Off the Record
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any sugar.’
Ten minutes later and the kettle was on, puffing out steam and condensing on the window. Well, what else do you do in times like this but put the kettle on?
Should be the story of my life, thought Maggie, who had lost count of the number of times she’d put the kettle on these past six months for want of something else to do.
She attempted a quick tidy round; the place was a bit of a tip – worse, she’d just done a load of handwashing and the clothes airer was filled with damp bras and knickers that had seen better days.
‘Oh, that’s fine. My boyfriend says I’m sweet enough.’
On its way to being manoeuvred into a corner, the airer collapsed in on itself. They both looked at each other. Flick gave a nervous laugh, then shook her head.
‘Actually, that’s bollocks.’
Caught off-guard, Maggie smiled self-consciously.
The kettle clicked off.
‘I’ll do this later.’ Abandoning the airer, she hastily turned her attention back to making the tea in the small galley that was her kitchen.
Squashing teabags into the tiny plastic sink and stooping down to retrieve the small carton of milk from the miniature fridge, she tried not to think about her old kitchen, with its granite-topped island, acres of counter space and all the latest appliances.
At a memory of sitting at the kitchen island, sharing a bottle of wine and romantic meal for two, she felt a sudden yearning and caught herself sharply. No point thinking about that. It was gone, along with everything else in her old life. She firmly grabbed the two mugs.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’
As she passed Flick her tea, Maggie took in the young reporter who was now sitting at the small banquette in the corner of her caravan.
It was the first time she’d had someone in her space and she felt acutely embarrassed by her situation.
She noticed the mould around the windowpane and averted her eyes.
What was she thinking, inviting her inside?
‘I don’t get many visitors.’ Cradling her own mug in her hands, she sat down opposite, squashing her long legs underneath the Formica table. ‘Don’t have the entertaining space,’ she added, forcing a laugh in a lame attempt at humour.
Flick smiled politely. ‘I like caravans. They always remind me of holidays to Wales with my mum.’
‘Nice.’
‘Yes.’
Flick didn’t mention the bit about the mouldy beds and never-ending rain. Best not.
The pleasantries over, the two women turned their attention to their tea. Flick took a large gulp – ugh, God, it was that awful Earl Grey stuff that tasted like perfume – and tried not to gag.
‘So, anyway, after we spoke on the phone I printed off some pictures,’ said Maggie.
After waiting what she hoped was enough time to not appear like she was trying to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, Maggie put down her mug and reached for the photos she’d set aside. At least she’d got that organized. Laying them on the table, she started showing them to Flick.
‘So, this is George when he was a kitten. I called him after my best friend George, and also Dad’s a big Beatles fan.
I mean was,’ she quickly corrected herself.
‘George Harrison was his favourite. Said he was the most underrated Beatle. I mean, everyone goes on about Lennon and McCartney, but when it comes to song-writing ability you don’t get better than “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”, wouldn’t you agree? ’
Flick made an agreeing sound. She had no idea what Maggie was going on about. She made a mental note to check Spotify later.
‘George isn’t used to the countryside. He’s been a city cat his whole life.
My flat had a small roof terrace and he liked to sit on it and sun himself.
’ Maggie pulled out a photo of George doing exactly that and smiled, her thumb affectionately rubbing over his picture.
‘We only moved up here a few months ago, after . . . well, after everything.’
For a brief moment her mind flicked back again, before she forced it briskly on.
‘He’s been missing over a week now. The farmer says there are foxes, but I think he might have just run away. I wouldn’t blame him.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Anyway, you can take them if you want. I have copies on my phone.’
Shuffling the photos into a neat pile, she passed them across the table.
Flick smiled awkwardly. ‘Actually, that’s not why I’m here.’
‘It’s not?’ Maggie frowned, confused. ‘But when you called, you said you’d seen the posters I’ve put up around town about my lost cat.’
‘Yes, I did. That’s how I got your number.’
‘I assumed you were going to write a piece for the Local Echo.’ Maggie realized she was beginning to sound accusatory, but she didn’t care.
Her beloved cat was missing. She’d invited this reporter into her home to help find him.
Reaching across to a stack of old newspapers, she found the one she was looking for and thrust it at Flick. ‘Like this one. Look.’
Sure enough, there was an article Flick had written about a lost cat, entitled ‘He’s The Cat’s Whiskers’. Flick cringed at the headline. That had been her editor’s idea.
‘And you said you had some information,’ continued Maggie, refusing to give up.
‘Yes, I do. But it’s not about your missing cat.’
‘It’s not?’
Watching Maggie’s face crumple with disappointment, Flick felt a stab of guilt. This woman was obviously upset about her pet. She should have explained more on the phone. Been more honest. Not come here under false pretences.
But she also knew if she had, Maggie would never have agreed to talk to her.
‘So what is it about?’
Flick snapped back to see Maggie studying her suspiciously.
‘It’s in connection with a Mr Theo C. Stratin.’
At the mention of his name Maggie felt her breath catch in the back of her throat. Even now, over six months later, it was still so raw.
‘Is this a missing persons thing?’
Flick quickly side-stepped with the deftness of a politician. ‘I wondered what you could tell me about him?’
Maggie laced her fingers tightly around her mug. ‘Not much really. We were in a relationship, we broke up.’ She kept her voice even. ‘The rest, as they say, is history.’
‘I understand he scammed you out of your life savings.’
Boom. Maggie reeled.
‘Who told you that?’
‘It’s a small town. People talk.’
Maggie’s internal shutters came slamming down.
‘I’m sorry, but I think you should leave. There’s obviously been a misunderstanding.’
The caravan felt suddenly claustrophobic. Hastily, Maggie got up from the table and in her hurry she banged herself on the corner of the banquette and spilled her tea. Cursing under her breath, she rubbed her thigh furiously. She could feel the bruises beginning to form already.
Well, that went well. Watching her, Flick felt a stab of dismay as she put down her mug and reached for her bag. Mutely, she rose from her seat. Then paused. It was now or never.
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re not the only woman he’s romance scammed. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again.’
‘If you don’t mind.’
Clambering over the collapsed airer, Maggie’s foot caught in a bra strap, causing her to trip and bend down to unloop it.
It was one of those T-shirt bras. Flesh-coloured with huge cups like giant jelly moulds.
God, the indignity of it all. Standing upright, she glared at Flick, daring her to say anything.
‘All right, look, I know I should’ve been honest about why I wanted to talk to you, but I thought if I told you, you wouldn’t want to speak to me.’
Finally, Maggie lost her patience.
‘You’re damn right I wouldn’t! Why would I? So you can write about me in your paper? Let the whole world know what a fool I was?’
‘Well, to be fair, I don’t think the whole world reads the Local Echo. Our circulation is only about four and a half thousand an edition.’
Flick broke off as she caught Maggie’s expression.
‘And you’re not a fool, you’re a victim,’ she added quietly, but firmly.
It took the wind from Maggie’s sails.
‘I’ve been doing my research into romance fraud, and more and more women – and men – are coming forward and the statistics are frightening.
Men like Theo Stratin deliberately target vulnerable women.
Apparently the most affected age group is usually over the age of forty-five; in fact, it’s most often between the ages of fifty and seventy. ’
‘Great. Even worse. An old fool.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
There was a lull as both women fell silent. Outside the rain was still lashing. Maggie watched the water seeping in at the windows.
‘How old are you, Felicity?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘How old do you think I am?’
Flick knew exactly how old Maggie was. She’d looked up her birth certificate, along with a few other things, as part of her background checks and initial investigations into the story.
‘Late thirties?’ she fibbed.
‘I’m nearly fifty, almost twice your age, and any journalist worth their salt would’ve already looked up my birth records, so they’d know that. So either you’re a crap journalist or that’s a pathetic attempt at flattery.’
Flick felt her face go beetroot.
‘I’m a good journalist and that’s a crap attempt at flattery.’
Despite the insult, Maggie smiled at her admission.
‘OK, so now we’re being honest with each other, can I tell you something off the record?’
Flick nodded.
‘He didn’t just steal my life savings, he stole everything from me: my trust, my heart, my home, my livelihood, my self-esteem . . . all of it.’
As Maggie laid her vulnerability bare on the table between them, she was reminded yet again of the heavy weight of her guilt.
‘Yet it’s me who’s ashamed. When I finally stopped crying long enough to go to the police, I felt like such an idiot—’
‘But why? That’s crazy!’ interrupted Flick. She was indignant, but Maggie shook her head firmly.