Beneath the Skin(64)

Another calf reaction, Charlie observes, as Antonia’s eyes seem to widen. This isn’t easy, not at all. But he continues stoically. ‘You see, the thing is that David had life policies, as you would expect. Policies providing for you in the event of his untimely death, but some policies don’t pay out in the event of, of …’

Charlie coughs again and clears his throat. ‘Well. Some insurers just like to be bloody difficult. But it’s not something you need to worry about. So, promise me you won’t?’

He feels quite winded by the time Antonia leaves. He pulls up the thin cotton sheet, then lies down quietly with his eyes closed, hoping that he’ll be left alone for five minutes without someone in hospital uniform prodding him. Or talking as though he’s invisible.

It isn’t just imparting bad news that has made him feel dizzy, not that he’s done so in any effective way. He feels breathless because he was dreading the ‘why’ question he thought Antonia would certainly ask. She hasn’t asked why, which he thinks is slightly strange. But then again, he doesn’t know the girl that well and who can predict how someone reacts to death? He isn’t even sure how he’s reacting himself, it’s all so surreal, which isn’t a word which often pops up in his vocabulary.

‘Do you know why David did it, Charlie?’

‘No, absolutely no idea.’

That’s how it should have gone with Antonia, but the question wasn’t asked. Indeed, the conversation didn’t head remotely in that direction. He should feel relieved, he knows. If Antonia was going to ask why, that was the moment, when she and Charlie were alone. She didn’t ask. But Charlie doesn’t feel relieved or reprieved. He lies in his NHS bed, a pathetic figure who requires a nurse and a tube to help him to piss. What he really needs, he realises with irony, is purgation. Not of the body, but of the soul.

He closes his eyes and recalls his harsh words to David. ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. How could you be so bloody, bloody stupid? Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner? Do you realise what you’ve done? Has your thick head any idea of what the consequences will be?’

Charlie squeezes his eyes but the tears seep out anyway. David’s face. He can still see it clearly. The boyish surprise, the confusion, the dismay.

‘For crying out loud, David. You just don’t get it do you? I’m not going to sack you. It’s the Law Society who will sack you! You’ll be struck off and if I don’t report you, I’ll be struck off too. You’ve taken client money without permission, for God’s sake, and that is called stealing. It doesn’t matter that you intended to replace it at some indeterminate time. It’s theft and it will have to be reported. To the Law Society. To the police. You will no longer have a job because you will no longer be entitled to practise as a solicitor. Do you understand? You’ll be prosecuted, imprisoned, disgraced. Has the penny finally dropped?’

Of course Charlie didn’t ask the ‘why’ question then either. ‘Why did you have to “borrow” client money to pay the firm’s indemnity premium, David, when the money should have been in the designated insurance account you opened, duly earning interest?’ He didn’t ask because they both knew the answer was theft and frivolity with money, deeply humiliating and embarrassing for them both. It was easier to say, ‘A failure, David. Again. Just get out of my house. I can’t stand the sight of you.’

His very last words. How they hurt.

Helen’s having a productive week without Charlie. Her marking is up to date, as are her lecture plans and paper research. Charlie isn’t especially demanding to have around at home, but he’s a distraction. Aimless chatter, the garden in summer, the conservatory in winter and of course their long-winded meals.

She hasn’t particularly looked forward to visiting Antonia, but she knows that paying one’s respects has to be done and in fairness she does have the time. As she drives to White Gables in the dusky evening, she wonders what on earth they’ll find to talk about and how she’ll stretch the visit out to a respectable hour. But when she arrives, Mike Turner and his daughter are already there, sitting at the enormous breakfast bar on the (rather tasteless, in Helen’s view) gleaming chrome swivel stools. They’re drinking hot chocolate topped with whipped cream from tall glass mugs, chatting and laughing together. Despite Charlie’s grief, she still has no sympathy for David or his selfish actions, but she isn’t sure laughter is appropriate the week after a death.

‘I might get a job,’ Antonia says after serving Helen with an acceptable espresso and a rather tasty brioche bun.

‘Do you have qualifications?’ Helen asks, trying, but not succeeding, to keep the scepticism from her voice.

‘“Qualifications” sounds a bit grand for hairdressing, but yes, I suppose I do.’

Mike’s daughter, Helen notices, is big-toothed and wide-eyed as she gazes at Antonia adoringly. ‘Open a salon, Antonia. In Chorlton, near us. Then I could be your Saturday girl!’

The conversation flows easily, Helen thinks, surprisingly so. Until she mentions the wake at the Royal Oak and asks what plans have been made with Seamus and the caterers so she can tell Charlie. There’s a silence then. Antonia’s face flushes and Mike’s seems to darken.

‘Oh, I thought it would be here. I’ve already started to prepare,’ Antonia says eventually, motioning towards what Helen calls The Tardis.