Connections (8 page)

When they were sitting down Fleur gazed into space, remembering Vanessa on the stretcher, sitting on the grass with Dominic, Dominic's bed. She felt dazed.

“We can't say we didn't see it coming,” Al remarked.

“You got enough in to make a few extra sandwiches lunchtime?” Patrick called back into the kitchen.

“No,” a voice called back.

The voice started grumbling.

“Go up the shops and get some, then,” Patrick called.

“What are you going to do?” Fleur asked Al.

“Looks like a visit to the Job Centre is on the cards,” Al told her. “You?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Funnily enough, I liked that job, in a way.”

They heard a police car come past and stop nearby. Al smiled, then finished his beer and stood up. “I think I'll disappear. Housman's dying to find somebody to blame. I don't fancy it just now – I'll let them find me.”

They exchanged phone numbers and Al left. Fleur went on sitting there for a while, then did the same. She went back to Adelaide House. There was nowhere else to go except the Job Centre and she didn't feel up to the inquisition they'd put her through.

Betty Simmons caught her on the landing as she put her key in the lock. “What went on last night?” she asked.

“Vanessa took an overdose,” Fleur reported, knowing Mrs Simmons already knew, or guessed.

“Is she all right?”

“She seems to be,” Fleur answered.

“I knew it,” Betty Simmons declared. “Drugs. You've only to look at them. This is only the start – police, ambulances, all-night parties. Doug's still on at the council to get rid of them. The Town Hall's quite sympathetic but sympathy won't get us anywhere. If they don't go our lives will be a living hell. They're not supposed to keep a dog here, either. Doug's brought that up, too.”

Fleur winced. Whatever you might say about the others, she thought, Jason was a perfectly decent neighbour. Betty, disappointed by Fleur's passivity, added, “I don't suppose you realise what people like that next door can do to the value of your property.”

All Fleur could manage was, “Yes. I see what you mean.” Then she added, “I must go in. I'm out of a job – the wine bar's just closed down.”

“I saw the police,” Betty Simmons said.

“It looks as if the manager's gone off with last night's takings,” Fleur said.

“Oh dear. First that girl – now this – you be careful, dear. Things often go in threes.”

Fleur nodded, went in, sat down, stood up and realised she had no idea what to do next. She thought of Ben, thought of her empty life and was on the verge of taking her troubles back to
bed with her when she thought better of it. She couldn't return to all that again, she thought. She'd end up on anti-depressants. So she rang Jess and said she wanted to talk to her about jobs. Jess suggested lunch.

“You did
what?
” exclaimed Jess in horror.

Although they were eating in an old-fashioned Italian restaurant just off Oxford Street, where the tables were quite widely separated, Fleur saw a man turn round when he heard Jess's anguished voice.

Jess was still talking, though in a slightly lower tone. “I can't believe it – this isn't like you. It's completely out of character.” She paused, aghast, as another thought struck her. “You might have caught anything – anything at all. Have you considered that?”

“I have, actually,” Fleur admitted.

“Oh, my God,” Jess said, appalled. “Well – please don't do it again. I'm begging you.”

“I don't suppose I will,” said Fleur, but suddenly had a memory, a physical memory, of Dominic's mouth, his hands upon her.

Jess, her oldest friend, read her mind. “You're a bit old to be like this, aren't you? I don't like that little repressed smirk on your face. You know where it could end up, don't you? We're talking street people – unprotected sex with all and sundry, dirty needles, the lot.”

“I know what we're talking about,” Fleur told her. There was no defence. What Jess said was perfectly true. She had been reckless and there could be a big price to pay. The biggest.

“It's time you got out of there,” Jess announced. “Call it a phase, something you had to do when you did it. I don't know about any proper jobs just now but you can do
something.
Can't Grace and Robin let you have some money?”

“They haven't got any,” said Fleur.

“They must have – look at how they live,” Jess said. She raised her eyebrows and looked straight at Fleur. “I bet he's got a tattoo.”

Fleur looked down.

“He has!” Jess crowed. “What is it? ‘Love' and ‘hate' on his knuckles? Union Jack on his bum? Come on – give.” She frowned suspiciously. “It isn't a swastika, is it?”

“It's just a butterfly,” Fleur mumbled.

“How sweet,” Jess mocked. “Where is it?”

“On his shoulder.”

“Right – I'm getting the picture. But listen to me, Fleur, this is over – right? Don't get sucked in.”

Fleur was getting impatient. “Thanks for the advice. Look, Jess, I'm trying to find a job. Are you sure there's nothing? I'm not fussy.”

Jess admitted, “If I'd heard of anything I'd be thinking about myself.” She dropped her voice. “Debs is up to something. I don't know what it is but I know it's happening. Someone I know saw her going into a hotel with an executive from Paramount. I got her PA to give me her phone bill. I said something had gone wrong with my billing and I needed to check. She's been ringing the same number in California a lot so I rang it myself – it was Henry Veneto's office. There was another number that came up several times, too. A French investment bank.”

“You think she's putting Camera Shake on the market?” asked Fleur.

“Either that, or she's going to sell shares in it and realise a big sum. That means another management.”

“It's hard to believe,” Fleur said. Debs Smith, barely five foot two in her high heels, had started the firm by mortgaging her own flat and her old mother's house in Beverley ten years earlier. She had succeeded. Camera Shake was responsible for two game shows and three successful series on the BBC and independent television. Debs had three BAFTA awards. She lived on lettuce, mineral water and adrenalin and worked a fifteen-hour day.

“There's a vague rumour,” reported Jess, who sucked up
rumours like a vacuum cleaner. “It says Peter's been playing away from home.”

“Peter never leaves home,” Fleur said, thinking of mild, bespectacled Peter Smith, who ran Debs' home and the three children Debs had put into his caring arms almost as soon as she'd had them.

“Keep your voice down,” Jess warned. “Well,” she continued, “it was at home, so to speak. The lady who ran the play group one of the little Smiths went to. Trust a man – he'll find a way somehow.” She glanced at Fleur, who decided not to point out that
she,
Jess, had also found a way, with her, Fleur's, lover.

Jess went on hastily, “Anyway, Debs isn't going to let Peter go and that's the only thing which would persuade her to relax her grip on Camera Shake. Without him she could never have done what she has. And if there was a divorce, of course, he'd end up with half. So she's got good reason for getting out, or selling a big percentage of the firm. Or launching it as a public company.”

“Phew,” said Fleur.

“So now you can see why I'm watching my back.”

Fleur pondered, “If either of us had any capital we could set up on our own.”

“I know, darling,” Jess said, patting her hand across the table, “but we haven't, have we? And Ben's made sure your name's mud at the bank.”

On this sad note their lunch ended. On the train back to Cray Hill Fleur faced facts and decided she'd better try to get herself on a course to upgrade her computer skills with a view to finding a reasonably paid job. A glamorous career as an independent film producer had fallen to pieces in her hands and so had her recent, less glamorous career in a wine bar. Winter was coming on, the mortgage needed paying and her own bills were coming in. It might not be too long before more Verity creditors caught up with her. And that could mean bankruptcy. She had to do something sensible.

As soon as she got in her doorbell rang. If it's Dominic, she thought, Jess's warnings ringing in her ears, I'll tell him it's over.

One look into his desperate eyes told her he had not come courting.

“What's the matter?” she said instantly.

“Vanessa's dead.”

Fleur's knees went weak. She clutched the door frame, whispering, “No – oh no.”

“Can I come in?” he asked. She let him in and followed him into the front room. “We went to see her last night, Joe and me,” he said flatly. “And she was fine – they said she was fine and we gave her the bear. She was OK. She said she was sorry and that, and she wouldn't do it again. She'd straighten out. And her mum was there talking about keeping on with the programme. We thought everything was all right. Just a blip. Joe said it could be a good thing, teach her a lesson and she'd try harder.” He flopped down into a chair. “Then at two in the morning Ellen rang up. Her mother. Something had gone wrong with Van's heart, suddenly. They couldn't save her. They don't really know what it was yet. But the thing is, she's dead. It happened.”

“How old was she?” Fleur asked.

“Twenty-one,” he said.

“Where's Joe?” she asked.

“He's with Van's mum, Ellen. There's lots of people there, helping.”

Fleur sat on the arm of the chair and put her arm round him, not knowing what to say. “Do you want a cup of tea?” she offered.

“Be nice,” he said. “Sorry to turn up – I thought you ought to know.”

“I'm glad you did,” she said. She went out and put the kettle on and came back into the room, where an enormous silence seemed to have fallen. “Whose girlfriend was she, yours or Joe's?” she asked.

He looked at her hard. “Van wasn't anybody's girlfriend,” he said at last. “She didn't like sex. Not after her stepfather.”

“Oh God,” said Fleur. “Oh God.” She sat down and hung her head.

“She was only ten,” Dominic told her. “Van's mother kicked him out as soon as she found out. But it was too late – the damage
was done and it never got put right. Van wasn't tough. She wasn't a survivor, just a casualty. Still, she might have made it, if it wasn't for a couple of other things – including that dealer.”

“Do you know who it was?” Fleur asked.

“I do now. He lives on the Yarborough. He went to the same primary school as Van and Joe. Joe and me'll look after him later.”

“You will?” said Fleur, imagining, with a tremor, a turf war, with guns circling Adelaide House.

“There's a lot of feeling about this on the Yarborough,” Dominic said. “This isn't all he's done.” He looked up at her hopelessly. “What can you say? He's guilty, but so's the bloke who supplied him, and the bloke who supplied him, all the way to Afghanistan or wherever. There's probably someone living in a big country house with a swimming pool who's just as responsible. We can't get at him. And if we could, what's the difference? It won't bring Vanessa back. She could have made it, that's what I keep on thinking.” He put his head on his hands. Fleur heard him sob before he lifted his head up quickly, tears on his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“You've got to talk to somebody,” she said.

“I'm talking to you, aren't I? What do you want me to do, see some wanky grief counsellor? I'm taking it differently to Joe, that's all. Joe's just angry, that's how it's coming out in him. I can't be angry. I keep thinking, if only we hadn't been out that night, when she went out and scored the heroin. If only we hadn't both been out, she might still be alive.”

“There's not much point in saying you can't fix the blame and then blaming it all on yourself,” Fleur said sternly and went off to make the tea. A voice inside her said that the person really responsible for Vanessa's death was Vanessa – she'd put the needle in her arm, not anyone else.

When she came back into the room Dominic was still sitting in the same position, staring into space. As she handed him the cup he said, “Thanks. I'll just have this and go.”

“Where to?” she asked.

“There's always somewhere.” He added, “You know, when
we moved in we were over the moon. We told Van it would be all right. We could start over, get straight and go straight if that was what it took. We were too old and too tired to live on the streets any more. The fun had gone out of it – wheeling, dealing, screwing around and getting by. Well, it didn't work, did it?”

“It was an accident, Dom. Everybody in the wrong place at the wrong time—”

“Maybe,” he said, standing up, adding more harshly, “Fucking junkies – most of them die in the end, anyway.”

The doorbell rang and when Fleur answered Joe was there. “I'm looking for Dominic—”

“He's here,” Fleur told him. Joe went straight past her and stood in front of him, skinny in his jeans and leather jacket, chalk-white and coiled like a spring. “I don't like it,” he said. “Brendan's disappeared. He had a huge roll of cash on him, his brother said—”

“He wasn't going to stand around, was he?” Dominic replied wearily. “He's not exactly popular now. He knew there'd be trouble.”

“No,” said Joe urgently, “a
big
roll of cash. Thousands and thousands.”

“So what are you saying, Joe?” he asked.

“You know what I'm saying. Vanessa went out and scored. Not for the first time. Only this time she's dead. And Brendan's loaded.”

“I know she's dead,” Dominic said flatly. “Van was a junkie. She's dead. It's not a new story. But you're not doing yourself any favour with this conspiracy theory, mate. Displacement, that's what it's called.”