The First Cut (8 page)

She was shrugging her shoulders now, tracing a finger over a mole on her upper arm. ‘He was called Adam, but I don’t remember much else about him. I was in a bit of a state . . . there were a lot of people around. He said he was a strong swimmer and a bit impulsive so he just jumped in after me.’

She was a bad liar – good liars could always tell, and he was one of the best. It was all too implausible. Fit healthy women didn’t just fall in the bloody Thames. He squeezed a stress ball in his palm, trying to keep a handle on his rising panic.

‘Are you OK, honey? I know it’s a bit of a mad story.’

‘Who were you on the South Bank with?’

He noted the shrug of the shoulders, the telltale hesitation. ‘I was on my own. I just wanted a quiet day on my own. Funny how things turn out.’

Greg squeezed the stress ball so hard his knuckles went white. Fear and superstitions swirled in his mind and he knew that hot on the heels of fear came the rage. The anger that it could happen again; why always to him? Saliva formed in his mouth and he swallowed it away. He was beginning to go mad. The past was playing its never-ending trick on him, laughing at his attempts to outrun it. The faster he ran, the harder he worked, the more he crammed into every day . . . and still it was there, mocking him.

‘Nicky, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get to set. You sure you’re all right?’ She nodded. She held her finger up to the small camera and he did the same. ‘I love you. I love you more than I can say, more than you know.’

She looked sad and confused. ‘I miss you.’

‘Miss you too.’

Greg watched the Skype rectangle jump to black. He laid his head on his arms next to the keyboard, thinking through this strange conversation with his wife. The gulf between them was growing wider. Nowadays their conversations were short, perfunctory. How different from the early days when the distance of his jobs separated them. Back then she had fallen asleep with him listening on the Skype connection, had lain the laptop next to her on the pillow so he could watch her. They’d had phone sex and Skype sex and still it hadn’t been enough. But somewhere on their journey together they had lost each other and, like so much, he knew it was his fault.

He sat in front of the black screen and thought through every nuance of that conversation. She hadn’t said she loved him. He tried to remember if that was a first. He needed to insulate himself, try to get reassurance where he could. He wasn’t a religious man,
that
would have been a joke, considering; but he even gave a little prayer. He picked up his phone and hesitated. He was trampling on the unspoken codes that underpinned his marriage. But then it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone beyond decent. Suspicion crawled across his hot skin. He called a number in London. The phone was answered after two rings.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘Full of the joys of summer, are you, Liz?’

‘You only ever call me if you need something.’

‘You know me too well.’ She was silent, refusing to pander to her brother. ‘Oh come on, Liz, I’m away, and I’m not that bad.’

‘Are you drunk?’

‘I need a favour.’

‘Oh! Here we go.’

‘Hear me out. Pretty please, sis dearest.’

‘You’re such a wanker!’

But he could tell that she would relent. Liz was lonely and life had not lived up to the high standards she had expected. ‘I’m worried about Nicky.’

‘Oh?’ Now she was interested, revealing an eagerness to know about problems and strife. ‘How so?’

‘I just want to make sure that she’s OK. Can you keep an eye on her?’

There was a pause. Her voice was triumphant. ‘You’ll have to be a lot more specific.’

‘I just need to know that she’s OK.’

‘Are you trying to tell me you want me to
follow
your wife?’ She was dripping sarcasm.

‘Liz, please, just for a while—’

‘What do you think I do all day, Greg? I work! I’ve got Dan . . .’

‘And you’ve got me too. You’ve always been there for me, Liz.’

‘Greg, tone down the touchy-feely Hollywood – this is south London. I might gag.’

‘Just do it for me.’

She swore under her breath. ‘You owe me.’

He finished the call and stared uselessly out of the window. He wondered if the Californian sunshine could cleanse him of his disturbing thoughts.

N
othing attracts like a saviour, Nicky decided. Try as she might, Adam had become a hero, and heroes were hard to ignore or turn down. After the shock of a visit to A&E and a tetanus injection, then a change of clothes and borrowing money off Adam to go round to Maria’s to get her spare door keys, she mooned around the house for the rest of the weekend, replaying her ditch in the Thames and her rescue over and over. She thought about making a complaint against Bea, but dismissed it almost immediately. She wasn’t worth the bother or the paperwork, and despite what Bea might have wanted to happen, Nicky’s fall into the water had been an accident. Plus, she had more practical issues to consider: she’d lost her bag and now faced a full day on the phone replacing her entire identity: bank cards, money, make-up, keys. In the midst of these jobs she got an email from Adam inviting her over on Wednesday – his dad was at home and if Connie was well enough Nicky could meet her.

After three uneventful days at work, and still waiting for the police report of her fall in the Thames to be sent to the accounts department so she could get a replacement mobile, she walked the short distance from Notting Hill Gate tube to the address at the southern end of Portobello Road. It was a warm sunny evening and she felt the long dormant feeling of excitement and anticipation at doing something new, meeting someone interesting, uncovering the layers. Lawrence’s flat was down a cobbled mews cut off from Portobello Road by a large gate. She rang the bell on a brushed-steel door and a moment later someone clattered down the stairs. Adam was trying to keep his feet inside a pair of faded espadrilles and he shifted and hopped on the doorstep as he kissed her on the cheeks. He’d got browner in the few days since she’d seen him, and it suited him. ‘Come on up.’

He took the stairs two at a time and she followed him into a large, open-plan living room-cum-kitchen. A row of sliding doors led on to a large patio beyond which a sumptuous view of a west London sunset could be seen. Several large, high-gloss photographs of tree canopies hung on the matt white walls. It was not what Nicky had been expecting; she had imagined an old-fashioned town house with stuffy chairs, leather books and patterned wallpaper, but Adam’s father had defied the conventions of his age and class. An elegant black woman in her sixties, wearing yellow flip-flops and an abstract patterned skirt, was at the kitchen island boiling a kettle and someone sat at the dining table hiding under a red towel.

‘Dad, this is Nicky. Nicky, this is Lawrence.’

Lawrence waved his arm at her as a greeting, his head still under the towel. A strong waft of Vicks VapoRub carried over to her. ‘My darned sinuses are playing up.’

‘He’s such a bore about it,’ the black woman said, spoon tinkling as she stirred a cup of something and brought it over, placing it on the table next to Adam’s father. ‘You’d think no one else had ever been ill,’ she said with an air of resignation, quickly followed by amusement as she turned back to Nicky. ‘I’m Bridget. Now for God’s sake let’s have a drink. I hear you’re a journalist, so I presume you neck anything that’s put in front of you?’ Her eyes twinkled.

Nicky laughed and nodded.

‘There’s a bottle of red wine in the cupboard,’ Lawrence half shouted from under the towel. ‘It’s got a peacock on the front. Let’s have that.’

‘You shouldn’t be drinking in your condition,’ Bridget replied, walking over to a Scandinavian-style sideboard and opening the door. She ignored Lawrence, who was muttering to himself under the towel.

Nicky was enthralled. Their manners were so casual, their flat so beguiling, the sun somehow warmer and conversation just that little bit more fun. Visitors to her parents’ house were rare enough to cause stress: fiddly snacks in little bowls, her mother stiff-backed in the Victorian chair by the nets, her dad offering the coasters with the best of British birds on them. Sometimes, when she was low or had had an argument with her parents, Nicky wondered what her real family had been like. She had never told anyone, but in her dreams she hoped they were a bit like this. Her dad was a loss adjuster, her mother a part-time librarian. Nicky knew she was falling for the allure of a life more interesting, a history more exotic than the one she had lived.

‘Come and sit down,’ Bridget said.

Adam was lying across one corner of the low grey sofa, his head supported by a hand, regarding her. She hesitated, unsure where she was supposed to put herself, when a high-pitched scream made her jump. She looked over at the doorway to find an old woman standing there, clutching the frame for support.

Lawrence swore loudly and threw back the towel. ‘Connie! I’ve burned myself!’

Nicky was taken aback. The old woman was glaring at her. She glanced at Adam and saw that he was upright now, his shoulders tense, staring at his aunt. An awkward silence fell across the room.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Nicky managed to say, wringing her hands together.

She looked at Lawrence and tried to smile. His face was puce from his vapour bath, droplets of water forming by his eyebrows, which were a striking black next to his grey hair. He sat stupefied. ‘Oh, I feel dizzy now,’ he said, touching his forehead.

‘Just sit still for a moment and you’ll be fine,’ Bridget said with brisk efficiency and then she came over to Connie. ‘This is Nicky,’ she said, taking her arm. Connie pushed Bridget’s offer of help away. She was a tall, slim woman, wearing red baggy trousers that looked expensive and a flowery shirt. She had a selection of large gold rings on her bony fingers and she still dyed her hair. Its chestnutty colour gleamed in the evening sun. The only evidence of her catastrophic health was in one eye, which had drooped at the outer edge – presumably the result of one of her strokes. It gave her face a strange lopsided appearance.

‘She’s not going to bite,’ said Adam, coming to Bridget’s aid, holding on to his aunt and trying to get her to sit down.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Adam invited me round,’ Nicky replied.

‘Adam, your nephew,’ Lawrence added loudly as he dried his face, his features hidden again beneath the red towel.

Connie frowned but let Adam lead her into the room.

As Nicky looked at Connie, she adjusted her age downwards. From her good eye and her skin Nicky decided she was probably only in her sixties. It seemed young to be so frail and dependent.

‘You were fine earlier. You’re having a good day today, Connie,’ Bridget said, setting out glasses.

Nicky came towards Connie and held out her hand. ‘It’s good to meet you.’

Connie stared at her nephew. ‘Good?’

‘Sit down, Connie, for goodness sake,’ Bridget said, irritated at the old woman’s rudeness.

‘Sorry about that. I’m Lawrence.’ Lawrence put the towel down and came over to shake Nicky’s hand. ‘Excuse my sister.’ His face was still red and blotchy from the steam, but he had a nice smile, which she found comforting in the awkward atmosphere.

Lawrence sat on the sofa, reached for a wine glass and poured a generous measure. Adam sat down next to Nicky and opposite Connie. Silence descended again and Nicky realized Connie was still staring at her. Adam had prepared her for how Connie might be, so it should have been no surprise the way she was acting, yet her stare was unnerving. She was confused, but her eyes, even though one wasn’t straight, looked clear and focused.

‘So, Adam jumped into the Thames after you,’ Lawrence said.

Nicky smiled. ‘Yes, he did, and I’m very grateful—’

‘That’s just like Adam, not appreciating the consequences of his actions,’ Lawrence interrupted.

‘
Such
a dangerous thing to do,’ Bridget said, shaking her head.

‘Anyone would think you lot
wanted
her to drown in the Thames!’ Adam was scowling at his dad.

‘Of
course
we don’t mean that.’ Bridget added for emphasis: ‘I’m very glad you’re OK, Nicky.’ She handed her a glass of wine.

As Nicky tried to navigate the toxic cross-currents eddying through this room she decided that her own family really wasn’t that bad at all. But she was here for a reason, so she just decided to get on with it. She turned to Connie. ‘Adam has told me a lot about your life, Connie. It sounds fascinating.’

‘Is she out to get us?’ Connie looked at Lawrence in panic.

Bridget put her glass down. ‘I’ll get Tatjana. I think Connie’s overtired.’

‘No, don’t. I want to hear what she’s got to say,’ Adam said, staring at his dad.

Nicky tried again. ‘Adam told me that you used to work at Tramps, the nightclub.’ There was a pause and she saw anguish pass across Connie’s face. ‘You must have met a lot of interesting people.’

Connie snorted, her eyes suddenly coming sharply into focus again. She was like a radio that wasn’t perfectly tuned, her comprehension fading and returning in waves. ‘Superficial and empty, it’s all for nothing.’

‘I see.’ Nicky smiled with encouragement, realizing that this was going to be more difficult than Adam had made out. ‘How many years did you work at—’

‘Are you married?’ Connie blurted out.

The room froze for a second and Lawrence muttered under his breath.

Nicky saw Connie staring at her wedding ring and she rubbed her hands in embarrassment to cover up the evidence. ‘I . . . well . . . yes, I am. Have you ever been married, Connie?’

Connie narrowed her eyes. Adam came to her rescue. ‘You were too busy, weren’t you, Cons? Hanging out with all those glamorous people . . .’

‘Who?’ Connie frowned.

‘You know, the guests at Tramps, the people who came down to the house—’

‘They were all going to hell. I’m going to hell!’ Her lip started quivering and tears sprang to her eyes. Nicky felt for the woman; she seemed terrified.

‘I’ll get Tatjana,’ Bridget said, and she got up to leave the room.