in her life) with her new store card.

The statement and the first payment demand, Connie estimated, would drop through her letterbox in the next two or three weeks. And this was probably only the beginning. There would be statements and demands for purchases made on whichever other major store cards the thieves had also taken out, probably using her existing credit cards as collateral and her driving licence and utility bills as proof of identity. Somewhere out there, Connie thought, was a woman who was not Constance Thorne but who looked like her or was made up to look enough like her (Wig? Coloured contact lenses? How far did they bother to go?) to convince busy bank-counter staff and shop assistants that she actually was herself, or at least as she appeared in the tiny photograph on her driving licence.

‘You okay?’ Jez wanted to know.

‘Yeah. Fine.’ She meant it. This, at least, was a set of circumstances she could deal with.

She picked up her mobile again. A moment later she was speaking to a credit reference officer about the startling debts that were being run up in her name.

‘I am afraid we see a lot of this. You are a victim of what we call…’ the woman solemnly paused ‘…identity theft.’

Connie concluded the call, and then stared at the long list of authorities to be contacted and steps that would have to be taken to restore the credit ratings and various degrees of purchasing power that seemed to constitute her identity, as far as the outside world was concerned.

The more she thought about it, the more absurd and perfectly ironic the situation seemed. She sat back in her chair and began to laugh.

Jez flicked her a nervous glance, then hunched attentively over the laptop once more. Clearly, he was keen to get shot of the madwoman as soon as possible.

Connie went across to Angela’s office, intending to share with her the comedy of Mr Antonelli and his associates making off so successfully with an identity that she had spent most of her adult life trying to define.

Can I replace it with a nice, plain, utilitarian one? she was going to ask. No problems, no missing history, no racial or social ambiguities? Will my insurance cover that?

But through the glass panel in the door she could see that Angie was still on the phone. Her shoulder was turned away, and she was shading her eyes with her free hand. Connie backed away.

In a windowless cubicle behind the reception area Roxana was also on the phone, speaking Russian very quickly in a wheedling tone of voice.

Connie looked around her. These were the offices of a busy film production company. A motorbike courier in leathers and a Darth Vader helmet was collecting a package from reception and two ad-agency account executives were sitting over a set of A3 storyboards while they waited for a meeting. She had no place here. She picked up her coat and
bag, told Jez that she would be back in half an hour, and went down the street to a coffee shop.

Sitting on a tall stool, she gazed out through the faintly fogged plate-glass window into the street. Crowds passed by, but today their faces leapt out as if they were known to her. She saw how each individual had a different gait, a different path, and the ability to follow it without colliding with anyone else; each one had a set of unique motives that was propelling them past this window at just this hour. The variety of humanity within a few yards of inner-city pavement on an ordinary mid-morning suddenly took her breath away. She was warmed by the sight, and her feeling of separation melted like ice in the sun.