Eileen, the special accounts manager, took Marion into a private office just off the main part of the bank. Everything in the room was newly furnished with the reassuring brown and orange colors of the bank’s logo. The door of the room closed with a gentle click, leaving the two women alone in an atmosphere that was businesslike yet at the same time warm and soft.
All the business of dealing with banks and estate agents made Marion feel as though she were acting out some charade, involving herself in serious, grown-up affairs when she had no right to do so, and it was only a matter of time before she was found out and punished for wasting everyone’s time. Yet if she held her nerve, then wasn’t it possible the game might carry on, that she might actually fool people into letting her start a new life in her aunt’s flat?
Eileen offered Marion a seat and then sat down behind her desk. She must have been about the same age as Marion, little lines surrounded her eyes and neck, but her hair was beautifully colored, a sort of burnished gold. She wore a suit and blouse that matched the decor in the room. Even though her attitude was professional, there was something kind and caring about her that Marion liked. She imagined how nice it would be to have her as a friend.
The two of them would visit cafés together and drink frothy cappuccinos, then afterwards look around the shops. They would call each other on the phone now and then, not for any particular reason, just to chat about life in general, recounting little stories about things that happened to them, the sort of thing that no one else would find funny but would leave the two friends in fits of laughter. If Eileen found a lump she was worried about, Marion would go with her to the hospital to get it checked out, and not mind a jot if she had to sit in the waiting room for hours and hours, because that was what close friends were for.
No, Marion, stop being silly, she said to herself, suddenly realizing how ridiculous it was to imagine that a stranger was her best friend. She had already spent too much of her life daydreaming. If it didn’t stop now, then she would never do anything for real.
“Normally my brother John deals with these things. I mean, just thinking about money and all that gives me a headache,” Marion explained. “But you see, he was ill recently, and I thought I ought to start taking more responsibility for my finances, you know, in case something happens. I mean, we never know what the future might hold, do we?”
Eileen smiled blandly as though as an employee of the bank, it was not within her role to speculate on the future, one way or another.
“Yes, of course. Won’t take a minute to get your details up.”
As Eileen tapped on her computer keyboard Marion noticed pictures of her family on the desk. It appeared that she had two grown-up children, a boy and a girl, in addition to a husband with a receding hairline and a round, kindly face. There was also a picture of the girl holding a newborn baby. This woman had achieved so much in addition to her career at the bank. How were such things possible, wondered Marion, how in roughly the same number of years had she managed to achieve next to nothing at all? In fact, instead of creating life, she had destroyed it.
“Well, Ms. Zetland, it seems you have a very considerable investment account with us that provides you with a healthy monthly allowance in addition to the sizable amount in your current account.”
She wrote some numbers down on a piece of paper as if it would be indecent to speak them out loud.
Marion looked at the numbers written on the paper. Instead of scaring her, what she saw made her feel nourished, like drinking something warm and sweet on a cold day. She hadn’t until now realized that her inheritance was so generous.
“So if, for example, I wanted to buy a flat for around two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, that would be possible?”
“Certainly. In fact, you wouldn’t even have to get a mortgage. There’s more than enough in your current account.”
“And would there be enough left over to live on, I mean for one person to pay bills and buy food?”
“Oh yes, you see, your investments are providing you with an income that would be adequate to provide most people with a decent lifestyle.”
Marion liked that phrase: a decent lifestyle. She imagined herself staying in plush hotels and having doors held open for her by men who called her “Madame” in foreign accents.
“And is it all my money, I mean, my brother—he couldn’t take it away from me or tell me what to do with it, could he?”
Eileen looked a little shocked.
“Absolutely, all of this money is in your name.”
? ? ?
MR. WEINBERG’S FRONT garden was overgrown with tall purple weeds that swayed from side to side in the breeze like woozy old maids. Empty tin cans overflowed from the recycling box next to the front door. Only a few tatters of lace curtain hung at the windows, but the glass was so filthy, it was impossible to see inside. Marion peeked through the curtains of Mother’s bedroom window. The police car was still parked outside the house. It was now half an hour since she had first seen it.
She imagined Mr. Weinberg coughing out his story to the police with thick lumps of phlegm. He had seen a girl arrive late in the evening. Perhaps he had heard sounds in the night while he was walking his dog. And then of course the burning, he knew that smell, the smell of burning bodies. Could a smell be considered as evidence of a crime? Would the police believe him? He was very old, they might suspect he was just losing his mind, but they would have an obligation to investigate all the same.
It didn’t matter how seriously they took his accusations, Marion felt sure that the minute the police spoke to her, she would fall to pieces and confess everything. Even if she succeeded in keeping her mouth shut, her body would betray her. The police were trained to detect all sorts of signs. They would see guilt in her shifting eyes and shaking hands.
How long before they knocked on the door? Of course, she should have known all along this would happen. An awful sick feeling twisted her stomach. Perhaps it was just better to accept what was coming. She deserved to be punished, and so did John. She would admit everything and pay for her crimes. And she would make sure that John paid too. That was the right thing to do, to accept her fate. Wouldn’t she feel better once everyone knew the truth?