Page 35

THIRTY-FOUR FOUR YEARS EARLIER

I’m feeling strangely undone as I wander through Mayfair later that day.

I did not like the way that Tara’s daughter spoke to me.

It was harsh and it was completely unnecessary.

Emma has always made me feel like this, but when I had Tara onside, I could keep her daughter out of my head.

She was just white noise to me. Now that Emma has pulled her mother over to her side, she is deafening, grating, has made claw marks on the insides of my psyche.

I want to spend time thinking up sharp ripostes to her unpleasantness.

I want to write her a long letter full of justifications and clarity.

And more than anything, I want her to die.

My day-to-day existence is tenuous, even I can see this.

It depends on me troubleshooting each moment as it presents itself.

I think on my feet and I’m brilliant at it.

I call the shots and I make things happen, bend things to my will, if necessary.

I’ve lived my entire adult life like this, it’s who I am, it’s what I do.

But Emma—she has thrown something in the works that I cannot shift and now I am acting in desperation, and I do not like the way it feels.

I should still be at Tara’s now, slowly extricating myself from the chains of our dead marriage, preparing myself for the seamless transition into Martha’s life and Martha’s home, hopefully with some of Tara’s cash in my bank account.

But now I’m penniless on a sofa in Tooting for God knows how long, and I feel untethered.

But as I turn the corner of Curzon Street and see the empty retail unit that a man called Luke Berner and I are going to make into a beautiful wine bar, I feel myself re-forming.

It’s on the ground floor of a 1940s building, two doors down from a Soho House club.

It used to be a doctors’ clinic, but there is planning permission to turn it into a bar or restaurant.

There are two huge square bay windows at street level and a view from the front all the way through to the back.

The light is spectacular. I see me and Luke Berner as the new Jeremy King and Chris Corbin; I picture us posing outside for the press on opening day, our arms around each other, possibly both with a glass of champagne in hand.

I imagine bringing Martha here—my God, she would look spectacular in this setting—and showing her around, pulling out a stool at the bar, asking the bartender to make her the finest cocktail, seeing the look of awe and wonder on her face as she glances around at the beauty of the place.

Ever since I was young, it has been my dream to have a restaurant or bar of my own.

It has always struck me as the most glamorous business in the world, and I want this so badly it almost makes me sick.

I met Luke Berner three months ago through a client.

Luke told me about this wine bar he was planning to take out a lease on and I told him about my long career in the hospitality industry and the half a million pounds that was coming my way from the “sale of an asset.” That asset, of course, was meant to be Tara’s house, the house that we were going to sell so that we could move to the Algarve and live off the land.

So far, Luke has been very patient waiting for this money to materialize, but I can tell his patience is starting to wear thin.

I make it to my four o’clock meeting with Luke Berner with five minutes to spare.

I carry my nausea and nerves with me into the tiny lift and all the way down the carpeted corridor to the door of Luke’s office, and then, as the door opens and Luke appears, I shrug it off like a wet robe, and by the time I grip Luke’s hand inside mine and tell him I’m good, I’m well, and ask him how he is and comment on how pleasant his new offices are and what a nice day it is and yes, I’d love a coffee, actually, thank you, black, no sugar, and pull out a chair opposite his desk and start to talk about the bar and my role in it, I am feeling fully re-formed.

I stare at the way his hair plumes at the front and recedes at the sides into two shiny cul-de-sacs of skin, at the outline of his nipples through a tightly fitting shirt that looks like it is restricting his breathing.

He is ten years younger than me, forty-one, but looks younger, mainly because of the way he dresses, but also because of the way he speaks.

Lots of “like”s and “you know”s and “kinda”s.

Luke needs ￡2 million to secure the lease on the building and so far he has a million. My body language betrays nothing as the three syllables of “million” fragment and ricochet around the walls of his office; as if I always think in millions, as if hundreds and thousands never even occur to me.

“Sooooo,” says Luke, pulling out the word into a long syllable. “Your asset? The sale? Any signs of it coming together?”

I look him in the eye, and I say, “I have a very keen buyer, a cash buyer. Give me a week or so, maybe a month, I will absolutely be in for it.”

He arches one of his eyebrows, which I now see have been professionally groomed. “The full five hundred?”

“Maybe six,” I continue. “I just need time.”

“Cool,” says Luke. But his tone is edgy, uncomfortable.

His eyes run down my résumé where it sits on the desk in front of him.

“Yeah,” he says, guardedly. “There’s something…

” He sucks in his breath, and I know what’s coming.

“Something that’s slightly bothering me.

There are a lot of gaps in this résumé. You’re not hiding anything from me, are you, Nick? ”

I shift a little in my seat. I’d been expecting this. “Absolutely not,” I say. “Well, nothing for you to worry about. The thing is, I have a lot of baggage. Family stuff. I can’t really go into it. And I’ve used pseudonyms, over the years, to keep myself safe. Including, er… Nick Radcliffe.”

“That’s not your real name?” Luke looks startled.

“Well, it is currently. Yes. I mean my bank account is in that name. My finances are. But my passport is in another name. As are certain periods of my career. It’s pure expediency.

Just keeping my head beneath the radar. But nothing whatever for you to worry about.

” I sigh, a deep and ponderous noise that I hope fully conveys how hard my life has been and how little I wish to expand upon it.

Luke sighs too. “I see,” he says, although it’s clear that he doesn’t.

“Well, that sounds tough, Nick. I’m sorry.

Just goes to show, you never can tell. But listen.

” He pulls himself closer to his desk. “Here’s the thing.

I’ve been talking to another investor. Jensen de Witt.

You might have heard of him. He owns wine bars in Saint-Tropez and Dubai, been around for decades, and he’s keen to come in for the other million.

But he doesn’t like the look of you. I’m sorry.

” He puts his hands out in an apologetic gesture.

“That’s his take, not mine. You know I think you’re a great bloke and I’d love to make this work.

But between the patchy CV, the lack of transparency, and the lack of money, I kinda don’t think it’s going to.

Not at this level. So, yeah, Nick. I’m really sorry, mate, but I’m out. I hope you understand.”

The rage descends quietly, and as always, I fend it off.

I plaster a good smile on my face and I say nice words in a nice voice; I talk about understanding and no hard feelings.

I wish him luck. I even manage to make him laugh, and as I go to leave, in a swell of bonhomie and good feelings, he grabs my hand in his and he says, “Go on, then, Nick, you can tell me—what’s your real name?

I promise I won’t tell anyone.” He’s wearing a cheeky smile, which I return.

I tap my nose and say, “You know what, Luke, it’s been so long since I used it that I’m not sure I can even remember it anymore.”

I kick the wall when I leave. I kick it so hard that I fear I’ve broken a toe.

I punch it with my fists, and I growl like a dog.

“Fuck’s sake.” I hit the wall again. “Fuck’s sake.

” A woman passing by looks at me with concern, and I breathe in heavy and hard and straighten myself up, clear my throat, run a hand over my hair, soothe myself.

I want to see Martha. I need to see Martha.

She is the only person who could make me feel better right now, who could cool this rage, this darkness, this hatred.

I haven’t seen her for three days, and I am aching for her.

But she is busy with work, with the boys, with some birthday party or other that she’s helping to plan for a friend.

It’s all very tedious, but I told her that I totally understand, of course I do.

I have promised her that I will take her somewhere amazing next week, a boutique hotel somewhere, or a fine-dining night in London.

I told her it will be a surprise. But first I have to find the money to pay for this amazing surprise and unfortunately right now there is only one way of getting hold of it.

Amanda gets home from her job at about 6 p.m. and smiles wanly at me. I think she was hoping I might have gone; there’s a sliver of disappointment in her expression. “Hi,” she says. “How did it go?”

For a moment I think she means my meeting with Luke, but then I remember my hospital appointment, the one about my heart. I say, “Actually, not good news. It looks like I’ll be needing to go in for treatment. For a week or so.”

“What sort of treatment?”

I’m not ready to answer the question, so I skim over it, carry on as if she hadn’t said anything.

“It’s a special unit that’s just been built, somewhere up north.

I can’t remember the name of the hospital.

They’re going to email me over all the details.

But it does mean a lot of travel. By train.

They can’t keep me in overnight. And you know, Amanda, I have literally no money right now.

I’m waiting for things to sort themselves out with my ex.

She owes me thousands. Tens of thousands.

But in the short term, and God, I am so sorry to ask you this, I really am, but do you think you could tide me over, just for a few days, maybe a week or so, just so I can afford the train travel for my treatment, the occasional hotel overnighter?

Eight hundred, maybe? That sort of region? ”

I see her eyes flicker over my face; she’s trying to read me, trying to make sense of what I’m saying. She says, “But, Damian, I’m penniless. You know that. I live from paycheck to paycheck, week to week. I don’t have eight hundred pounds. I—”

I cut in over her. “It doesn’t have to be eight hundred pounds.

Five hundred would probably be enough. Do you not have some wriggle room on a credit card, an overdraft, something like that?

Or what about…?” I pause and lick my lips.

“One of the boys. They’re both working, aren’t they?

Could you get hold of something from one of them maybe? ”

I see her face contort slightly and I cut in again before she can respond.

“I know. It’s a tough ask. I get that. And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency. But it really is an emergency. Without this treatment, Amanda, I might be limiting my life by twenty years. I would be a walking time bomb.”

“And this treatment? What sort of—”

“I’ll be a guinea pig. It’s still being trialed. Just a handful of us right now. Lasers.”

“Lasers?”

I can see that the muscle memory from having lived with me for nearly ten years is still there, that alarms are firing, responses are kicking in, but I know, I just know that she will eventually give me what I want just as long as I can keep on talking.

So I keep on talking, and as I talk, I inject breathlessness into my voice.

I take deep, swooping mouthfuls of air, I pause halfway through a word, close my eyes, and then, when I can see that she is starting to worry about me, I ask her for a glass of water and tell her that I need to lie down for a while, that I am shattered, that my body hurts, and her expression moves from incredulity to concern.

And there it is as she passes me the glass of water: the love, the love I knew would never have died, because Amanda always adored me, possibly more than anyone has ever adored me.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says, tenderly. “I’m sure I can find it somehow.”