Calendar Girl (17 page)

And then he arrived. I guess I first saw him a couple of weeks ago. Monday, maybe Sunday. He was sitting in a red car parked near our flat. Round the corner. I noticed the car first. Expensive looking. American or European – left hand drive. I don’t suppose I thought anything about him until I realised he was still there three days later. He looked expensive too. I couldn’t have said then if he was tall or not. I only saw him sitting in the front of his car. Smoking. He was quite good-looking I suppose, if you like that kind of man. Clean cut, square jaw, fair. My mother would have called him a “matinee idol”. Too good to be true if you ask me.

It didn’t occur to me that he mattered. He was just a bloke in a car.

We were getting on all right. We were wary and careful of each other. Still sleeping apart. It seemed more sensible. Though she crept into my bed late at night a couple of times – sort of sexual, sort of just warm. We tried to have sex once, but I couldn’t come and after a while of trying I told her it was OK, maybe tomorrow. She drifted off to sleep and I lay there a long time listening to her breathing. It sounded the same as it always had. Like her lungs couldn’t tell what a state my heart was in. We’d have long, late night conversations about “our relationship”. I’d always promised myself I’d never do that. Never “work at” a relationship. I’d thought that if it didn’t work of its own accord, I’d just walk away. But now, though staying with her seemed marginally less difficult, walking away seemed impossible. We were tied up, tied together. We owned
furniture. Separating a record collection is easy. You can always make a tape of the Tracy Chapman. How do you share out a sofa-bed?

I remember I went to a gig on the Thursday night. I left about eight and he was still sitting there, car parked under a streetlight, reading
The Standard.
Looking back on it, his interest in
The Standard
seemed a little too avid for such a lightweight paper. But I didn’t know how tall he was then. I didn’t know much at all. He wasn’t there when I came back just after midnight.

I told her about him. Just mentioned this bloke in a car.

She nearly hit the roof.

“Where? Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Gone home I ‘spose.”

“Is he still there?”

“No. I told you. He was there earlier. He’s not there now.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must know.”

“Calm down sweetheart.”

“What?”

“It’s only a man in a car.”

“No it’s not.”

“Oh right, what is it then?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Yep, I don’t. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Christ!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Where’s his car?”

“I don’t know, it was just around the corner.”

“But not now?”

“No. Maybe he’ll be there again tomorrow.”

“Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t know you cared! Look, what the fuck is your problem?”

“I … I. Oh nothing. Nothing.”

“Nothing my big fucking toe.”

“Don’t shout at me.”

“I am not shouting.” I whispered “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“No.”

“Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s probably not even him.”

“Who?”

“No-one. Forget it.”

“Who? Is it your Mr Clark?”

“No. ‘My’ Mr Clark looks nothing like your idea of a matinee idol.”

“Well who then?”

She wouldn’t say. Refused to talk about it. Wouldn’t even let me bring the subject up. But I know she didn’t sleep that night. I heard her prowling the room all night. I heard her because I didn’t sleep either. He was there again the next morning, Friday, but not in the evening. I didn’t see him for the next few days. We got some sleep.

Things improved. After about a week we realised we could argue again without the house crumbling around us. It got back to normal.

Whatever normal is.

We went shopping together. Like any other happy couple touring the aisles of Sainsburys. Looking for the other gay couples – easy to spot, their hands only just touching as they steered the trolleys together. The lesbians mostly in the direction of the pulses and the grains and as far from
the fresh meat as possible, the gays over to the Lean Cuisine fridge. Stereotyping I know, but I can’t help it if my local supermarket attracts the more traditional family.

She didn’t contact John Clark. Said she’d just cut him off. It would be easier that way. She wouldn’t have to do any explaining. I thought it would probably worry him sick – but didn’t feel kindly enough towards him to mention it. Her mother called but she left the message unanswered. I said she should go over if she wanted to. That I’d be all right with it. She said she’d rather not. She wanted to spend time with me, with no interruptions. She went back to work for a couple of days and then asked if she could have some time to sort herself out, told them she was still feeling pretty shaky after the accident. She wasn’t due any time off, so they gave her two weeks “compassionate leave”. That is, without pay.

What happens if it’s uncompassionate? Do you have to pay them?

On the Monday of the first week we stayed inside all day. It was cold outside and grey. We watched daytime TV and ate tomato soup. We sat together on the sofa in our nighttime T-shirts. We held hands for the first time in days. That night she kissed me goodnight. Calling goodnight just like the Waltons. Just like.

The next day we went up to the women’s pond at Hampstead. It was wonderful. That space, full to overflowing in summer was virtually empty. Just us and a couple of the old ladies – the ones who swim every day of the year. The ones who break the ice so they can go in. The ones who call it the “Ladies’ Pond”. It was one of those rare beautiful winter days – high blue sky, crisp breeze,
and cold and clear so that it sorts your brain out. We had a picnic. Summer sandwiches while wrapped up in thick jumpers and blanket. I was almost tempted to swim myself, but she persuaded me that the “ladies” wouldn’t approve of me going swimming in my bra and knickers.

My bra and her knickers. Our clothes were mixed up again.

We spent most of the daylight out in the world and then came home as it was getting dark. I spotted his car as we turned the corner but didn’t say anything to her. We’d had too nice a day to spoil it by bringing Mr Mystery into it.

Well, that’s what I thought then. Of course, after all that, it was me who spoilt it. Fucked it up just as completely as if we’d never got back together in the first place. Only worse. It was just a couple of weeks ago. I wish I’d never seen him.

But we did have a lovely day.

At three thirty on Tuesday morning Saz was woken by the phone. She rolled out of bed and reached for where it lay under a pile of clothes. She finally pulled out both the handpiece and a dirty sock.

“Yeah?”

“Saz. It’s Claire.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Look, I know it’s late but I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

“You’ve fallen in love again?”

“Come on! Even I wouldn’t call you about something as trivial as that at three in the morning. No, I just had a call from Sandra in New York – she didn’t know how late it was here, it’s still a respectable hour there, not that she’d know the meaning of the word.”

Saz suddenly felt wide awake. She flicked on the light.

“Claire, don’t tell me the history of Greenwich Mean Time, just tell me the story.”

“All right then. He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Your Simon James – real name Simon James McAuley.”

“He’s where?”

“In London.”

“Yes! That’s his name, McAuley?”

“Apparently. Not a lot of imagination huh? Just got rid of the last name and uses his first two. He’s a very well known businessman in New York. Reputable even. Mixes with all the right people.”

“Yeah, I’ve served most of them champagne – lots of other very well known and equally bent businessmen in New York.”

“Maybe, but Sandra says that as far as her department is concerned he’s as clean as the driven snow.”

“Claire, it’s too late for druggy puns.”

“It’s too early, I didn’t even realise it was one.”

“Get on with it.”

“That’s it really, she hasn’t got an ounce of dirt on him, though she did say that she met him once at some benefit or something like that and wouldn’t trust him with her Rottweiler!”

“Yeah, well, he’s not much of a dog lover. How long has he been here?”

“Since the weekend. He’s staying in his London flat. In Fulham. Get this – above his London business.”

“A business?”

“Handmade, expensive furniture. Viscount Linley kind of stuff.”

“He makes furniture?”

“No. The staff make the furniture. He makes money by selling it to silly rich people who think one chair’s worth several thousand quid – even without a royal name on it.”

“He’s got a business in London?”

“Saz, I know it’s late but there’s no need to keep repeating everything I say. She said he makes a trip over here about once every eighteen months. ‘To check up on his business’.”

“How did you get all this?”

“Sandra’s office. She’s very well informed. And she has a tax department connection.”

“The old lesbian mafia huh?”

“No. Sandra’s straight. It’s her husband.”

“Same idea. And?”

“Well, Mr McAuley makes money here so he has to declare it for tax over there or he’d never be able to use it would he? And that’s how they know about the business.”

“How long has it been going?”

“Since the mid eighties.”

“And Calendar Girls?”

“March 1981. Calendar Girls in New York came first, he made his money there, followed it up by expanding into business in London.”

“What’s it called?”

“You’re gonna love this. Miss September.”

“God, I might have guessed – all English girls.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just something he told me. Now why would he have a furniture business here?”

“Maybe they don’t have much money to spend on ‘furniture d’art’ in Arkansas. They’re probably not ardent royalists. I don’t know. Because he wanted to. Because it was there.”

“No, what I mean is, if he was going to expand, why have a different type of business? Calendar Girls does very well in New York. I’m sure he could get the same thing going here.”

“Maybe he just likes chairs?”

“Very plausible. No. Everyone knows how prohibitive business taxes can be in Britain.”

“Only you darling, the rest of us don’t have quite such a caring relationship with our local Small Business Officers.”

“Claire, you’ve got a big fat job with a major law firm with offices in three central city locations – I’m surprised you even know that Enterprise Allowance exists.”

“I didn’t, you told me about it. Anyway I’m sure he’s clever enough to get round something as minor as taxes.”

“Of course he can, but I can’t believe it’s a real business. It’s got to have something to do with whatever September was carrying for him.”

“Heavy trade in smuggled Chippendale legs, maybe?”

“No. The drugs or whatever it is are coming from New York, not going there.”

“Well in that case, perhaps the chairs are worth four thousand quid after all.”

“What?”

“Chippendale legs.”

“Claire, it’s quarter to four in the morning. Talk sense.”

“Hollow legs, Saz. Easily filled with a certain fine white powder.”

“You think so? Bit obvious isn’t it?”

“Well, you didn’t get it. I don’t know, but it sounds about as likely as all the rest of this. Gambling, disguises, drugs – are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“More or less. Anyway, it’s September I’m worried about. Look, thanks for this Claire. It’s really useful. Give me the details and I’ll get on to it in the morning.”

Saz put the telephone down and tried to go back to sleep. After about an hour she gave up, dressed and went for a run. By the time she got back, showered and breakfasted it was six thirty and just about feasible that she could ring Helen and Judith. Judith answered the phone.

“Yes?”

“It’s Saz, did I wake you?”

“No, but you did disturb us.”

“At six thirty in the morning? You are eager.”

“Helen had something important on, she only got in half an hour ago. What can we do for you?”

Saz told them what she knew about James and Helen got on the other phone.

“Listen, you don’t have proof of any of this do you?”

“No. It’s all suspicion. And hearsay. And interpretation – he says ‘pigeon’, I assume drugs. Not an altogether extravagant assumption, given the coke in his desk drawer.”

“Right, cos if you did have proof, I’d have to go official with it.”

“I know that, but then he’d know someone was after him.”

“Can’t be helped. If you’re right, I expect there’s quite a few people after him. Look, the best we can do is check on the records, see if this London business is legit, what he’s got it registered as. That kind of thing. Jude can check his status with immigration.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, but you don’t have much time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen Saz, we’re both good little police girls who want to be big important police ladies and unfortunately neither of us are masons. We can’t keep things quiet for long. Someone’s bound to want to know why we’re asking, and we have a – a ‘duty’ – for want of a much better word, to tell them. Your job is to find Miss September, the woman I mean, it sounds like it might be a police job to deal with Mr James.”

“McAuley.”

“Yeah, him. But he isn’t your problem. And you shouldn’t make him your problem either. Got it?”

“I understand, how long can you give me?”

“A couple of days maximum, then you’ll have to come and talk to someone and we’ll start something official. All right?”

“Yeah, ‘spose so. You’ll let me know what you find out?”

“Soon as. Can we get back to our other business now?”

“Yeah, go for it. Thanks.”

Saz put the answerphone on and went back to bed. She woke in time to speak to Helen at midday who said that Simon James McAuley had a perfect record both as a citizen and a tax payer and had flown into Heathrow on Saturday morning, declaring his intention to stay in the country for two weeks – to check on his business and to holiday.