With my heart thrashing against my ribcage, I shield my eyes from their headlights and step forwards. I am rewarded by a Blitzkrieg of shouting and as I focus in disbelief past the blue lights, register a line of armed police officers.
They are all pointing their guns in my direction. AT ME. I cannot recall a moment when I have come so dangerously close to relinquishing the grip on my key bodily functions.
The next few minutes are a terrifying, bewildering blur. I have never been the subject of a siege by an Armed Response Unit before, and can safely admit it’s not something I’d be keen on being involved in again.
I am handcuffed and thrown into a police van, protesting with such spontaneous and befuddled outrage that even
I’m
not convinced I’m innocent of whatever it is they think I’ve done.
I’m told that, no, I’m not allowed to get my phone to stop my girlfriend and mother from killing each other, because it and everything else in the Fanny Magnet is required for a forensic examination.
And in the course of the next two hours, most of which are spent at a police station, several facts become apparent.
One: the Fanny Magnet was involved in a shooting the day before I took ownership of it.
Two: every shred of documentation I have for it is so fake that by rights I should only have had to hand over Monopoly money for it.
Three: I’m not allowed to drive it home.
Four: it takes two hours of my reasoned arguments (and a moment or two of pathetic pleading) to convince them that I have a rock solid alibi and couldn’t fit the description of the perpetrator, who is 5 foot 4 and ginger with one finger missing from his left hand, less.
Then I
am
free to go home, but not in the Fanny Magnet because it’s required as evidence. Indefinitely.
I walk out of the police station, spot a taxi in the distance and hold out my hand. Its driver pulls in too fast and sends a tidal wave of sludge over me. Then he looks me up and down, decides I’m too disgusting to let into his cab, and drives off.
I stand, exhausted, drenched and looking like I’ve completed a Tough Mudder course through a Bangkok sewer. A taxi cannot be seen for miles. I wonder how tonight could possibly get any better.
Chapter 18
Gemma
When Belinda overhears me threatening to strangle her, I begin mounting a defence which I hope sounds dignified but in fact comes out all wobbly-lipped and blubbing, as if I’ve lost my teddy.
Retreating to the sitting room, I weakly announce that I’m going to leave. Then she announces that
she’s
going to leave. As she storms past and opens the door – yanking the handle off in the process – it strikes me that Belinda is significantly better at being in a huff than I am or could ever dream of being.
Then she stops. She turns round. Her shoulders slump and she plods in a slack-kneed, proto-Neanderthal stoop towards the sofa. She takes a deep breath to compose herself, then goes to sit down on the arm but misses by a centimetre and tumbles, arse first, onto the floor.
My first instinct is to dive over and help, but I stop myself as she sits up and tries to focus. I brace myself for what’s coming next.
‘I’m sorry, Gemma.’
‘The thing is, Belinda,’ I protest, then stop. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’m sorry. And I mean it.’ She lowers her eyes and I go over to help her onto the sofa.
‘It’s okay,’ I mumble. ‘This whole thing got out of hand. When I said I – look, it just slipped out of my mouth. Totally stupid of me. So I’m sorry too.’
‘I shouldn’t have said those things about you and Daniel.’ She lifts up the bottle of gin glumly. ‘I’ve always been a terrible bruiser after I’ve had a few.’
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ I offer.
She nods. ‘That’d be nice.’
I head to the kitchen and flick on the kettle, wondering if she might have passed out by the time I get back with the tea pot and mugs. On the contrary, she’s piling her hair up into a chignon and looks unsettlingly composed. I pour the tea and sit down.
‘Can I say something, Belinda?’ I ask, though I know I may be letting myself in for trouble. ‘Don’t you ever have any nagging doubts about parts of these theories? After all these years?’
‘I do have moments, Gemma. Mainly after I’ve watched
Dirty Dancing
– Mum and I love it,’ she smirks. ‘Then I remind myself that that’s fiction. Reality is a harsher demon.’
‘The break-up with Dan’s dad must’ve hit you hard.’
‘I adored him when we first met – and the feeling was mutual. I found a letter once that he’d written in the early days, full of lovely words about how he’d dream about the sound of my voice. Unlike later, when I’m sure he had nightmares about it.’ She looks down at her mug. ‘When I found out about all the affairs two years later – a month after Dan was born – it was terrible. I felt like an idiot. Yet I clung to the marriage, closed my eyes to what was plain to everyone else. Do you know what I did after I’d found out, Gemma?’
‘Put ricin in his Scotch?’
She smiles briefly. ‘When I was at my lowest point – and knew all about the deception, the adultery – I said I’d forgive him and take him back. Only he didn’t want to come back.’
‘Oh Belinda . . .’
‘The rejection was the worst part of it.’
I wonder what Dan would think, if he could hear this. I’m very glad he can’t.
‘But that, as you know, wasn’t the end of the story,’ she goes on. ‘I spent months wallowing in misery and loneliness, on my own with a small baby. Then I said to myself: “Enough’s enough.” That’s when I rewrote the book.’
‘Did you always know it would sell so well?’
‘Oh, God no. My views were unpalatable to a lot of people. But it struck a chord with so many who’d had similar experiences to mine. For years, women had been sold the old chestnut that “you have to work at a marriage”. Compromise is one thing, but often, when their man went off with someone else, women were blaming themselves – convincing themselves that
they
hadn’t worked hard enough.’ She takes a sip of tea. ‘So often, that just wasn’t the case. I genuinely believe that we’re conditioned by society – and Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey – to believe that romantic love will last forever. But it rarely does.’
I bite my lip. ‘Belinda, you speak a lot of sense. I loved reading your books – it’s obvious why they were so successful. They really do make you think. But, even after all the thinking, I remain one of the fools. I think lasting love
does
exist. I’m obviously a hopeless romantic.’
‘Well, I won’t hold it against you,’ she winks. ‘Part of me wishes I could join you.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Oh, now that was
my
throwaway line. Don’t ever repeat it.’ She hesitates. ‘I don’t ever want another relationship, obviously. But there have been times over the years when I’ve, you know, dated. I always thought that was fine as long as it never went any further than a bit of fun. I kind of miss it,’ she says.
‘Belinda.’ I lean forward in my seat. ‘You’re a gorgeous woman. You should do some dating again.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, come off it, I’m sixty next year. The days when I’d jump on the back of someone’s motorbike and go to the flicks are long gone. The only men I meet these days couldn’t even get on a motorbike without taking their anti-inflammatories first.’
I hear the door slam and realise it must be Dan – finally.
‘But thank you,’ whispers Belinda, at the very moment that he bursts through the door.
He stands breathless and bedraggled, his coat splattered in mud, and glances between the two of us, confusion all over his face. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ we say in unison.
‘I think it’s time I turned in,’ I add, standing up. ‘Good night, Belinda. And thanks for the drinks.’
‘My pleasure,’ she smiles.
When Dan and I are outside the door, he grabs me by the hand. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Sorry about the message – it’s nothing to worry about,’ I say, as he drips muddy water on my foot. And then I look up. ‘What took you so long anyway?’
Chapter 19
Dan
Over the next week, the reality of buying a house starts to kick in. Gemma seems to be constantly surrounded by stacks of paperwork, and that’s before we get onto her collection of home décor magazines, which are now so copious I’m convinced we could actually
build
a house with them.
‘What’s all this?’ I ask as I walk into our room on Saturday morning when she’s midway through some sort of colour-coding process. Gemma is a big fan of colour-coding.
I sometimes think my girlfriend could not be more efficient if she were German, had alloy wheels and did over 300 miles to the gallon.
‘This blue pile is anything to do with the mortgage. The pink pile is the solicitor. Green is the estate agents, and this is miscellaneous – cushion colours and that kind of thing.’
‘The miscellaneous pile is the biggest.’
‘Cushion colours are important,’ she grins. I think she’s only half-joking. ‘Pull up a bean bag. I need to go through some things with you. We absolutely have to finish the mortgage forms today or we’ll be going nowhere.’
I drag the bean bag along the floor and sit next to her as she hands me a stack of paper. ‘I’ve filled out most of these already – you just need to do pages twenty to twenty-nine. Although read through what I’ve written, won’t you? It’s important that we do this together.’
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ I reply, wondering what her reaction might be if I suggested doing this in front of
Match of the Day
. Then I register her expression – single-minded, focused, somewhere between Miss Moneypenny and The Terminator – and decide against it.
I pick up a pen and start reading the form when I get a waft of her perfume. I glance over at her and am hit by one of the miniature thunderbolts I still get all the time. ‘You are ridiculously gorgeous,’ I hear myself say.
She looks up and the hint of a smile appears at her lips. ‘So are you,’ she whispers.
I’m forced to respond to an urge to lean in and kiss her. The kiss deepens as I pull her into me and murmur, ‘Mum’s out.’
She shifts closer and kisses me again, saying huskily, ‘Is she?’
I abandon page 21 of the form, moving my lips to her neck. ‘The bed could squeak as much as it wants. Nobody would hear.’
She freezes and pulls back. Then she pecks me on the cheek, as if she’s just given me 50p for an ice cream and told me to be on my way.
‘Fine,’ she says, not sounding massively overwhelmed with lust.
I narrow my eyes. ‘That isn’t quite the response I was hoping for.’
‘Dan, you know I’d love nothing more than to get naked with you,’ she says, about as seductively as you’d expect someone to discuss their tax return.
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘In fact, I will.’
‘Excellent!’ I start unbuttoning my shirt.
‘But first you have to tell me your monthly outgoings.’
‘What?’
She rustles the form in my face. ‘The mortgage company need to know.’
‘Bastards,’ I reply. She raises an eyebrow. ‘Fine. Fire away.’
She clears her throat and picks up a pencil. ‘Credit cards?’
‘What about them?’
‘Have you got one?’
I hesitate, considering my options. There are several alternatives to the truth, but sadly, I know she would see through all of them. ‘Yes,’ I say casually.
Her jaw drops. ‘
Have
you? You never told me that.’
‘A man’s got to have some secrets,’ I grin, before straightening my face, it being abundantly obvious that joking about this is not appreciated. ‘Why are you looking at me as if I’ve just confessed to selling my grandmother to pay for a week in Zante?’
‘I . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, go on.’
‘There’s nothing else to say,’ I tell her. ‘I got it a few years ago so I could buy some things for the flat, that’s all.’
She looks at me as if this is something she patently should know about, an opinion I refuse to indulge. ‘Amount owing?’
I feel a prickle on the back of my neck. ‘Why do they want to know that?’
‘They just have to, that’s all,’ she says quietly. She’s trying not to show it, but frustration appears on her brow. ‘They’re asking, so we have to tell them. At least, we do if we want a mortgage.’
I think carefully before opening my mouth again. ‘Couple of hundred.’
She looks at me with eyes that could get her a job at Guantanamo Bay. ‘You’ll need to be more specific.’
‘I’d have to check.’
‘Okay.’ I don’t move. ‘Well, can you do so? Now, I mean.’
I have a horrible feeling this isn’t going to end well. Still, I walk to the big cardboard box marked
Important Stuff
that contains bank statements, bills and anything else that might come in handy one day. In sharp contrast to everything on my bedroom floor, this is not colour-coded. In fact, it is not codified, catalogued or filed in any way: it is the organisational equivalent of one of those large South American landfill sites, the ones where entire communities had lived for generations without anybody actually realising.
Gemma does not need to know this.
I open the first file, look inside, see an unopened pay slip from 2009 on the top and close it again. ‘I’ll have to dig it out another time,’ I declare. ‘With the move, my filing system needs a bit of a . . . reappraisal.’
She’s having none of it. ‘Dan. Just tell me. How much do you owe on that credit card?’
‘Is this really necess—’
‘Yes,
if we want a mortgage
!’
I hold my breath and spit it out in one go. ‘Two thousand three hundred and forty-seven pounds.’
‘WHAT?’
I seriously resent the tone of her voice. ‘I’m paying it back,’ I retaliate.
She puts the papers down. ‘Dan, this could affect our mortgage application.’ The voice she uses isn’t even one of annoyance. It’s as if she’s hurt. I hate that voice, I really do. ‘I had no idea you owed all that.’