Maloney's Law (11 page)

‘Don’t fuss, Jade. It’s not going to be a problem, it’s a business meeting, that’s all.’

‘Where are his wife and children?’

‘All we’ll do is discuss the case. I’ll give him the latest information and grab the chance to find out what he really knows. After that, I’ll head home, pour myself one whisky too many, watch crap TV, and go to bed. So there’ll be no difference to what I usually do when I’m not with you, and my private life will carry on in the way it always has done since...since whenever. So please don’t go on about it, I’ll be fine. Anyway, why do you have to be so Baptist about everything? As your mother reminded us, you’re not the best chapel-goer in the world.’

By the time I’ve finished this little speech, I’m standing, fists clenched at my sides. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jade ups and punches me. I wouldn’t blame her if she did, but it’s not her style and she just doesn’t respond, although her eyes widen as she glares at me.

‘God, that was a low jibe, even by my standards. I’m sorry.’

She shrugs. ‘Apology accepted. Would you like a hot chocolate?’

I shake my head, and she returns to her work. For a while, nothing more is said. She’s seen the worst of me, both after Dominic and long before. She’s seen me drunk, sick, crying, high on drugs, and shaking with frustration and grief. And anger, yes, don’t let’s forget the anger. She’s seen that, too. Not to mention the long haul upwards, step by slow step, into something approaching what sanity might be. If it wasn’t for Jade, I’d be dead at least twice over. And all I can do is slag her off, put the knife in at the place it will hurt her most. All I can do is get at the religion I know she still sets such store by, even though I can never understand it. Great move, Paul. What sort of a friend am I?

I ought to get out before I do any more damage.

‘Look,’ I say, dragging one hand through my hair. ‘I need to go if I’m going to...be ready in time. Sorry again about what I said, and I promise things will seem better tomorrow. Thanks for all your hard work today, and don’t stay too late, will you?’

She shakes her head. ‘I won’t. See you tomorrow then. Just promise me one thing.’

‘Sure. What’s that?’

‘If — no, when — Mr. Allen asks if you’d like to see ’round the house, whatever you do, don’t go into his damn bedroom.’

‘What do you mean? I—’

‘Promise me?’

‘Okay, okay.’ I hold up my hands in mock defeat, but by now I’m hardly listening. ‘I promise, but you’re a hard taskmistress. I’ll see you in the morning.’

And then, head full of the problem of what I should wear tonight and which aftershave to use, and running away from the real problem of my not-quite-over argument with Jade, I’m gone.

Chapter Nine

I’m exactly four minutes behind schedule. Before arriving at Dominic’s city home, I’ve changed my clothes three times and am still unhappy with the way I look. I decide I don’t want to arrive late but know it will be worse if I arrive early. Much, much worse.

By the time I’ve found a parking space, I’m struggling to remember the reasons for being here. The case, I think, the case, I have to focus. There are facts I should tell him and facts I have to find out. If only Jade had managed to hack into the records I’d wanted to see, then I might know if I had any evidence at all, rather than speculation, suspicion, and gut instinct. I should run, on two counts: this case and Dominic.

Obstinacy and the need to know make sure I don’t.

So instead of taking the sensible course, which would probably involve booking a one-way ticket to Brazil leaving a cryptic note for Jade to follow me, I get out of the car, clutching a file of papers. The air is heavy and there’s a smell of mown grass and late roses. The end of summer.

Dominic’s house sparkles in the evening light. There are pillars on either side of an elegant, white stone porch with a set of four steps leading up to a cream front door with an acorn-shaped brass handle. On either side of the façade, the house itself unfolds outwards, revealing a richer cream, mock-Georgian piece of pure money. God alone knows what this man was ever doing with someone like me.

Each step nearer the elegant front door brings with it a range of emotions I can’t name. Even the thought of Jade slips into free-fall. It’s as if there’s nobody in this road, or Islington, Hackney, or Stratford, nobody in the whole of London or perhaps for this moment in the world but me and the man behind the door.

I want to run.

I don’t. My feet keep moving onward, and my hand is raised to knock, but before I can, the door is opened.

‘Paul.’ It’s a statement, he’s had no doubt of me, when all I have for him is uncertainty. And need. Then he makes a slight movement towards me but cuts it off and says, ‘What have you done to your eye?’

‘Car accident,’ I reply with a shrug. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘I see. Come in.’

As he stands aside to let me pass, I enter a long hallway carpeted in blue, with a lighter shade of the same colour on the walls. There are tall mirrors framed in silver, two Vettrianos, possibly originals, and a dazzle of sunlight from a distant window. As he clicks the door shut behind me, I look at Dominic.

He’s opted for smart casual tonight, wearing chinos, something I’ve never seen him in before, and a silk shirt, white, that sets off his understated tan. His sleeves are rolled up so the light catches the golden hairs on his arms, and as he passes me there’s a hint of spices and lime. His feet are bare.

‘Please,’ he says again, ‘come through.’

I follow him down the hallway and then left into what I imagine is the living room. I’ve never been here before. He gestures at the nearest chair.

‘Sit down. I’ll get you a drink. Beer or wine? I assume not being at home you won’t want whisky.’

‘Beer’s fine.’ I want to keep a clear head tonight.

When he’s gone, I don’t sit down. So far, the interior of Dominic’s house is everything I’ve imagined it to be. But being here tonight is still like something out of time, and I try to tell myself not to be fooled. He’s not for me, no matter how much I might want it, and I have to remember what I’m here for.

Standing in the middle of this room, I can’t help luxuriating in the deep cream carpet, and I wish my feet too were bare. There’s more mirror glitter, two Art Nouveau pieces, and on my right crystal glints in the display cabinet. Not for the first time, I wonder what his wife, Cassandra, is like, not just in appearance but inside, where it matters.

As if on cue, the photographs catch my eye. Family shots, on show on an intricately carved sideboard. Something in me is glad he hasn’t removed them. I put down my notes and pick up the first one, admiring the delicate, dark-haired beauty of Dominic’s wife and the strength behind her eyes that can’t be hidden even at one remove. Cassandra Allen. The echo of her name in my head makes everything blur for a second or two, and for some reason I think of Jade so I return Cassandra to the ebony surface, a little back from her original position. The next photograph I look at shows Dominic’s children. From the newspaper articles I’ve collected, I know his son, Henry, is thirteen and his daughter, Judith, eleven, but, apart from those basic facts, anything else is hazy. Dominic works hard to keep his children out of the media, and for that I admire him. Now I find myself looking at a slim, laughing boy with the same cheekbones and dark hair as his mother. He’s holding a skateboard and standing near pink roses, with the house in the background suffused in sunlight. By his side is a girl, almost as tall as her brother, but fair-haired and with a face that will one day grow into the likeness of her father’s. Even so young, Judith has no need for props; hands by her sides, open, confident, she smiles at the camera, waiting for the moment of decision when the shutter will click and what she is then will be recorded for all eternity. It’s the pinnacle of summer, and the family is basking in its own particular glory.

It strikes me that Dominic has brought up his children well. My ex-lover has a life I have never explored, or wanted to. What am I to him? I half-drop the photograph, and it lands with a thump face-down, and I’m in the process of setting it up again when Dominic re-enters the room.

‘Beer, the way you prefer it.’

When I spin round, he’s holding a tray on which are standing a glass of deep red wine, a bottle of Waggledance beer, and another glass. I take the bottle, and it’s room temperature.

‘You remembered,’ I mutter.

‘Of course.’ Placing the tray on the gilded coffee table, he takes his children’s photograph and returns it to the correct position. ‘What were you doing with these?’

‘I was just curious.’

He smiles. By now he’s so close to me I could, if I had the courage, reach out and touch him.

‘It’s a good picture, I think. Of both of them. Do you like it?’

‘No.’

For a moment his face spasms as if I’ve punched him. ‘Oh? Why not?’

‘Why do you think?’ When he takes a step back and turns away, I regret my harshness. ‘Look, they’re beautiful children, you’re very lucky, but you don’t need me to tell you that.’

‘I love them, Paul.’

There’s nothing I can say. It’s as if he’s given me a gift I don’t know how to accept or a warning I can’t interpret. After a second or two, he picks up his glass, sips his wine, and sits down on the chocolate-brown sofa, stretching out his arms across the back like a lion in control of its prey. I grab my beer, ignore the glass, and swig it straight from the bottle. It helps to ease the dustiness and fear under my skin.

As I take the seat opposite him, something occurs to me.

‘Don’t you smoke at home? There are no...signs of anything.’

‘You mean why are there no ashtrays, and why doesn’t the house smell of nicotine?’ he says with a short laugh. ‘Simple. I don’t smoke inside while my children are here. Let them make that choice when they’re old enough. I won’t force it on them now.’

I nod. If I was a parent, I suppose I wouldn’t even have had to ask that, but I’ve never had the experience to think in those terms. I’ve never wanted it. The fact of Dominic’s fatherhood is being made clear to me for the first time and in a place I never expected it. What am I doing here, with him?

The question jolts me out of the slow sparkling river we are somehow travelling on together, and I remember the reason I have come.

‘The case, Dominic, I need to ask you—’

He holds up his hand, and I fall silent, cursing the habit of obedience he can ignite in me even now.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘It can wait ’til later. There’ll be plenty of time for business then. Let’s finish our drinks first.’

For an answer, I take up the beer, holding Dominic’s gaze as I do so, and drain it dry. ‘Done. Finished.’

He smiles, ‘But I haven’t. Not yet. And we have business to discuss.’

‘For God’s sake, Dominic, then let’s discuss it. I’m too old to play games any more.’

‘All right,’ he says, and I sit back into my chair. ‘All right. Business it is, but first let’s eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I don’t believe you, you’ve always been hungry. In many ways. But I’m not asking you for anything. I simply want to enjoy your company on an evening when I find myself able to do so. If you want to drink, then drink; if you want to eat, then eat. I don’t mind what you do, but I’d like you to stay.’

‘I don’t want to stay.’

Something in him seems to fold in on itself, and he waves one hand at me. ‘All right. Then go. If that’s what you want.’

Remembering Jade’s warning, I get up and stroll to the living room door, as if I have all the time in the universe and what I’m doing doesn’t matter. It does. It means passing where my ex-lover is sitting, as vibrant as a threat and as dangerous. The journey takes a lifetime, and when I’m level with him, he looks up.

‘You’ve forgotten your notes.’

His words are quiet, and when I brush my hair back from my forehead, my fingers come away bathed in sweat. ‘Yes.’

‘Shall I get them for you?’

‘No.’ A pause. He doesn’t fill it, almost as if he knows I have more to say. ‘You’re my client, and there are things we need to discuss.’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. I’m held motionless next to him and, this time, it is I who am waiting.

Then he says, ‘We’ll discuss them, Paul. I promise you. But first I’d like us to have a meal together. It’s something we’ve never done. Not really.’

Without replying, I retrace my steps and sit down. He takes a gulp of his wine as if he’s been crossing a bleak desert with no hope of water, although in fact he’s never moved.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

He cooks, something I never knew he could do. Sitting at the table, I watch him move ’round the vast, airy kitchen like a dancer, adding herbs and a sprinkling of salt to the heady mixture of chicken and ginger, bean sprouts and water chestnuts he’s stir-frying. Keeping a watching brief on the wok, he cuts bread he has warmed in the oven and slides butter onto a dish. When I ask if I can help, he shakes his head, and afterwards we’re silent. It feels as if I’m plunging into unknown brightness and if I dare once to open my eyes then the dazzle might blind me. I can’t catch in my thoughts the connection between the reason for coming here and what is happening now.

When the food is ready, Dominic takes the plates into the dining room, its décor cream and gold, wood and silk, and I follow with a fresh beer, the wine, and the bread. As we eat, we talk a little more. We talk of the things that are overwhelming but which tonight don’t matter: Iraq, terrorism, America. We also talk about things that are nearer to us but not too near: the way London is at the end of the tourist season; the latest crime novel I’m reading; the cities Dominic has visited.

And all the time I want to touch him, but I’m afraid.

Finally, he drinks the last of his wine, smiles, and lets the peace and warmth of the evening enfold us both.

‘Did you like supper?’ he says.

‘Yes. It was good, thank you.’

‘Are you still hungry?’

‘No.’

‘Would you like to see around the house?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ I say without thinking. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Come on then.’ He gets up, indicates the room we’re in and says, ‘This is the dining room, as you can tell. The living room and kitchen you’ve seen already, but downstairs there’s also a playroom, bathroom, and television room. Upstairs of course is breathtaking. It’s what made me decide to buy.’

I drift in his wake, not listening to his explanations of what I’m seeing and the changes he’s made, aware only of his voice and the way he somehow doesn’t sound like himself. He could be giving a lecture at one of his many conferences, addressing his executive board, rather than being here tonight, letting me see his home for the first time. It’s as if he’s been switched on by an unknown force and is talking and talking with nothing being said.

When we come to the bottom of the elegant stairway, I hesitate, but the soothing tone of his voice doesn’t miss a syllable. Five steps behind, I follow him up. On the landing he turns left and leads me to two bedrooms. The first belongs to Henry and is filled with all the evidence of boyhood: the skateboard from the photograph; a corner stacked with computer games; a tumble of dirty sweatshirts on the bed. Dominic picks them up with a sigh and drops them into the linen basket.

‘He’s never tidy,’ he shrugs. ‘No matter what we say.’

The second bedroom along is girlhood apricot but with not a hint of a frill, and I sense that everything here has its place and lives in harmony. There are shelves of books; a CD player; a pile of hard-cover notebooks, all in purple.

‘She writes,’ he says, unable to keep the pride from his voice. ‘All the time. Of course, we’re never allowed to see.’

When I look at him, his face is as mellow as I’ve ever known it, and I wonder, with all the arrogance of non-parental distance, whether Judith is his favourite. I can never ask him this. There are other thoughts, other memories also, that this room stirs in me, but I refuse to face them now.

He shuts Judith’s door with a gentle click and leads me further along to a vast expanse of bathroom, tiled in white with, here and there, a splash of green to refresh the eye. Another few moments to listen and admire, and we are out, heading to the end of the landing where a door with a brass handle beckons us.

‘The master bedroom,’ he says. ‘With the wonderful views. You—’

I stop dead, Jade’s words at last springing clear into my mind:
‘Whatever you do, don’t go into his damn bedroom.’

‘No,’ I say.

‘What’s wrong?’ When he turns to look at me, his face is shrouded in shadow, but I cannot explain myself.

Instead I shake my head and back away, ‘I don’t want to see it, that’s all. Don’t ask me.’

Two steps bring him into the light again, and I see his puzzlement, the mental shrug he uses to deal with something he hasn’t understood but which he counts as too trivial to question. ‘All right. There are other bedrooms, but I’m sorry you’ll miss the view.’