The Liar's Chair (13 page)

‘It’s not fair on them. You should have thought this through before you left. Get Kelly to reschedule our lunch meeting so I can go to the gym later.’ I hear him breathing down
the line. ‘I’ll be in shortly to keep an eye on things there. You’re becoming next to useless, Rachel.’

He puts the phone down and the hiss of quiet fills my head.

In front of me in my diary the day’s tasks ladder down the page. I enjoy the tactile feel of paper and pencil, finding it easier to see what there is to do from pages smudged and scribbled
over, like a dentist’s appointment book. David always tuts at the sight of the computer sidelined to the back of my desk. ‘What must it look like to clients when they come in,’ he
said once, ‘you peddling away with your scratchy little pencil? That’s the person I met, Rachel, with your two-ring cooker and baked beans on toast. It’s not who you are
now.’

I draw up a list of requirements for the day and prepare the paperwork and myself to sit next to David through all these meetings: shoulder to shoulder, interjecting only when I disagree with a
client or filmmaker, the bad cop to his good. Anyone else would be honoured with the trust he bestows on me, but my talents have long been replaceable so I know it’s more practical than that.
The main reason we work together so well is that I understand him more than anyone else, I know what he wants before he’s even thought of it, though sometimes I worry that I know too much. If
ever I was free of David, my insider knowledge of the man, not just the business, would be of great concern to him. I’ve watched him win then fail then rise again, over and over, from student
days with a sideline of a T-shirt stall, to promoting club nights and starting a record label, followed by a switch to production when he realized that young people only had a finite amount of
money. He sat up night after night studying the workings of each new venture, taking higher-ed courses at obscure and far-flung colleges in camera operating and offline editing. I was the one who
witnessed his humiliation at every setback, followed by his disbelief in the idiots who ran the business, those who were unable to recognize his potential. His incredulity was always followed by a
volcano of ambition for the next pitch. What began as my support, bankrolling his humble and secret apprenticeship as I worked as a business administrator, turned into a pooling of our ideas and
talents when I finally understood, as always, that David’s plans had legs. I quit my job and became the financial and production partner to his technician.

In the early years the two of us pitched to commissioners and were mostly turned down, but the few jobs we managed to win enabled us to build our reel. Over time we gained more confidence and
this was boosted by growing admiration in the industry. We expanded year on year until we achieved our current success in the Reality programming market. I have to applaud David’s foresight
– he stuck to this vision rather than pursuing more instantaneous but ultimately less lucrative avenues – but now we’ve reached the level we have, our TV formula a stylized
roll-out to be adjusted to any unfortunate human dilemma, I sense that David’s adrenalin is running low: more visits to the gym, impulsive sackings when a warning would have done, more
frequent requests to top up his stash. I would be happy to sell the business, but for David our production company is family; if nothing else, he’s loyal. So instead he’ll branch out to
other business ventures, whatever he can turn into success, whatever he can manage locally, and he’ll hold on to what he’s already created. Hence these new illicit openings outside of
our known arena, such as David’s involvement in Alex’s development, which ticks more boxes than merely making money. When I questioned the lack of paperwork involved in our investment,
unchecked by lawyers or traceable by the tax man, David told me to grow up. ‘I’m trusting you to keep schtum on this, Rachel,’ he said. ‘I know you can hide this amount in
your productions. This could be very profitable for us so I don’t need any of your ethical hysterics.’

The first meeting today is at 10.00 with a children’s charity who need a publicity video for fundraising, so there’s plenty of time to organize myself for clients who are effectively
asking of us a favour. We’ll farm the project out to someone fresh and keen from film school, and the new recruit will give us their time for free in exchange for a foot in the door. For this
appointment, David will wear his philanthropist’s uniform of jeans and T-shirt, though in reality we’ll be giving little away. In return we gain a stronger profile. Later in the day,
David will change into the suit and open-necked shirt he keeps at the office for ‘real’ meetings. Today’s was a late lunch with an ex-commissioner who’s in between channels,
though this will now be cancelled to make way for David’s more important visit to the gym. ‘Small fry,’ David has scribbled next to the woman’s name in my diary.

A click and low rumble signals the heating coming on. I move to a radiator and press my hands against the metal as the warmth creeps up its surface. The stairs reverberate with the clang of the
hoover plug announcing the cleaner’s growing proximity, so I go into David’s office where there’s more space and an en suite, and lock the door.

David’s large desk takes up a fair portion of the room. I sit in his chair and face the two banks of drawers which hang either side of the chair area. Some of these drawers used to contain
stationery and other paperwork relating to current projects, though each one I pull now is locked. Usually David only secures the drawers containing financial information, and because I might need
these statements, I was the sole person who knew where the keys were kept. I check behind our wedding photo on the windowsill, but the keys are no longer there. My hand runs over the rest of the
sill and then across the shelves next to the wall, and finally I rummage through his spare gym bag until I hear the jangle of metal inside one of his training shoes.

As he clearly has so much to hide, it’s time to redress the balance of secrets between us.

In one drawer there’s a folder containing paperwork I’ve never seen before, detailing financial transactions between numerous companies, plus bank accounts I don’t recognize.
The first company that money has been sent to is in the UK and it’s called Manorhall Construction, but the rest of the accounts are located in many different countries, and they amount to
multiple transactions, the funds changing currency as they’re paid on to each business, filtering through the various jurisdictions. I knew that David had stopped trusting me, but I had no
idea the extent to which he had become involved in rinsing our money clean. Far greater amounts are detailed in the paperwork than was the original investment in the development, but this money
hasn’t been taken from any bank account I know of. There must be other sources, and I’m amazed and almost impressed at how fast David has taken to this new line of business.

Another drawer has a folder containing information on a man called Tyrone Aldridge. I recognize him as the leader of the camp of activists who was pictured in the newspaper at Mum’s house.
Here his mugshot is of a younger self with dreadlocks, and the paperwork details various arrests, mostly for dealing small amounts of cannabis, plus also his past memberships of various
organizations: CND, Socialist Worker, Anti-Vivisection League; our debt collection agency has ways and means of sourcing more information than merely the financial assets of our clients. His first
arrest was years ago at the poll tax riots, so he’s older than I originally thought. In the bottom drawer is a notebook, exactly the same type as the one we keep at home for our household
expenses. This one has only recently been started, and inside is a list of payments amounting to several thousand pounds. The first amount is dated the day of the accident. Next to the dates are
the names of people I’ve never heard of, and pseudo-cryptic words that don’t take a huge leap of imagination to work out: ‘Fixer’, ‘Burn’,
‘Hush’.

There are voices outside the door, staff who’ve arrived early. The cleaner knocks and asks if he can come in. ‘Give me a moment,’ I call to him through the door. I scan as many
of the bank statements as I have time for, my courage fading fast, then load the information on to a disk – another thing to hide from David, but I’ll deal with that later. When I
finish collating the paperwork, I put everything, including the background file on Tyrone plus the new ledger, back in the places where I found them, lock the drawers and hide the keys where they
belong. I delete the scans and cancel the history on David’s computer, then sit down on the sofa to settle my pulse before the day starts.

At 7.55 David pounds on the door. I’ve left the key in the lock and he can’t get in from his side. Jumping up, I brush the creases from my clothes, flatten my hair
with damp palms and instinctively sling my bag over my shoulder before opening the door. Kelly, our receptionist, is behind David. She holds a basketful of croissants, and peers round his back, her
smile filled with questions. She has large front teeth and her top lip rarely seems to close over them.

‘You look terrible,’ David says. ‘Great Willow will be here at eight fifteen.’

Another of the ever-popular breakfast meetings, our days stretched to fit in all the business that needs to be done, but the meeting isn’t in my diary. I have a vague recollection of
scheduling the appointment, though obviously didn’t write it down. I forgot. It’s not the first time recently. A month ago, before the accident, I never would have made this mistake,
plus now I haven’t got all the paperwork ready for the meeting. Great Willow Films are a rival production company who’ve fallen on hard times, mostly through their more traditional
treatment of documentaries, and for some time we’ve been hoping to either put them out of business or absorb them. With their roster of work added to ours we’d be leaders in the Reality
corner of the market.

David comes into his office and locks the door behind him. He sits at his desk and unlocks the middle drawer, taking out a small glass tube with a stopper. He examines it closely but it’s
empty so he goes back into the drawer and pulls out an oblong packet of folded-up paper, like basic origami, about three centimetres long. Next he takes out a mirror and a razor blade and unfolds
the paper carefully, revealing compacted white powder. He scrapes a corner of the clump on to the shiny surface and, with manic little chops of the blade, turns the granules into a strip of dust.
Inspecting the line with a couple of turns of the head, like a cat with a half-killed mouse, he puts the end of a small silver straw up one nostril, and with a quick loud sniff inhales the cocaine
up his nose.

‘This is a shit batch, Rachel,’ he says, tossing his head back and pressing shut the other nostril with his thumb. He sniffs loud and shakes his head vigorously, more of a shiver.
‘Bloody hell! It’s cut with bleach or something.’ He shunts his head forward and stares at me. ‘If you score from the same dealer again, I’ll break his
kneecaps.’ He pauses to let his words sink in. ‘And I’m not joking.’

With his recent fast-tracking into the underworld – the man who disappeared my car, our dodgy investment in Alex’s development, and now the reams of money that are leaving accounts
I’ve never heard of – I don’t doubt that if David has the inclination to find Will, it won’t be a difficult task.

My phone is on silent but it vibrates with a text. I take it out of my bag and read the message. It’s from Will: ‘I miss you. Can we sort this out?’ Perhaps there really is
something to David’s magical thinking, his thoughts crossing the ether to conjure people up. I hold up the phone, scanning the text and trying to read layers of meaning into Will’s few
words before I have to delete them, when I accidentally click on the camera option. In frame is a perfect shot of David sitting behind the clutter of his habit. He goes in for another line. I take
several silent shots.

David cleans the mirror with his finger and licks the powder, rubbing what’s left on his red gums, then he puts all the equipment back in the drawer before locking it again. He looks at me
and pinches his nose clean, sniffing a couple of times. There must have been some coke left on his fingers as he’s wiped a strip of white up his cheek, and has left a small rim of dust around
one nostril.

‘For God’s sake,’ he says, ‘get yourself cleaned up.’

I go to reach for a tissue from the box on his desk, then stop myself and stand staring at him instead.

‘Rachel,’ he says. ‘Get a move on. I need to prepare.’ He shuffles through his papers. ‘What’s the matter with you? Take a shower or something.’

I wonder if he’ll notice what’s on his face before the meeting, and decide to leave it to fate.

In the bathroom, I wash my face and brush my hair. The strands fall in thick curls down my back. I’ve worn this same style – loose and long – ever since I was a girl and it
never lets me down; every man I’ve ever met has fallen in love with my hair. The reality of the real woman underneath is a more complicated proposition. There’s been little point to
make-up recently, but no one is used to me looking undone, so if only to stop the cautious stares I put on mascara and lipstick, and dot some red circles on my cheeks. Before I spread the rouge up
my cheekbone, in the mirror I see a little girl who’s raided her mum’s make-up bag.

Through the wall comes the noise of the clients filing into the meeting room, and Kelly chatting as she pours coffee from the big silver pot which sits at the centre of the table. No one drinks
tea any more. I open the door from the bathroom into David’s office and he stands facing me, holding out his folder, his eyebrows raised and the white powder gone from his cheek but still on
his nose.

‘What the fuck is this?’ he says in a low voice so as not to be heard through the walls. He wafts the papers up and down. ‘This is a mess, Rachel. You’ve left me totally
unprepared for this meeting. Since you’ve failed at being a wife, the least you could do is live up to being my partner.’ And he turns and walks out the door.