Untold Story (30 page)

“IBS? Was he talking about his finances?” said Suzie.

“Irritable bowel syndrome,” said Tevis. “You haven’t even slept with him yet and he’s talking about his irritable bowel syndrome?”

“He has to be careful what he orders,” said Amber. She giggled.

Lydia took her place back at the table. “You sounded quite excited about him last time.”

“I know,” said Amber. “Do I seem fickle? I do think he’s really nice.”

Lydia patted Amber’s hand. “You’re the most generous person I’ve ever met. You think everyone’s really nice.”

“Oh,” said Amber, “well, mostly they are.”

“That’s something you’ve taught me,” said Lydia. “Or something I’m still trying to learn.”

“So is it all off ?” said Suzie.

“I think I’ll let it wind down,” said Amber.

“Sounds like it reached a great climax, though,” said Suzie. “Talking about his irritating bowels. Man, you should’ve made a home movie out of that.”

“Dang,” said Tevis. “I forgot about dessert. I got two huge tiramisus in the refrigerator. Anyone want some?”

Lydia tidied the kitchen while Tevis washed and cut strawberries and spooned the tiramisu into bowls. She stacked plates in the dishwasher and scrubbed out a pan. There was no way Grabowski could have been following her. Every day she’d been looking over her shoulder, checking the rearview, watching out for him. The only one who’d been doing any following was her.

The danger of destroying her world came from only one person. Herself. She was her own worst enemy. A year after she’d swum into her new life she’d imagined that a neighbor had worked out who she was. What a frenzy of paranoia that turned out to be.

There was a pressure, a storm cloud, building inside her. How long was she going to live like this anyway?

She picked up a dirty chopping board and knife. When she’d washed it, she carried on turning the knife over in her hands. She thought about the blood running down from her toe, over her foot and onto her ankle, the crimson flower unfolding, blossoming. She looked at the knife. Let it out, she thought. If she could just let it out. The smallest puncture, a tiny valve, a lancing, a leeching, a bloodletting.

“Leave the dishes,” said Tevis. “Let’s take these desserts outside.”

Lydia dried her hands. She had to calm down.

“Ready?” said Tevis.

She didn’t want to calm down. Why should she? Was this her life forever? Always holding her breath. Forever tiptoeing. She surged with rebellion, an adrenaline rush that nearly lifted her off her feet. How long since she’d soared like that? In the old days, when she was knocked down, didn’t she always spring up again?

“Tevis,” she said, tossing the towel aside, “I want a tarot reading. Can we do that first?”

The sitting room was a cave of eastern treasures: Indian wall hangings, Indonesian furniture, a large onyx Buddha presiding on a Japanese tea chest. Tevis retrieved her tarot pack and sat on the floor by the coffee table in lotus position. It had a mermaid done in mosaic. Lydia sat at the opposite end.

“Is there anything in particular you want to find out from the reading?” said Tevis. “Don’t tell me what it is. Just have it in your mind.” She wore a crinkly cotton top and the string tie with which it laced at the chest ended with small gold bells. “I’m going to deal a Celtic cross,” she said. “Have you ever had this done before?”

“Yes, but ages ago,” said Lydia. She’d done it all. Tevis looked so easy in her skin. She never cared what anyone thought. Right now she looked positively serene.

Tevis laid out seven cards in a cross. “Now this part is called the staff,” she said, putting down another four cards.

The cards couldn’t tell her what she wanted to know. Tevis couldn’t tell her. No one could tell her. She had to get out of here. She had to go somewhere. Anywhere. She had to go right now.

Rufus ran in to investigate what was going on. His tail knocked some of the cards to the floor.

“Let’s not do this,” said Lydia. She picked up the rest of the cards and shuffled them back into the deck.

“It won’t matter,” said Tevis. “I can just deal again.”

“I know, but I’ve changed my mind. Rufus changed it for me. He’s very wise, you know.” Lydia forced a laugh. She should at least have a swim. Try to clear her head.

Tevis gathered the cards and put them back in the pack. “You’re not into this stupid hippie stuff.”

“Do you believe it?” said Lydia. “Tarot, runes, horoscope, chakras, channeling?”

“This week, at work,” said Tevis. She piled her hair on top of her head while she thought, and stuck a pencil through it. “This week, at work, I showed five houses, I made about fifty calls, I read or sent maybe a hundred e-mails. I drank fifteen cups of coffee, had six meetings with colleagues, I went to the bathroom twelve times. I read about the new regulations for escrow accounts. I did three new valuations and prepared half a dozen contracts. I got two runs in two pairs of hose. The highlight of everyone’s week was when the new watercooler arrived.” She paused. She stuck out her bottom lip and shrugged. “I don’t know which is more nutty. All this stuff I do outside of work, or the stuff that I do all week.”

Lydia parked and walked up Albert Street to the pharmacy to buy some aspirin. Her headache had become intense. She’d take some pills and have a swim and after that she’d be able to think more clearly, work out exactly what to do and when.

Albert Street was dead, nothing moving. How long could she bury herself here? It was about time she reminded herself that she didn’t actually die.

She should move. What she should do was move to New York or Washington and begin living again. It was time. Lawrence had given her a contingency plan, another passport and identity, in case she ever needed it. Most likely she didn’t, and she didn’t want to learn again to answer to another name. But she should reinvent herself elsewhere in any case. She was a kennel worker in Kensington when she could (she was still attractive enough) be a socialite in Washington.

She would come across old friends there. If she managed to infiltrate some of her old circles . . . she smiled.

In the pharmacy, Mrs. Deaver was getting ready to close. “I’ll be quick,” said Lydia. “I just need some aspirin and a mascara.”

“You take all the time you need,” said Mrs. Deaver. “If you want any help, let me know.”

Lydia picked up a bottle of aspirin. The cosmetics rack was at the back of the store. She examined a couple of mascaras, slipped one in her pocket and put the other back on the shelf.

Mrs. Deaver rang up the Bayer. “Couldn’t find what you wanted in the back there?”

“No, Mrs. Deaver. Actually, I decided I didn’t need it after all.”

She said good-bye and stepped out on the street and scanned it in both directions. In her old life she couldn’t set foot outside without checking first where the cameras were. She walked back up Albert Street, imagining the photographers walking backward in front of her, others to the side calling her name. Was she going back to that? Is that what she wanted? There were goose bumps down her arms. Hold tight, she told herself. Hold tight. It was going to be one hell of a ride.

Chapter Twenty-four

He had two days to kill before Wednesday and they’d be the longest two days of his life. Was there anything he could do to speed this up? A thousand times over he’d checked his work. There was nothing he could do now but wait. He wanted the “interview” with the woman who ran the kennel. And if he waited until Lydia’s regular afternoon off there was no chance of bumping into her there. He’d be careful how he asked the questions. With a bit of luck, the old woman would be oblivious, wouldn’t report anything back to Lydia. Lydia wouldn’t run before the story broke.

Last night he’d lain awake worrying about whether he should e-mail some photographs to Gareth as backup. What if the bed-and-breakfast burned down? He knew it was stupid. He was taking his gear everywhere. If he lost it, which he wouldn’t, he had a copy on a memory stick in the desk drawer. E-mailing would be dangerous. If someone in Gareth’s office saw it, it would be all over the Internet, no way it could be controlled. He’d fly back with everything safely and securely loaded on his laptop alone. Gareth would arrange a meeting with
The Sunday Times
and he’d show them. He wouldn’t be handing anything over until the money was agreed.

Patience. Ten years without a single story that he really gave a toss about. Another two days was nothing.

The bar in Gains opened at noon and Grabber arrived as the barman was pulling the shutters up. He played some pool with a mechanic who had one leg shorter than the other, and a rolling, pirate gait. He drank diet sodas and kept one eye on his bags and another on the door. If that woman showed up he’d get out of here. Not that he had anything to feel guilty about. But he could do without any scenes.

How much would he get for the exclusive? A million wouldn’t be too much. A million would be too little, in fact.

He took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. He tried to think of something to say to the barman, but the guy had a face like a wasp sting and to concentrate on drying glasses he probably needed both his brain cells.

When he saw the lads in the pub back home, they’d give him a hard time. That’s how it was when someone did well. They had to take a ribbing, stop them getting too big for their boots. Jealous as fuck, they’d all be. But pleased for him. Most of them. He’d be buying the rounds all night.

The old woman at the dog place. He had to think how to play it with her. He had to invent a reason for talking to her, a reason that would open her up. Once he had her confidence it would be easy to lead her in the right direction, to turn the talk to Lydia. All he needed was a handful of details, which he’d get on the tape recorder in his pocket. He’d buy one tomorrow. Almost anything would add heft to the story. “So, Mrs. Jackson said Lydia grew up in Southampton.” “Oh no, dear, Lydia grew up in . . .” It didn’t matter what she said. It would be useful either way. If Lydia had told the old lady anything true about her childhood, of course the paper would run that as a consolidating fact. If she’d made up stuff, the paper would run it anyway, as confirmation that she’d woven a nest of lies around her false identity.

And it wasn’t difficult to get people to talk. You only had to flatter them a little. He’d had years of practice. One afternoon he got a tip-off that she’d taken the boys to a movie in Leicester Square. He didn’t find her car parked anywhere nearby, and he didn’t know if he was wasting his time. There were no other photographers in sight. If she was inside, she’d given everyone the slip.

He’d gone into the foyer and ambled around, left his camera back in the car, of course. He pretended to read some of the movie reviews that were posted on various pillars. Then he bought a ticket for a later show and struck up a casual conversation with a ticket attendant. Said he hadn’t been to this cinema since he’d come just after it was opened. Wasn’t it opened by the Duke of Edinburgh in 1985? Yes, it was, said the attendant, there’s a plaque right over there. Grabowski turned around to take a look, although he’d already seen it. And did the Duke ever come to see any films here? Not to my knowledge, said the attendant. You’d be too discreet to tell, said Grabowski. The attendant was fairly bursting. Well, I’m not supposed to say, but the Princess of Wales is in right now, with both her sons. Really, said Grabowski, is she as beautiful in real life as she is in the photos? She’s amazing, said the attendant. You know how amazing she looks in the photos, well, she’s even more amazing than that.

He knew what he’d say to the dog lady. And it hardly mattered what she said to him. It would all be great context. Lydia’s wonderful with both people and animals. Lydia hasn’t said much about her past. Lydia takes sugar in her coffee. It didn’t matter. It would all help feed a story, and the appetite would be insatiable. Everyone would lap up every detail of what her employer said, they wouldn’t be able to get enough of it, and they’d make of it whatever they liked.

“I’ll have another beer,” said Grabowski. “Hey, what do people do for fun around here?”

The barman looked at him suspiciously, as if he’d asked a trick question. “Fun?” he said, mauling the word. “Well, on the weekends some folks go hunting. That’s quite popular. You a hunting man?”

“No,” said Grabowski. He’d lain on his belly in the gorse at Balmoral, but it wasn’t deer he’d had in his sights. “Not into blood sports.”

The barman nodded. “It’s exciting. Can’t explain it to someone who’s never done it. But you have to have a license, they got strict laws about that.”

He spent the day in the bar, nursing one slow beer after another. By evening he was half-hoping that the woman would come in because he was going out of his skull with boredom. She didn’t show.

Around ten o’clock he drove back to Kensington, parked, stowed his gear, and then decided to walk up to the liquor store, though he didn’t know if it would still be open; this town was a graveyard after nine.

It was so quiet on Fairfax that his footsteps sounded rudely loud. On Albert an old man shuffled out of his bungalow, coughed, and shuffled back inside. The streets were deserted, barely a car passing through.

When he wanted to cross there was a single vehicle, approaching from the left. The driver wasn’t speeding, he’d have plenty of time. He stepped off the curb and instinctively turned to check for any traffic from the right. An engine roared and he swung to face it, startled. The car from the left was hurtling at him, its headlights gunning him down. For a moment he was paralyzed, not knowing whether to turn back or run straight ahead. There was a voice shouting
No!
It was his voice. He was running for the other side of the road, the car was nearly on him. He was running for his life, the engine ripping at his ears.