2009 - We Are All Made of Glue (19 page)

“Thank you.”

As far as I was aware, I’d added no touches to it whatsoever, apart from unloading my furniture and hanging some curtains up.

I positioned him on the sofa by the bay window, where he could be seen from the road. Then I put the kettle on and spooned some coffee into the cafetiere.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Black with four sugars.”

I laughed. “It’ll taste like black treacle.”

“Mm. That’s how I like it.”

He must have noticed that I kept glancing towards the window because he said, “I hope I’m not making you nervous, Georgina.” Black treacle with a hard mineral edge.

“No, not at all,” I blustered, feeling intensely nervous.

Then a car horn beeped outside—I recognised the distinctive note of Rip’s Saab.

“Please excuse me.” I went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “Ben! Rip’s here!”

“Coming!”

A moment later Ben appeared, with his shoelaces still undone, his shirt hanging out, and his big backpack over his shoulder. God knows what he carted around in it because he always seemed to wear the same clothes. I went out to the car with him, my ready-for-anything smile fixed in position. But Rip just pulled the inside lever to open the boot and sat in his Saab, waiting for Ben to put his backpack in. He didn’t even wind the window down. I couldn’t even tell whether he’d noticed the black Jag or the man sitting in the window. I wanted to hammer on the window with my fists, I wanted to kick in the glossy, dark green door panels. But Ben was waving goodbye, so I blew him a kiss and went back inside, slamming the door.

My face must have been livid when I returned to the sitting room, for Mr Diabello gave me a sharp look and said, “All going to plan?”

“Not exactly.”

His left eyebrow lifted a fraction, and his cheeks tightened, and I realised from that look that he had understood everything about my situation. I blushed as if he’d walked in on me naked in my bedroom. He was a man, I remembered with a shiver, who could read people’s dreams.

“Want to talk about it?” His voice oozed sympathy. “I can recommend a good solicitor.”

“No. No, it’s not at that stage yet.” As I said the words I realised that probably it was at that stage, and probably I did need legal advice. But the thought of a friend of Mark Diabello’s crawling all over the intimacies of my life made me cringe. “Just tell me what you came to tell me.”

“Yes—you were concerned that my partner, Nick Wolfe, might be behaving…how can I put it?…improperly.”

“Harassing an old lady in order to force her out and get possession of her house.”

My coffee had gone cold, but I sipped it anyway, to avoid looking at him. His gaze was making me feel uncomfortable and sweaty, like sitting under a spotlight. I could feel my cheeks going pink.

“I’ve had words with Nick. He admits he’s fallen for the house, and has maybe been a bit too…er…enthusiastic in approaching Mrs Shapiro. But he denies absolutely having done anything improper.”

“But he admits to plying her with sherry. Hoping she’d sign a bit of paper that he just happened to have in his briefcase?”

However annoyed I got with Mrs Shapiro, I wasn’t going to stand by and let these two shysters take her to the cleaners.

“I think the sherry was meant as a goodwill gesture. A gift. He didn’t mean her to open it up and start drinking it straightaway. That was her idea. By all accounts, she was giving him the eye.”

“Oh, come off it! She’s eighty-one. Anyway, why would he bring her a gift?”

“A token of appreciation for a valued client.”

“But she’s not a client. He just turned up at her hospital bedside.”

“From what Nick says, she was a willing party. More than willing. Positively eager. He also told me, by the way, that she’s not in fact your aunt.”

He looked up at me from lowered eyes, a small smile playing around his…how would you describe his lips? Not full and sensuous. No. But definitely…kissable.

“Okay, so I made that up. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“It does raise the issue of what
your
interest is in the property.”

“I haven’t any interest. I just don’t want to see an old lady be ripped off. Someone must have told him about the house.” Then I realised. “
You
must have told him.”

Our eyes met. I noticed for the first time that his were not brown, as I’d previously thought, but dark sea-green, with sparks of gold and obsidian in their depths.

“I did mention our conversation to him. I didn’t expect him to get quite so excited about it. He’s a very passionate man, you know. It’s our motto at Wolfe & Diabello. Passionate about property.”

“Passionate”—there was something about the way he lingered over the word.

“He thought Mrs Shapiro deserved a more focused view of his services?”

“Exactly so.”

“Like me?”

“That’s up to you, Georgina.”

“Thank you. It’s been nice talking to you.” I stood up abruptly, knocking my empty coffee cup over. He stood up, too, brushing past me as he made his way towards the door. I felt a shiver—or was it a shudder?

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said.

When I looked out of the window, I saw it was snowing again outside.

After he’d gone, I sat down on the sofa and breathed deeply.
In—two—three—four. Out—two—three—four
. For some reason, my heart started to thump. Yes, I knew, in my sensible core, that the last thing I needed was a man like Mark Diabello in my life—a treacle-voiced estate agent with black and gold in his eyes. But I was unhappy and furious and needy. And it was so long since someone had looked at me with desire. And a little voice in the back of my head was whispering—why not?

Stress fractures

I
t was still snowing that same powdery snow next day when I walked past the Islington window of Wolfe & Diabello on my way to the bus stop.
I’d
been down to pick up a new laser cartridge, some more exercise books and a box of Choco-Puffs (I think they’re disgusting, but Ben likes them, and I’m in competition with whatever he gets in Islington.) I glanced in through the window and saw Nick Wolfe, bending over the desk of a young blonde woman who could have been a clone of Suzi Brentwood. On impulse, I pushed the door and went in. They both looked up as the door pinged.

“Mr Wolfe. I’m glad you’re in. Have you a minute?”

The blonde stubble on his scalp gleamed as he straightened up.

He led me into an office at the back and pulled out two chairs.

“What can I do you for, Georgette?” He smiled wolfily.

I explained my concern about the mains water tap and the back-door keys, keeping my voice carefully neutral and avoiding any hint of accusation.

“You spoke to my colleague Mark Diabello about this, didn’t you?”

His voice was slightly plummier than Mark’s. I guessed he’d been to public school, whereas Mark had pulled himself up the hard way. Like me. He glanced pointedly at his watch. I ignored the hint.

“What I can’t understand is what you and Mr Diabello are up to.” I was smiling sweetly, looking him straight in the eye. “He wants to sell it for half a million. Then he puts it up to a million. Then you go barging into the hospital with an offer of two million.” I spoke fast, conscious that his eyes were fixed on me in a not-very-friendly way. “You must admit, it’s a bit…worrying.”

“Look, Mrs…Georgette. To be frank, I don’t really know what it’s got to do with you. It’s up to Mrs Shapiro what she does with her house, isn’t it? I understand she’s not even related to you.” He glanced at his watch again. “I made Mrs Shapiro what I consider to be a very fair offer. More than fair. Generous. I don’t know what Mark told you, but let’s get one thing straight.” There was a bullying note in his voice that made me flinch. “Just because it’s floated on the market doesn’t mean it reaches its market price. Nor that the person who makes the initial purchase is the ultimate buyer, if you see what I mean.”

What
did
he mean? In the close space of the office, I could smell his musky aftershave, and beneath it, a strong almost feral odour that reminded me of Wonder Boy.

“You mean Mark Diabello buys it for a quarter of a million, and sells it on to somebody else for two million, trousering the difference?”

“I did not say that, Georgette.” He emphasised every syllable forcefully. “That is not what I said.” He looked at his watch again, and then stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

I stood on the pavement reeling. It had turned dark in the last half-hour, and a few stray snowflakes were spinning like scattered thoughts in the orange-tinged light. One or two of the shops had already closed up, but I noticed that Hendricks & Wilson was still open. Well, what did I have to lose?

Although the two shopfronts looked similar from the outside, the interiors were startlingly different. Whereas Wolfe & Diabello had been all glass and chrome with laminate flooring and halogen lights, in the style of a city bistro, Hendricks & Wilson had red carpet and leather armchairs and brass wall-lights in the style of a gentlemen’s club. I suppose it was meant to feel traditional and reassuring, but it just seemed ridiculously pompous in such a small space. A thin youth with spiky gelled hair was sitting at a computer, staring intently at the monitor. He looked up and smiled as I came in.

“I’m looking for Damian,” I said.

“That’s me,” he beamed. His teeth were slightly crooked, and he looked reassuringly gormless. “How can I help?”

I hadn’t really prepared what I was going to say, so I tried the familiar line about my aunty selling a house in Totley Place. I watched his face carefully, but there was no sign of recognition. It seemed that whatever Mrs Goodney had been planning, she hadn’t put it into action. Maybe I’d frightened her off.

“I think you need to speak to one of the partners about something like that. Would you like me to make an appointment?” He reached for a large red-bound desk diary.

I hesitated. Did I really need any more estate agents in my life?

“Couldn’t you give me just a rough idea?”

“Hm.” He chewed a fingernail. “Tell you what—I’ll drive past on my way home tonight and take a look.”

“Thanks. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. Thanks, Damian.”

“How did you know…?”

I quickly made for the door.

§

When I phoned Damian the next morning, I was even more convinced that he wasn’t involved in the dirty tricks. He wouldn’t give me a valuation, but he said, “A big site like that in the heart of Highbury—it has development potential. You’re talking millions. You’ll have to speak to Mr Wilson.”

“I don’t think my aunty would want it to be developed. But thank you for your help.”

I hung up quickly before he could ask me any questions.

If Damian wasn’t involved, that meant it must be Wolfe & Diabello. Rage was burning in my head. I tried to calm myself down with Ms Baddiel’s breathing exercises.
In—two—three—four. Out
—
two—three—four
. Wolfe & Diabello. What a pair of gobshites. I phoned the office—my hands were shaking so much I got a couple of wrong numbers before I finally got through. Neither of the partners was there. I left a message with Suzi Brentwood.

“Please can you get one of them to ring me back. No, I can’t say what it’s about. Just tell them I know what’s going on. Tell them they’re a couple of sleazy double-crossing crooks.”

It was Mark Diabello who phoned me back, within ten minutes.

“I got your message, Georgina. Strong language. What did we do to upset you?”

“It’s not what you did, it’s what I did. I got another valuation.”

“So you should, Georgina. And?”

“And he said it was a development site with potential. He said it could be worth several millions.”

“Who said that?”

“Somebody. Somebody from Hendricks’s.”

“The office junior? They always make wild guesses.”

“No. Someone highly qualified. And reputable. Not a conman like you.”

“You’re a very emotional woman, Georgina. I like that. But you’ve forgotten what I said.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I’d match any genuine valuation.”

Had he said that? It’s true, I’d forgotten.

“But the other one—your sidekick—he offered her two million.”

“I can’t speak for my partner. But I said I’d match their valuation. I think you owe me an apology, Georgina.”

“
I
owe
you
an apology?”

I put the phone down. I was shaking. Then I thought back over our previous conversations. Yes, maybe I’d been a bit hasty. Even a bit rude. I remembered now, he
had
said something about matching Hendricks & Wilson’s valuation, but that had been in a different context. And it’s true, Damian did seem to be the office junior. But what he’d said rang true. Actually, what all of them said rang true. That was the trouble. How was I to know who to believe?

§

“
Stress fractures can occur in adhesive bonds when the materiab have different coefficients of thermal expansion
.”

I’d been staring at the sentence on my monitor for at least half an hour, as a cup of tea went cold on my desk, thinking maybe that’s what had gone wrong between Rip and me. He’s slow to get angry, but when he does, he stays hot much longer. I flare up quickly but quickly cool down again. My mind tripped back to that morning’s conversation with Mark Diabello—yes, maybe I had flared up too quickly then. Maybe I should have given him the benefit of the doubt. What exactly
had
he said? I couldn’t remember. The glue had got to my brain.

It was time to break for lunch. I wandered over to investigate the fridge. There were two eggs, a slice of bread and the remains of a supermarket bag of rocket salad. In the door was an opened bottle of Rioja. Should I? Shouldn’t I?

I was trying to decide, when the doorbell rang. Mark Diabello was standing on the doorstep with a bottle of champagne in his hand. It wasn’t just any old supermarket champagne, either, it was Bollinger. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but I could swear his eyes were smouldering. Deep sea-green, with flickers of obsidian and gold. Something in my heart did a funny little skip.