‘In February.’ The truth.
‘February? That’s seven months ago!’
‘I know and I’m really sorry I didn’t declare it straight away. To be completely honest, I haven’t even told my wife yet. I’ve been covering up the fact that I’ve not been able to drive.’ Perhaps it was the relief of the thing, or simply the intimate dimensions of the room, the comfort of her body heat, but I began to get more confessional than I’d planned. ‘There was this one time, it was awful. She was at the window of our house, expecting me to go off somewhere in the car and I unlocked the door, got in the driver’s seat, just sat there pretending to fiddle with the heating, until she moved away. Then I got out and caught the bus.’
Actually, this was not such a bad thing to confess; it was the sort of story you might remember if called to testify in a court of law. (‘Was it your understanding that Mr Lawson had continued to drive?’ ‘No. But I do know he was pretending to to his wife.’)
I swallowed. ‘I was like one of those blokes who’s been made redundant but keeps putting on his shirt and tie and leaving the house every morning to go to work.’
This addition was more regrettable: it might give her ideas.
‘Oh.’ Saskia blinked and I saw that her lashes were weighted with mascara. It took a moment because my sensibilities were rerouted, but the signs were there for me to read: that lavish eye makeup, the snugly fitting shirt with the pendant signalling the entry point to the hidden cleavage; poking from under the table, heels an inch higher than was comfortable. Not inappropriate, but with a defiant message for those who cared to receive it: I’m a professional, but no less female for it. No less single.
‘I should say my ex-wife,’ I said, surer of myself now. ‘Not that there’s any reason you should know, but we’ve split up. It’s all been a bit of a nightmare and I suppose . . . I suppose I just didn’t need there to be yet another thing I’ve done wrong.’
It was quite a betrayal to imply that Fi had been unjustly on my case, when she’d in fact been more generous than any cheated wife I’d ever heard of, but needs must and to my relief Saskia was regarding me with the beginnings of compassion.
‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself into a bit of a tangle. I’ll have to check the files, but you don’t have a company car, do you?’
‘No, I use my own.’
This was the one pinprick of sunlight in my stormy sky: when I’d joined the firm I’d opted out of the standard sales perk in favour of the cash alternative. The Audi was privately owned and registered to Fi and me at Trinity Avenue; if the police came calling, they would have no need to involve my employers.
‘Used,’ I corrected myself. ‘Obviously I’ve made no claims for fuel since February.’ I’d taken the hit myself, paid for petrol in cash so Fi wouldn’t question any debits from our joint account.
‘How have you been getting to your appointments? You can claim for train travel and taxis, you know, assuming Neil signs them off. Or has he arranged a driver for you?’
I said nothing and she smothered a grimace.
‘You have told him, Bram, haven’t you?’
‘No. You’re the first person I’ve told.’ I could feel myself doing it, giving her the look that said, you’re the first because you’re special. I let the moment extend, glanced very briefly at the pendant on her breastbone. Borderline sexual harassment of an HR executive of all people was insanity by most people’s standards, but mine no longer bore any relation to most people’s.
‘You’ll need to tell him,’ she said, finally. ‘Would you like me to be present?’
‘No, I’ll be okay. He’s not in today, so I’ll do it tomorrow.’
Having finished her notes, Saskia carefully placed pen on notepad. ‘It’s at his discretion whether this will have an impact on your future here. Sales roles do require you to have a current driver’s licence.’
‘I know.’ I sighed. Another look, this more lingering than the first. ‘But I’m glad I’ve come clean.’
I kept using that term, both in speech and in my mind. It was starting to feel disingenuous.
‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:05:34
It was only days after the Ropers’ burglary that another Trinity Avenue resident, an older woman who’d been recently widowed, was the victim of a scam worrying enough for Merle to get straight on the phone and arrange for a community police officer to come and talk to us – and for me to phone Bram at work. ‘Did you hear what happened to Carys?’
‘Who?’ he said.
‘You know, the lady at number sixty-five? Teaches piano? She was ordering a new bank card and her call to the bank was intercepted by scammers. They phoned her back and got her to divulge her pin and then they sent a courier to her house to pick up her old card. By the time she realized, they’d almost emptied her account. Thousands, apparently.’
There was a delay before he spoke. ‘Banks never send couriers to pick up old cards.’
‘We know that, yes. It just shows how convincing they must have been. Alison says even the couriers don’t know they’re in on a scam – they’ve just been booked for a regular job. Poor Carys was distraught. I’ve already phoned Mum and Dad about it and you should tell your mum as well.’
Another pause, then, ‘Why?’
He was beginning to frustrate me. ‘Because these fraudsters obviously prey on older people! You know, they’re more trusting than we are, not so confident to challenge a change in procedure.’
‘Right.’
I frowned to myself. ‘You don’t seem very interested in this, Bram. I think we all need to be really vigilant if criminals are operating in Alder Rise.’
He gave a weary sigh. ‘Come on, Fi, Carys was just a bit gullible. Everyone knows you never give pin numbers or passwords over the phone. Let’s not get carried away.’
I felt a surge of indignation. Though he’d never been community-spirited (except in the alcoholic sense), I’d always felt certain of his respect for my efforts, but the way he was dismissing poor Carys’s ordeal was flippant, almost arrogant. ‘This kind of crime is on the rise, apparently. We got a booklet from the police.’
‘The police have been round?’ He sounded startled.
‘No, it came through the door. It tells you about all the current scams, how they work, how you can protect yourself.’
‘Sounds more like a catalogue to me. If we didn’t know how to rip off our neighbours before, we will now.’
‘Bram!’ It was a while since he’d been obstructive like this. Since our new arrangements had begun, he’d been, as I’d told Polly, meekly obliging. ‘How can you make a joke of this? The victims are our neighbours, ordinary hard-working people like us.’
‘Sorry, I’m a bit distracted, just waiting to go into a meeting with Neil. Of course we must all be vigilant. We could be in the grip of some Ukrainian crime ring. Or Nigerian. I don’t know who our underworld enemies are these days.’
I’d had enough of this. I had work to do myself. ‘Anyway, the reason I’m calling is there’s a meeting with a community officer tomorrow evening at eight so I wondered if you could stay a bit late with the boys while I go along?’
‘Sure.’
I ended the call. He was preoccupied, that was obvious, and I presumed there was something going on in his private life. Maybe I thought I’d even have a casual look around the flat on Friday evening for signs of female habitation. I certainly wasn’t going to ask him outright because that way lay the fraught waters of emotional complication, maybe even the temptation to swim back downstream.
Yes, of course I wish I’d asked. I wish I’d demanded to know.
#VictimFi
@val_shilling Aargh, I’m not going to get anything done today, am I?
Bram, Word document
‘Jesus Christ, Bram,’ Neil barked, ‘how the fuck did that happen?’
I readjusted, pulled the hangdog face he was expecting, not the haunted contortion I’d seen reflected in the glass wall of his office moments earlier.