2009 - We Are All Made of Glue (23 page)

There’s something magical about sitting in the front seat up on top of a double-decker bus, wending among the tree tops. I could feel the tension seeping out of my shoulders and neck as we swayed along high above the road, like riding an elephant. As we crossed the bridge I caught a glimpse of the slim glassy curves of the River Lea as it slipped into London. All around me the sky was full of scudding clouds that fleetingly turned to pink when they caught the sunlight—not the dead chemical pink of Northmere House, but a bright transient gleam of colour like an unexpected smile. I thought of the young woman pregnant with her baby, sitting on the stony hillside, watching the sunset redden over the western sea, waiting for her lover. Now she was locked up in that breeze-block fortress waiting for me to release her.

The bus jolted and turned as we came out from among the treetops at Millfield Park, and for a moment the whole skyscape opened up in front of me, turbulent, vivid, with apocalyptic shafts of light breaking through the clouds. Somewhere it was raining. A coloured arc glimmered briefly and disappeared. For some reason, tears came into my eyes. I remembered my strange conversation with Ben. Liminal. A time of transition. The threshold of a new world. Poor Ben—why did he take everything to heart so?

Mondays were my worst days for missing Ben—two days still to go. They never warn you how much your children are going to hurt you; they never warn you about that needle-keen love-pain that gets in under your ribs and twists around just when you’re trying to get on with your life. It was already four o’clock—home time. Would Ben be back at Rip’s by now, eating Choco-Puffs and talking about his day at school? At the next bus stop, a load of schoolkids clambered on and joined me on the top deck, gabbling and laughing and throwing stuff at one another. Did they worry about Armageddon and liminal times? Actually, with kids, you can never tell.

As soon as I got home, I put the kettle on and while it was coming to the boil I listened to the messages on my answering machine. There was one from Mark Diabello asking me to ring when I had time, one from Nathan at
Adhesives in the Modern World
, reminding me of the new deadline, one from Pectoral Pete—no idea what that was about—and a bald peremptory three-word message from Rip, “Ring me straightaway.” Like hell I would. I tried to delete the one from Rip and accidentally deleted them all. Now I’d have to remember to phone them all back. Another time. I put a tea bag into the cup and looked in the fridge for milk. Drat. I’d run out. I was still fuming at Rip’s message—at the tone of his voice. Once, not so long ago, he’d have left a message with love. What had happened to all that tenderness?

I hunted around for some powdered milk, and ended up pouring myself a glass of wine instead. Then another. The silence of the kitchen closed in on me. Two days still to go. Then the phone rang. It was Mark Diabello.

“Georgina, you’re at home. I’ve been…er…making a few enquiries. Shall I come round?”

I should have made an excuse and put the phone down, but the wine had made me weepy, and the treacly sweetness in his voice filled me with unexpected longing. No, not for sex—I just wanted someone to be nice to me.

“Sorry I didn’t ring you back. I’ve been feeling…”

I didn’t get the end of the sentence out. A big sob rose up in my throat and washed the words away. He was around within ten minutes.

I suppose I’d been hoping for a little tenderness, but I could see from the way Mark Diabello looked at me on the doorstep that sex was what was on offer. He led me straight into the bedroom, where he noted with a murmur of approval that the satin and Velcro handcuffs were still in position from last time. Then his shirt was off, and my top was off and his trousers were off and my skirt was up and…what happened next was far too disgusting to describe. He went through all the stages like someone working through a car service manual, and I surrendered with all the abandon of a Ford Fiesta having its eighty-thousand-mile service.

As the bedclothes cooled against my skin and my eyes adjusted to the dimness in the room I noticed that his clothes were folded up on the chair, while mine were all tangled in the duvet. Circling me in his arms, he stroked the hair back from my forehead.

“Georgina, you’re a very sensitive woman. I like that.”

“I like you, too.”

I forced myself to say it, but the words felt wooden and clunky in my mouth. I rested my cheek on his damp chest that smelled of sweat and musky soap and chlorine.

He ran a finger down my cheek. “You’re special. I mean…different. I’d like to see more of you, Georgina.”

“Mmm,” I murmured non-committally.

The touchy-feely talk was probably fake, I’d concluded, and all he wanted from me was sex.

We hadn’t spoken about Mrs Shapiro and Canaan House last time, as if by tacit agreement, as if our relationship floated above the world and its sordid concerns in its own enclosed bubble. But there was something so
purposeful
about those neatly folded clothes.

“You know, Mark, I still wonder about that house…”

“What do you wonder, sweetheart?”

“…what you and your partner are up to.”

“I could ask you the same thing, you know, Georgina. Why did you come to me in the first place to have it valued? She’s not your aunty. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to sell—so why the sudden interest on your part?” He propped himself up on one elbow, studying my face. “I keep asking myself—what’s in it for you? Why did you start this whole thing?”

I gasped. He thought…he thought
I
was like
him
. Mrs Goodney, I remembered, had made the same accusation.

“I didn’t start it.” I had a sudden vivid recollection of the rusty-gate voice talking into the mobile phone. I remembered the phrase she’d used to describe Mrs Shapiro—an old biddy. “It was the social worker who started it. She wanted to put Mrs Shapiro in a home and make her sell the house. She was going to have it valued by Damian at Hendricks & Wilson. I heard her say it.”

He sat up, his limbs suddenly taut.

“You should have told me that before. It’s a well-known scam. All the estate agents have their contacts in Social Services. That’s how we get to hear of properties with potential before they go on the market—old people going into homes, deceased estates, mortgage foreclosures. There might be a client in the wings, an investor or a developer, who’ll pay a good price for the tip-off.”

My brain was struggling to keep up. The shameless red panties were crumpled under the bedclothes. Then I remembered something else.

“Actually, that social worker had a man with her the first time. He could have been a builder—1 think she was showing him the house. She must have been talking to him on the phone. But surely…what if Mrs Shapiro has a family?”

“They do a deal with the family, Georgina—cash sale, no questions asked—the family get their hands on the money, and they get the house off their hands. There’s always someone in every family that’ll take that line. People—how can I put it?—in my line of business you tend to see them at their worst.”

“But I still don’t understand why the family goes along with it.”

“If their old dad or aunty goes into a nursing home, the money from selling their house is supposed to pay the home fees, right? At five hundred quid a week or more, that can soon gobble up an entire estate that the family hoped they would inherit. But when the money runs out, the Council takes over the payment for the nursing home. So they get the valuer to put in a false low valuation. He gets his cut. They sell it cheap to an associate, based on the low valuation. The relatives pay the nursing home fees until the money from the phoney sale’s all gone, and the Council takes over the payments. After a few months, they can put the property back on the market at its true value, and they pocket the difference.”

I tried to follow what he said, but all I could see was a gyre of money and bricks swirling around in my head. I was wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

“But that’s just a rip-off.”

“You’re very innocent, sweetheart. I like that.”

He kissed me on the forehead in a way that made me feel suddenly queasy.

“You’d better go now. Ben’ll be back soon. Anyway, I don’t think she has any family.”

He threw me a sharp look, as if he knew I was lying about Ben, and reached across for his underpants—sleek dark Lycra that perfectly denned his manly parts, as the shameless woman might have observed—but she’d gone off somewhere, and Georgie Sinclair was back home.

“So the social worker could just be flying solo,” he said.

“You mean, robbing solo?”

“That’s one way of seeing it. But look at it from the social worker’s point of view—they don’t get paid much, do they?” He slipped his arms into his shirtsleeves. “Not many perks. And it’s a pretty thankless job. Then once in a lifetime an opportunity like this comes along. Who’s she robbing? There’s no family. The old lady doesn’t need millions, she just needs a nice, safe, clean home. Why not help her and help yourself at the same time?”

I was shocked. “Aren’t social workers supposed to care for the elderly?”

He laughed, a cold laugh. “Nobody cares for anybody in this world, Georgina.”

He was buttoning up his shirt now. The bleakness in his voice was like the mineral aftertaste of black treacle. I felt an unexpected pang of pity. Poor Mr Diabello with his sleek beautiful body and his sleek shiny Jaguar—condemned to live in a universe where nobody cares. I kissed his wrist where the black hairs curled out from under the starched white cuff of his shirt.

“I thought you cared for me.”

“That’s different.
You’re
different, Georgina.”

He bent down and kissed me so gently that I was just beginning to think he might mean it after all, and my undisciplined hormones started up their chatter. Then he raised his head and I saw the glint of his eyes darken from gold to obsidian. “So just out of interest—what did Hendricks & Wilson value it at?”

“Seven million,” I
hazarded
.

“You’re lying to me.”

“
You
might be lying to
me
.”

He laughed, tilting back his head to knot up his tie, so I could see the attractive growth of five o’clock shadow, even though it was only four o’clock, dappling the handsome cleft in his chin. The Velcro was chafing against my wrists.

“Mark, you’ve forgotten…”

“Oh, yes.” He reached out and undid the fastenings. They dangled limply from the headboard as he made his way out into the dusk, and I retrieved my tangled clothes.

Ancient and inexplicable

I
t poured with rain next day, and I sat at my laptop trying to think about adhesives. Bonding. For some reason, my mind kept drifting to Velcro—fascinating stuff. All those sexy little hooks. After a while, I gave up trying to work, put my wellies on, and went round to feed Mrs Shapiro’s cats. They were waiting for me as I approached Canaan House, circling disconsolately out in the rain. The porch where they usually waited was one huge puddle. I looked up and saw that water was now pouring down from the broken gutter I’d first noticed nearly a fortnight ago, and splashing straight into the porch. I fed the cats in the kitchen, and shooed them out through the back door. I noticed Violetta sneaking round the back towards the derelict outhouses, and a few minutes later Mussorgsky slunk off in the same direction. I watched to see whether Wonder Boy would follow, but he was still hanging around for the last scrapings out of the tin. I dished it out slowly, to give the lovers the best chance I could. Then I went home via the Turkish bakery and treated myself to a Danish pastry.

As soon as I got in I phoned Mr Ali. He was hesitant at first when I described the problem.

“I am a handyman not a builder. Big ladders needed for this job.”

But he agreed to take a look. Next, I rang Northmere House. I was annoyed but not surprised to discover that Mrs Shapiro was barred from receiving phone calls as well as visitors. No doubt her mail would be censored, too.

Fortified by my cup of tea and Danish pastry, I returned to my desk. Adhesives. Bonding. Bondage. Mark Diabello. The trouble was, I caught myself thinking, as I stared at the screen of my laptop, that we didn’t have anything at all in common. Once the initial excitement of sex wore off, I found him—I hadn’t been able to admit this to myself before—a bit, well, boring. Maybe that was the trouble with
The Splattered Heart
. Those romantic hero types can be limited in their appeal. What I needed was someone I could talk to: someone intellectual; preferably someone hunkily intellectual.

I’d deleted Nathan’s message without writing down the new deadline. Should I ring him to check? I hesitated. He already thought I was pretty stupid. I pictured him sweeping back his black hair in exasperation from his craggily intelligent brow—he was sitting down at his desk so you couldn’t tell he was rather short. Anyway, size doesn’t matter, does it? I dialled his number.

“Nathan, I’m sorry, I deleted your message by mistake. What’s the new deadline?”

He sighed and tutted in a way that suggested he wasn’t really cross.

“March twenty-fifth. D’you think you’ll be able to have it ready in time, Georgie girl?”

“I think so. Actually, Nathan,” I lowered my voice, “I keep on getting distracted.”

“Oh? Anything interesting?” he breathed. I wavered. No, better not mention Velcro.

“Nathan, have you ever heard of a place called Lydda?”

“You mean Lydda near Tel Aviv? Where the airport is? They call it Lod nowadays.”

“See? I remembered you were good on place names.”

“Are you thinking of going off on holiday? You’d better finish the April
Adhesives
before you go anywhere,” he added with mock sternness. “The coast’s nice down there. I’ve got some cousins who live at Jaffa.”

Somehow, it hadn’t registered with me before that Nathan was probably Jewish, too. The thing is, in Kippax, everybody comes from Kippax. Mr Mazzarella who ran the chippie and his wife who ran the ice-cream van were the only exotic people in town.

“No, I’ve been visiting an elderly Jewish lady who lives near me. She’s got an old photo in her hall of Lydda.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. “I thought it was a person. I didn’t realise it was a place,” I mumbled. “That’s all.”