The Family Remains(59)

‘Yeah, right. So not quite. More like industrial equipment sold to high-volume drug manufacturers.’

‘Drugs? You mean, like illegal drugs?’

‘Correct.’

‘And, sorry, what was Michael doing exactly?’

‘A middleman, essentially. He procures the equipment from legitimate suppliers and then sells it on at vast profit to the drug manufacturers. He also has some involvement with their trafficking systems.’

‘He traffics drugs?’

‘Well, tangentially, yes. Not directly. In a very hands-off way. And all of this of course would be very hard to prove.’

‘He’s a criminal.’

‘Neegh.’ Jonno shrugged and grimaced. ‘Not exactly. But criminal adjacent.’

‘He lost all his money.’

‘Shit. He told you that?’

‘Yes. He said a shipment of equipment went missing in transit. He’d paid for it up front and the people who lost it refused to take accountability for it. A million pounds, or more.’

Jonno sucked in his breath and dropped his chin. ‘Fucking hell. And it was his money?’

‘Well, yes. I suppose so.’

He sucked in his breath again, this time through his bared teeth. ‘Might not have been though.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean it might have been money that was … fluid. I.e. money that was meant to be repaid somewhere along the line. Did he seem extra stressy?’

‘Well, God, yes. I mean, that’s pretty much why I left him.’

Jonno nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I reckon there’s more to come of this sorry story. Definitely more left to tell.’ Then he tipped the tequila bottle towards her and said, ‘Another shot?’

Rachel smiled and said, ‘Sure. Why not?’

In July Rachel moved out of her studio in Kilburn and into a much bigger studio in Holloway, closer to her flat. Paige had agreed to work alongside her part-time in parallel with her own jewellery business and the bank had agreed to a loan of ￡150,000 to finance the materials for her first exclusive range for Liberty. Her father had taken out the loan on her behalf, but Rachel was going to repay it herself, every penny. This was it. No more handouts, bailouts or loans. She had a 50 per cent off everything sale on her website and used the cash raised from that to employ two professional goldsmiths to work alongside her and Paige on three-month contracts. By the end of July the sample range was ready: one of each item. She and Paige wrapped them in suede pouches and took them in an Uber to Liberty to present them to Lilian and Rosie in a wood-panelled room with tea served in a pot and macarons on a floral plate and there was laughter and lightness and excitement for the future.

‘They are exquisite. Oh my God, Lils, look at this pendant.’

‘Oh, wow, Rosie, I am absolutely getting one of these pink stacking-ring sets. Just stunning.’

‘Rachel Gold, you are a beautiful little genius. You really, really are.’

Back in the studio, Paige and Rachel drank champagne and toasted all the work they’d done and all the work that was yet to come and they tucked the sample range away inside the extra-secure safe that Rachel had bought for the new studio, then clicked off all the lights and locked up the studio behind them. On Monday the contracted goldsmiths would start work; the days would be long, the nights would be longer. Five of each piece ready to put on display in Liberty on 17 October for the big launch.

Rachel went to bed early that night, even though it was a Friday, and fell asleep thinking of plans, of numbers, of cash flows, of a safe full of diamonds and gold.

By September Rachel and her new team were in a rock-solid routine. The display signage and branding had all been designed and produced. And still Rachel had had no contact from Michael. And then, one glowering, stormy afternoon, when a bullying wind was stirring the first few fallen leaves in circles around her feet, and she was wearing a coat for the first time since before the summer, Rachel was halfway between her studio and a meeting in town with Lilian and Rosie when she stopped dead in her tracks outside a shop selling tartan and felt her breath catch in her chest cavity. There, heading briskly towards her, his hand in the hand of a woman who looked a lot like Ella, the tiny blonde woman she’d found him talking to at Dominique’s Christmas party the year before, was Michael. He was wearing a grey woollen overcoat and a burgundy-and-navy-striped scarf, had grown a beard and was beaming at her from ear to ear.

‘Oh my God. Rachel! Hi!’

Rachel’s body felt numb. Her gaze tracked briefly to the woman who looked like Ella and she saw a flash of horror pass across her face and realised that it was, it was Ella, and how, she wondered, how had Ella and Michael come together? When? Where? They’d only met once, so briefly, and he hadn’t even liked her, and what was Michael doing holding hands with her and why was he smiling at Rachel as if she were an old friend and not the wife who he’d raped on his sofa five months ago and not seen since? She could not find a reaction that was appropriate to this situation. Her face didn’t know what to do. Her body wanted to run.

Eventually she said, ‘Erm. Hi. I mean, I can’t really … I need to, I’m late for—’

‘Sure. No worries. It’s great to see you though. You look amazing.’

‘Thanks. I—’

She made an ‘I gotta go’ gesture and smiled grimly.