Chapter 63 Blackmailing
First thing in the morning, I find a man at the door with a huge bouquet of flowers.
There’s also a small package addressed to me on the doormat.
The flowers I sent myself are beautiful (even if I do say so myself) and have a mysterious note attached that just says ‘from an admirer xxx’.
I place them as ostentatiously as possible on the kitchen table for Stephen to see; divorce and domestic betrayal notwithstanding, there’s still much to play for.
The package is less welcome. It contains two thousand pounds, with a note from Mrs Pembury’s PA, saying that I mistakenly posted this through her letter box the previous evening, and that she informed the police about the incident as it was a considerable amount.
The letter also had a postscript that said she will file a harassment complaint if I ever visit her house again. What a devious woman!
I’m not displeased to get my money back, of course, but I’m not even sure I’ve achieved my aim of convincing her to help Nelly. I suspect that applying any more pressure will lead to a formal police complaint, which DS Birch would no doubt find a way to use against me.
At lunchtime, Nelly is sent home from school.
Aimée has to collect her and tells me with unnecessary venom that she’s not ‘on shift’ until pickup.
Aimée’s wearing a new outfit, courtesy of her additional money for trying to flirt with Stephen.
It galls me to pay for incompetence, but she looks amazing.
‘What did you do, Nelly?’ I say, as I’m cooking fish fingers (minus points for nutrition but plus points for happiness). Nathan stares through the oven window and reports on progress. I can’t help thinking of what Madeleine called him every time he calls out, ‘Not ready yet.’
‘Nothing,’ says Nelly, already changed into her full ballerina costume, and practising positions.
‘She stapled a girl to her seat,’ says Aimée.
‘Did you staple someone to their seat, Nelly?’
Nelly scrunches up her face. ‘Yes. But I said I didn’t, so I shouldn’t be told off.’
‘That’s how it works in court, but not in school,’ I say, with the word ‘maniac’ reverberating. ‘Anyway, I’m sure it was an accident.’
‘I did it on purpose,’ Nelly says, moving through fourth and fifth positions quite elegantly.
‘Well, at least pretend it was an accident,’ I say.
‘I did pretend, but she didn’t pretend with me,’ says Nelly, now attempting an arabesque that needs significant improvement but now isn’t the time.
Nathan interrupts. ‘Fishy fingers have cracked open!’
‘Thank you, darling. You keep a close eye, it’s ever so helpful.’
Nelly crosses over to Nathan and kneels by his side to look into the oven, then comes to me and rests her head against my arm. I’m touched. She rarely touches anyone. I reach my hand down and stroke her soft cheek.
She bites me.
I yelp and she howls with laughter.
‘Fishy fingers ready!’ cheers Nathan.
I’ve spent years trying to calm my internal chaos, but this chaos is different. This moment, this treachery of teeth, this stapling of friends, this fascination with exploding fish fingers, this unbridled and raucous laughter – if I could stop time now, I would be happy, I think.
As soon as I realize I am feeling a kind of contentment, I fear that I’m losing all of it. Whatever becomes of Stephen and me, it will not be this.
I kneel down and take Nelly’s hand. ‘Don’t bite or staple, Nelly. I know we’re all annoying, but try not to hurt other people.’
‘OK,’ says Nelly, and continues her ballet. I know that inside Nelly there’s a void as deep as my own, but she can’t say. I couldn’t when I was her age either. When your heart feels so empty you fill it with sensation, just to stop the silence.
‘You must punish her, or she’ll be confused,’ says Aimée.
‘There are worse things in life than stapling someone to a chair,’ I say.
Aimée lets out a puff of French air and flounces out.
Later, I have to pay her extra to look after the children for the afternoon, while I leave to visit Tor.
She’s not the Tor of old, and the latest perturbations have clearly left their mark.
The charts on her fridge appear to have been neglected and there’s an unwashed plate by the dishwasher.
‘It’s absolute bedlam here,’ she says, and throws up her hands.
‘I can see, it must be terribly hard.’
‘They’re getting closer and closer.’
‘Who is?’
‘The Facebook group! Whoever’s doing this is torturing me. They already know the woman in the photograph drives a four-by-four and has blonde hair. Hello?’ she says and pulls up a strand of her hair.
‘I’m sure it will blow over,’ I say.
‘Why are they doing it? They’ve got the money.’
‘I can try to contact Zac again to see if he has more news.’
‘Oh God, that’s what makes this so awful. I miss him so much. He must be so worried too.’
‘Yes, I think he must,’ I say, knowing that Zac will be off planning new schemes.
‘If it gets out that it’s me, I’m ruined.’
‘I think I know the problem,’ I say.
‘You do?’ says Tor, suddenly erect and attentive.
I nod and sit on one of her Carlos Cane swivel bar stools. She has six. Each one costs a thousand pounds, which is a lot for a stool. It is comfortable, though.
‘You may need a stiff drink.’
‘Oh, fuck, is it that bad?’
‘Look, I don’t think there’s a third party in this situation, Tor,’ I say with my most serious expression. ‘In fact, I doubt there ever was any ransomware.’
Tor gets up and places her hands flat on the shining white surface of her breakfast bar. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I know you’ll find this hard to take on board, but I think it’s Zac who’s scamming you.’
‘No,’ she says with strains of a dying heroine.
‘I think he targeted you, researched you, faked his interest, and seduced you.’ I watch her reaction and can’t help feeling some pleasure in her distress.
‘But he loves me.’ Tor holds her head in her hands and whimpers. I have a sense that she suspected this. She’s an intelligent woman. You can listen to the ache of lust, but the mind continues to speak the truth.
‘He’s gone, hasn’t he?’
I nod. ‘He stole fifty thousand pounds from you, and, for some reason, is now taunting you via Facebook. He’ll probably ask for more money when they get close to guessing your identity.’
‘Bastard,’ Tor shouts, then throws her carefully constructed bowl of kiwis across the kitchen.
‘I expect he’s done this to other middle-aged women.’
‘I’m not fucking middle-aged!’ she shouts loudly.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
Tor opens a cupboard door, takes out a bottle of gin and a glass, goes to the freezer to get ice, finds a lime. In her distressed state, Tor makes herself a large and elegant G&T, adds a sprig of fresh mint, then sips.