Page 33

THIRTY-TWO

Jane Trevally messages Ash a couple of days after the impromptu viewing of the beach pavilion in Bangate with Nick. I have news, she says. Can we meet up?

They arrange to meet again at King’s Cross, this time for cocktails.

Ash feels the same rush of nervous energy as she disembarks from the train.

Her eyes stay low to the floor as she walks, her pulse racing with terror at the thought of catching the eye of someone she knows, someone who remembers her, someone who knows what she did.

She sees a pair of soft leather men’s shoes coming toward her and a pump of adrenaline goes through her.

Ritchie’s shoes? But no, they belong to a young man, not much older than her. She pulls in her breath.

Calm down, Ash , she tells herself. Calm the fuck down.

She finds Jane in the tiny jewel-box bar above the station where they had arranged to meet, and they face each other on small velvet armchairs across a copper-topped table.

Jane looks younger in this soft light than she did outside the brasserie by the fountains in the cold light of day.

Ash finds older women’s faces fascinating, the way they morph and wax and wane, how they can look five different ages within the space of a minute.

Jane looks about thirty right now as she flirts with the waiter who is depositing their cocktails onto paper coasters.

“So,” Jane begins, when the waiter has gone, “I did some digging. And frankly, I don’t know where to start.”

Ash’s flesh tingles. “Go on.”

“I called the bar in Mayfair. I asked for him. The person who answered the phone said they’d never heard of him.”

Ash blinks slowly and gasps. “No way!”

Jane throws her a look that says, That’s just the beginning—buckle up , then scrolls down the screen of her phone and turns it toward Ash.

It’s a photo of Nick Radcliffe. Except the name in the caption under the photograph is not Nick Radcliffe, it’s Justin Warshaw, and he’s not described as a restaurateur, but as a life coach.

“What!”

“Yes. Exactly. I’ve googled him extensively and found very, very little. But it appears that this ‘Justin Warshaw’ guy ran a life-coaching consultancy from a suburb of Cambridge for many years and was then never heard of again.”

“But why the weird name?”

“I have no idea. But it fits in with your theory that there might be something off about him.”

“Are there any customer reviews? Of his life coaching?”

“Yes. There’re six on Google. All five stars. Frankly, I wonder if they’re even real.” She sighs and takes another sip of her cocktail. “Do you want food, by the way? Snacks? Olives? Anything? You’re very thin.”

“I am not very thin,” Ash replies. “I’m totally normal. I would probably have been thought fat back in your day.”

Jane raises an eyebrow and nods. “That’s true. Anyway, I’m going to have some rosemary-salt fries and…” Her finger, with its chipped nail polish, runs down the small bar-food menu “… Padrón peppers. We can share.”

She beckons the waiter over and flirts with him again as she places the order, and Ash watches entranced as the waiter, who is a solid thirty years younger, flirts back.

“So, there was a link to a website for Justin Warshaw’s life-coaching services, but it hits a dead page now, a 404. Long gone. And I did a reverse image search for this photo and I cannot find it anywhere else. But here, look…” She zooms into the photo. “Look at that. A wedding ring.”

Ash stares at the ring. It’s a plain gold one, like the one she’d found in the pile of her mother’s bedside rug. “Is there an email address?”

“Yup. I tried it. It bounced back. Tried the mobile number too—dead tone.”

“Have you googled any of the women who left reviews for him?”

“Yes. They all have stupidly common names—I’m going to say deliberately common names.

But I googled them all, and there is a Sarah May who lives in Cambridge and has an Instagram account that suggests very much the lifestyle of a person who would use the services of a life coach.

So I messaged her, but she hasn’t replied yet. ”

“When did you message?”

“Oh, about an hour ago.”

“Check again.”

Jane nods and switches screens to Instagram. “Ooh.” She breaks into a smile and turns the phone to face both of them. “Here she is.”

They both look down and read.

Hi Jane. Thanks for your message. Yes, I did used to see a life coach called Justin Warshaw, many years ago. He sort of disappeared as far as I recall. What was it you wanted to know about him? He was very good I thought.

Jane turns the phone back to herself and types:

He’s going out with a friend using a different name and we’re a bit sus about him. Saw you left him a review and wondered what you could tell us. Happy to chat on the phone or Zoom or whatever.

Sarah replies a moment later:

Not sure there’s much to tell you. But sure. Let’s Zoom or something, maybe tomorrow? I wfh so any time works for me. 10 ish?

Ash nods furiously at Jane, who responds with a thumbs-up emoji and her email address.

Jane slides her phone away from her and smiles at Ash.

“Well,” she says. “That was a good start. But there was something else that my guys uncovered. Not sure what it means. But apparently, Nick Radcliffe does not exist anywhere in the world in any official capacity. I mean, obviously there are Nick Radcliffes . Lots of them. But this particular one? The one that claims to co-own Bar Amelie and lives in Tooting and used to work with your dad in a restaurant in the nineties? Nope. Nothing. Same for Justin Warshaw. He exists only in the capacity of a life coach in Cambridge roughly ten years ago. Nothing before, and nothing since. Your Nick Radcliffe… he’s some kind of a…

of a… pop-up man . And listen. We checked the reg plates for his car.

It’s on a lease. We’re trying to get hold of the leaseholder details, but it might take a few days.

We do know it was leased from a dealership in Vauxhall, about three weeks ago. ”

“Right,” says Ash. “OK.”

“So, that’s it. All we have as of now.”

“No. That’s great. Really.”

“Are you going to tell your mum?”

Ash flinches. “Yeah, no. I mean, I want to. But on the other hand—I mean, it’s all a bit vague and I don’t want her to… worry.”

Jane looks at her blankly and says, “Why not?”

“Because she’ll think I’m, I don’t know, trying to spoil it for her, you know?

I’m probably slightly overbonded with her these days.

Since Dad died. And yeah, even before, to be honest. Overattached to both of my parents.

When I left home, after uni that is, I kind of imploded?

Had a sort of, erm…” She pauses and fiddles with the base of her cocktail glass, then looks at Jane, registers the understanding in her eyes, and continues.

“A breakdown? I came home under a bit of a cloud of shame. Had a pretty major mental health diagnosis. And ever since then, I’ve been treated like a wayward child.

And then Dad died, and I just clung on to Mum and kind of policed her a bit?

If that makes sense? Policed her grief? Made her take on mine too?

It’s been an intense year and I think she wants me to go now, but I’m not ready to go and, honestly, the way I feel right now, I don’t think I will ever feel ready to go.

I look at other people my age and I don’t get how they’re doing it?

It doesn’t compute? And this guy, whoever the fuck he is, he makes her happy and when he’s around it’s like she’s young again.

Her best self. And if I go home tonight and say, ‘Oh, Mum, by the way, your new boyfriend is dodgy as fuck,’ she’ll just think I’m projecting some kind of stupid, unevolved kidult angst onto her happiness. Do you see?”

All her words have tumbled out of her in a spew.

She didn’t know they were there until they were there.

Jane stares at her and then suddenly places her hands over hers.

Her eyes fill with care and concern. “Oh, you sweet thing. You are so, so sweet. And I get it, I really do. I am always the unreliable narrator in my life. People always question my motives, question the accuracy of my opinions or retelling of things. You know? They always think I’m trying to twist the narrative or something.

As if I’m even clever enough! Ha!” She turns her smile to the young waiter who delivers the Padrón peppers and the fries, which are served in a silver cone with a twisted knot of roasted rosemary on the top.

“You are amazing,” she gushes to the waiter, taking a fry and biting into it as she speaks. “Thank you!”

He smiles and flushes and tells her that she’s welcome.

“Listen,” Jane continues, turning her attention back to Ash.

“Leave it with me. I’ll do some more digging.

And maybe you could do some digging too.

And we’ll talk to this Sarah May girl tomorrow.

And then maybe, once you’ve got a dossier of stuff, you can confront your mother with it.

All the irrefutables. But for now, let’s keep this between the two of us.

I will help you any way I can. I see you, Ash. OK? I see you.”

Ash feels a shiver run down her spine at Jane’s words. She smiles and squeezes Jane’s hands. “Thank you,” she says. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”