Guilty Feet (8 page)

‘I know it sounds bad,’ Dan said, hiding his irritation with Libby for discussing his private life with his friend, ‘but things hadn’t been going well for a while.’ This was true, but he still didn’t know what had made her leave. Despite racking his brains he hadn’t come up with a good enough reason.

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Steve shrugged, as if he knew all about that as well. ‘But just to disappear like that?’

Steve undid his jacket and slipped it off. Dan noticed that he was getting a bit of a paunch on him—the result of all that sitting around selling stocks and shares, no doubt. He pulled his own stomach in and, although it was OK at the moment, thought his mother might well have a point about taking some exercise.

‘She did what she thought she had to and I’d prefer to leave it at that. And anyway,’ he said feigning cheerfulness, ‘I want to hear about you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Since you’re clearly thinking of making a play for Libby, I take it there’s no one else at the moment?’

Steve did the male ego-saving thing of trying to appear a bit cagey, but Dan knew him too well for that.

‘Go on,’ he said, ‘admit it. You’re as much of a sad lonely bastard as I am.’

Steve grinned and conceded with a shrug. ‘I’m beginning to wonder what’s wrong with me. I haven’t been out with a woman in over six months.’

‘It isn’t all about women,’ Dan said, trying to convince himself as much as Steve. Then, because he’d sounded just a hint pompous, ‘And we have our work as a solace.’

Steve laughed.

‘How’s yours going? Libby tells me you’re writing another book.’

Christ! Was there anything she hadn’t told him? But relax, Dan, he told himself. This is your old mate, here, come for a pleasant weekend.

‘Yeah, got to have it finished in less than three weeks, which is why I’ll have to carry on working while you’re here, I’m afraid.’

At least Steve didn’t ask who or what the book was about. He just shrugged and raised a speculative eyebrow towards the door.

‘Well, if I play my cards right I might not have to be on my own.’

Libby lapped up Steve’s attention while they drank their coffee. Pretty soon they were on to her record collection and, encouraged by Steve, she went up to her flat and brought back a couple of samples. And Dan, who’d seen a lot in his time, had never quite seen anything like it.

‘Do you realise how rare these albums are?’ he asked when he got over his shock.

‘Not really,’ Libby said. ‘I just know that...erm...my father spent a lot of time acquiring them. I’ve never had them properly valued, though.’

‘Wow!’ Steve nearly choked on one of the ginger biscuits Libby had produced from somewhere. ‘Well, I know jack shit about vintage vinyl
per
se
, but even I know that we’re talking a lot of dosh here. A
Revolver
and a
White
Album
.’ He turned to Dan.

‘Any ideas, you music expert you?’

Dan took one of the LPs from Libby.

‘Christ!’ he said. ‘Have you seen this?’ He pointed out the serial number to her, and both she and Steve looked at him uncomprehendingly.

‘This particular album is like a numbered limited edition of a print by a famous artist. And the lower the number the higher the value.’

Steve moved round behind Libby to look over her shoulder.

‘Does this mean what I think it means?’ he eventually said.

Dan nodded. ‘Five zeros and a nine means that that was the ninth pressing. And last I heard, nought-to-ten pressings were worth five grand plus.’

Steve went back to his seat and for a moment he and Dan just stared at Libby.

‘I had no idea,’ she said, and the statement had a ring of truth. ‘I thought maybe a few hundred, but...’

‘And you’ve got more like this?’ Steve wanted to know.

Libby shrugged. ‘Well, not the same as these. But I do know that my father was particularly proud of a single. I got the impression it was more important to him than the rest.’

‘What is it?’ Dan asked. He’d put aside his reservations about Libby now, in his genuine excitement.

Libby shrugged. ‘I can’t remember what it’s called, and it’s by a band I’ve never even heard of.’

‘What’s their name?’ enquired Steve eagerly, sitting on the edge of his seat now.

Libby’s forehead puckered. ‘I think they’re called the Quarrymen.’

There was a short silence as the meaning of her words sank home.

‘Not
the
Quarrymen?’ Steve said at last. He glanced at Dan, who was almost as stunned as he was. ‘Christ, even I know that must be worth an arm and a leg. The Quarrymen was the first band that John Lennon belonged to. I didn’t even know that they’d made a record.’

Dan shook his head. ‘They didn’t. A record company put out a very limited number of discs in 1981.They were taken from old acetate recordings from the Fifties, and there were only twenty-five of them pressed. The last one I heard about changed hands at twelve thousand quid.’

‘Surely not!’ Libby exclaimed. ‘How can it possibly be worth that much?’

‘Rarity value,’ Dan said, feeling slightly dazed. ‘And if there’s more like that and these two here I can safely say that you’re sitting on a small fortune. More than that, though,’ he said, ‘you have an incredible collection of mega-rare vinyl.’

It was Steve who suggested that he went with Libby the following day to visit a friend of Dan’s who would give her a proper valuation of the entire collection, but although she agreed Dan could sense she did so with some reluctance.

He was surprised how quickly she changed the subject after that.

‘Do you know if Aisling’s back yet?’ she asked him conversationally. At least it sounded conversational, but as she said it she glanced over at Steve, who responded with a flicker of interest.

Dan nodded. ‘She got back this morning.’

‘Who’s Aisling?’ Steve asked them both.

‘She lives in the flat downstairs,’ Libby supplied. ‘She’s in PR and mixes with lots of famous people—apparently.’

Dan frowned at Libby’s animation. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt as if she was up to something.

‘Young, free and good-looking?’ Steve put the question to Dan.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well, then, why don’t we all go out for a curry or something tomorrow night?’ He looked at Libby, who nodded enthusiastic agreement and then looked at Dan.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Dan. ‘I’ve got the book and—’

‘You’ve got to eat,’ Libby cut in. ‘Besides, you could do with a break—and Steve has come a long way to see you.’

‘Right,’ said Steve, getting into this now. He glanced at his watch. ‘A bit late to call at her flat, I suppose, but we could give her a ring.’ He was already on his feet. ‘What’s her number? I’ll try her now.’

‘I know it,’ Libby said, springing up quickly. She joined Steve at the phone and tapped in the number before Dan could think straight and stop her.

Libby passed the receiver to Steve.

‘Hello, Aisling?’ he said, grinning stupidly over at Dan. ‘You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Dan Baxter...’

***

I took the printout of Dan’s message out of my bag as I got into bed, and when I read it again I was glad that I hadn’t allowed Sarah to reply to it yet. There was a definite suggestion that he was beginning to take her e-mails for granted. It was the
Glad
tidings
Daily
Sarah
part that did it. I can imagine how it might seem charming and pleasant to someone who didn’t know him that well, but to me it sounded decidedly cocky. So much so that I decided that he would have to wait a couple of days before he heard from her again.

As for the message itself—well, that was OK. Quite promising, really, and I felt pleased with myself for putting that quote in. It had definitely got to him, made him wonder if there was more to little Sarah Daly—who didn’t know very much about music—than met the eye.

Strange
that
you
should
choose
that
particular
line
.
It’s
one
of
my
favourites
too
.

How
old
are
you
,
Sarah
Daly
,
and
where
do
you
live
?
Not
your
address
,
of
course
,
just
which
part
of
the
country
?

All
the
best

Dan

Oh, yes, he was interested all right. And as I read and re-read that brief message I shuddered with what felt like a strange mix of pleasure and just a hint of foreboding.

Chapter Seven

I spotted some creeping cellulite on my left buttock first thing the following morning. I was doing one of my body checks that only happen a) when I’ve been good about not eating chocolate for a week and am looking for the results of all that denial, and b) when I’m feeling particularly self-critical, which is usually about once a fortnight. I do it in a full-length mirror, in full, cruel daylight, and I always regret it deeply. Even after chocolate-denial periods I am never happy with what I see, so you can imagine the effect such a devastating discovery had when I was already pretty pissed off with myself.

Because it requires a considerable amount of bodily contortion, I don’t usually include my rear view in these regular checks, and with the greatest of horror it occurred to me now that this single cellulite-covered buttock was exactly what Dan would have seen every time I’d got out of his bed. Was it that which had turned him against me?

And why just one buttock anyway? Did it make me a freak? Did it mean that I must forever in future keep it covered up? Or was there some exercise I could employ that would correct the hideous disfigurement?

Or maybe, blessed
maybe
, I was just imagining things and it wasn’t cellulite after all, but just some temporary skin-puckering caused by the way I’d been sleeping.

I took a power shower, which was the best thing about my flat, and aimed the fast flow of water directly at the offending buttock for a good five minutes. It was red from the pressure and heat, but when I rushed back to the mirror I could swear there was a slight improvement. Content with this for the time being, I dressed quickly and decided to detox my body for the next twenty-four hours as a precaution. This involved a cup of hot water instead of coffee and a wrinkled apple in place of toast. And to keep me from any temptation I decided to go out for a walk.

It was still only eight o’clock when I set out, which wasn’t like me at all. Not at the weekends anyway. I would normally have gone to a club on Friday night after work and slept until at least midday on Saturday. But now, wearing jeans, a floppy jumper and lightweight mac to cover any unsightly bulges, and a clingy hat on my head to cover my wayward hair, I witnessed the city coming to life. It wasn’t a gradual thing at all. There were already a lot of cars and buses about. But I enjoyed the novelty of having whole pavements to myself for a while. Then, as suddenly as a film scene-change, my body-contact-avoiding radar switched itself on as I found myself weaving through a seething mass of humankind that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

I really like living in Leeds. It has been hyped as the first twenty-four-hour city in the north, and although I’ve never stayed awake long enough to test this claim, I’ve been told by a few of my more energetic friends that it is so. I doubt it can compete with London or New York as yet, but it definitely vies with Manchester for title of Coolest City in the North of England. I’m biased, of course, but I think Leeds just nudged ahead when the first branch of Harvey Nichols outside the capital was opened here a few years ago.

I didn’t have a plan as such, so I was quite surprised when I found myself opposite the library at about ten minutes to nine. I wasn’t sure quite how this had happened, but since I was there, and since I had time to kill, I might as well see if there was a computer free. Not for any e-mailing purposes, you understand, just to surf the net for a while, check out the online recruitment agencies in case Sid’s plans came to nothing.

I had to hang around for ten minutes till the place opened, but the rain kept off and I filled in the time by walking up and down the stone steps, about twenty each way, which I was certain was great for buttocks.

I hadn’t booked a computer, of course, and was just trusting to luck that there might be one spare. There wasn’t, but luck came in a different form, that of a pleasant and helpful librarian who recognised need when she saw it and allowed me five minutes on a machine whose booker was late. It was hardly enough time to search for jobs, but I thought that there must be something I could do with five minutes. Like check out my Hotmail account, for example, to see if there was a message from my nutty mother.

There wasn’t, but because I didn’t like to feel I was completely wasting the time allotted to me, I decided I might as well check Sarah’s account as well. And, since I still had three minutes in hand, Sarah decided to swallow my pride and respond to Dan’s message after all.

The fact is I was intrigued as to why he appeared to be so curious about some cyber stranger at the same time that he was taking Aisling home to meet his mother. And I wasn’t sure why, but I had this idea that if I could just pep up his interest in Sarah it would make me feel a whole lot better.

I was also vaguely aware by now that pretending to be someone else in order to deceive my ex-boyfriend was not a particularly healthy state of affairs, but it didn’t stop me writing the message.

Dear
Dan

To
answer
your
questions
,
I’m
twenty
-
six
and
I
live
in
London
currently
,
though
I
grew
up
in
Cornwall
.

I chose Cornwall because it’s somewhere that Dan always loved going to when he was a kid—sneaky, ay? Then, because I wasn’t supposed to know very much about him.

What
about
you?

I’d have added some more, but by now a middle-aged man with a nylon shopping bag was breathing down my neck, mumbling something about bookings and rules, so I quickly sent the e-mail and turned my nicest possible smile on him.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘but I just needed to check and see if there was a message from my brother who’s travelling in South America. Our mother is a little concerned that we haven’t heard from him in quite a few weeks.’

It was a whopping great lie and it just came straight out of my mouth without me even turning pink. I think that was because it wasn’t me that was doing the lying. It was Sarah.

***

It wasn’t what Libby had expected. Baz Baines, the dealer Dan had recommended to her as the best in Leeds—the expert who would be able to value her collection—operated from a large terraced house in one of the scariest parts of Leeds. It was certainly a no-go area after dark, and she was quite glad to have Steve along with her. Baz had offered to go to her, but she didn’t want any connections being made between her address and the collection.

The house stank of pipe smoke and chip fat, and the room where Baz conducted his business was stacked floor-to-ceiling with vinyl. The only other things in the room were a Formica-topped table and, on it, an ancient looking computer. There was just room on the table for Steve to put down the heavy cardboard box. They’d borrowed Dan’s car to transport them over and had been issued clear instructions by him that he was not to be disturbed until six p.m.

Baz was about fifty, Libby guessed, spoke with a broad Welsh accent and dressed like a fading rock star. He wore tight black jeans, a striped, collarless shirt and a stained waistcoat over it. His hair was thin and straggly, grey and far too long.

‘So,’ he said in a business-like manner that did not involve any preliminary chitchat, ‘let’s have a look, shall we?’ He took the first album out of the box and handled it like a woman handles a delicate furry animal. With the greatest tenderness and care.

‘Jeez’, he said, glancing at Libby. It was all he said until he’d examined the rest, stacking them carefully in two separate piles, one for singles, one for LPs. Then came the question she had thankfully anticipated.

‘Have you got any proof of ownership. Receipts or suchlike?’

She shook her head. ‘My father didn’t bother to keep them, I’m afraid. I don’t think he ever planned on selling them so there didn’t seem any point.’

Baz didn’t respond to this, but looked thoughtfully at the two piles of vinyl.

‘Does that make any difference?’ Steve said.

‘Probably not. It’s just useful to have some proof of ownership, especially with a collection this valuable.’

‘How much are we talking?’ Steve wanted to know, then glanced at Libby apologetically. ‘Sorry, he said. ‘I shouldn’t be asking the questions.’

‘That’s OK,’ she said, covering her irritation. She would have much preferred it if Dan had come along, but he’d been adamant about getting on with that damn book of his.

Baz did a visible totting up in his head.

‘Total?’ he said. ‘Around thirty grand, give or take a thousand or two.’

‘Christ!’ said Steve.

‘But, like I said, it could take some time to find the right buyers.’

‘How would you do that?’ Libby asked.

Baz tapped the monitor of his computer.

‘I have an Internet site that I do most of my selling through. For which I take twenty per cent commission.’

Libby did her own totting up and arrived at a figure of twenty-four thousand, excluding commission, which was a very satisfying sum.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Only I prefer to keep my name out of this.’ The two men looked at her—Steve with mild curiosity, Baz with suspicion.

‘It’s just that I feel a bit guilty about it,’ she ventured to explain. ‘My father loved his collection and I don’t want his friends to find out that I’m selling.’

‘Why
are
you selling?’ Baz wanted to know.

Libby was beginning to get annoyed. She hadn’t expected the third degree.

‘If you must know it’s because I need the money. Simple as that.’

‘Seems fair enough,’ Steve said sympathetically.

Baz looked at her for a moment, then shrugged.

‘So you want me to go ahead?’ he said.

Libby nodded. ‘Does that mean I leave them with you?’ she said, glancing around at the chaos.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Baz said unsmilingly. ‘I know where everything is. And I’ll need them here to catalogue them.’

‘I can see that,’ she said, ‘but this isn’t exactly Fort Knox, is it? What happens if you get a break-in?’

‘Never had one yet,’ Baz said casually. ‘But if you’re unhappy with security you can come back later and take them away. I can send any buyers directly to you then.’

‘No,’ she said quickly. Then, because they were both looking at her again, she smiled sadly. ‘Like I said, I’d sooner not be involved. Too painful, I’m afraid.’

***

Dan answered Sarah’s e-mail immediately. It was the only interruption he allowed himself, and he was surprised how much he welcomed the break.

Dear
Full
-
of
-
Surprises
Sarah

Cornwall
,
ay?
Interesting
that
,
as
it
happens
to
be
one
of
my
favourite
places
in
the
world
.
I
used
to
go
there
on
holiday
when
I
was
a
kid
.
They
were
great
times
for
me
.
Which
part
are
you
from
?
And
what
took
you
from
Cornwall
to
London?

I
live
in
Leeds
,
and
since
you
know
what
I
do
for
what
is
laughingly
called
‘a
living’
the
only
other
information
that
I
can
think
to
tell
you
at
the
moment
is
that
I’m
twenty
-
eight
and
I’m
currently
single
.

Dan

He wasn’t sure why he’d added the last bit, but he didn’t think it would do any harm. He’d been tempted to ask what she looked like as well, but decided that was probably going too far at this stage. Then he questioned what he meant by that. It was as if he was expecting it to move on to another stage, and he didn’t really mean that at all.

Did he?