The trouble with the future is that it’s not what it used to be. That was my first thought when I woke at lunchtime the day after losing Chantelle’s trial. My second thought was not to neglect the present – not when you’re lying in the warm arms of a man who has spent the night adding a few new chapters to the Kama Sutra.
A hazy vanilla light seeped into Nathaniel’s bedroom. His tall, antique-filled house was on a small Georgian square which had miraculously survived the Blitz, unscathed, when London’s docklands were flattened. With St Katharine Docks to the right and Canary Wharf further downriver, the house was an architectural gem, nestled in a crook of the twisting Thames. Through the bow window the river glistened as whipped-cream clouds sailed overhead and a plane embroidered the blue sky with vapour. Sighing contentedly, I shrugged myself deeper into his embrace, close against his chest, and inhaled his strong, heady scent. When I looked up into his face, Nathaniel’s smile came out like the sun.
‘Breakfast in bed, m’lady?’
I took a nibble of his earlobe. ‘Um, actually, I think you are my breakfast in bed.’ Corny, but allowable under the Post-orgasmic Cute Phrases Lovey-dovey Clause.
‘I’ve got to go and check in on a client, so why don’t I pick up some croissants en route? I’ll be back in an hour, after which I’ll spoil you rotten.’ He nibbled my ear now.
‘You’re just too good to be true, Nate. Are you sure you’re not a mirage or a hologram or something?’
Nathaniel’s face took on a serious cast. ‘I’m only good now to make up for being bad in the past. I did some truly unethical things as a banker. Things I’m not proud of. I’m just trying to make amends. Speaking of which, will you come with me tonight to a charity fundraiser for Reprieve? It would be such a delight to have you on my arm. Middle Temple Hall. Seven.’
He nipped a line of kisses down my neck and I felt a volt of excitement shoot up my thighs and pulse between my legs. I stayed silent as I watched him pull on his jeans, but only because I’d totally run out of superlatives. As he lifted his strong arms to shrug on a T-shirt, his muscled stomach sucked inwards and his broad ribcage rose. His face, neck and the V-shaped triangle at the base of his throat were honey-coloured and darker than the rest of his taut torso. After he’d bounded down the wooden stairs, his biker boots beating out a rhythm on the old and worn wood, I lay in bed and thought about the marvel that was Nathaniel Cavendish.
The first time we’d been to bed together, I’d jettisoned him out the door to get back to Jack. The stupidity of it made me groan aloud. What had I been thinking? Or rather, not thinking. Anyone would presume I’d spent a lifetime doing sit-ups underneath parked vehicles, because the man was so damn perfect he could star as the protagonist of a Hollywood rom com. He attended charity events, helped the less fortunate, made his own bread . . . the man harvested his own honey, for God’s sake.
‘Bumblebees, like feisty, funny feminists, are teetering on the verge of extinction. Your numbers have dwindled alarmingly in recent years. You need nurturing and protection,’ he’d said to me while kissing my hand. Not only was he attentive and concerned, he was also practical – a Swiss Army man. Handy for everything, able to mend fuses, change car tyres, open bottles with his teeth and, oh! what nifty additional extras . . . One night with him had released me from the tinnitus buzz of self-reproach after losing Chantelle’s court case. I was like the donkey that had finally caught up to the stick holding the carrot. And it was time I showed my appreciation.
I threw on one of Nate’s T-shirts and padded down the stairs into the kitchen. The reason I don’t cook is because I don’t want to go down for manslaughter. I’d only ever once attempted anything more complicated than tuna surprise . . . and had nearly fallen into the blender and made a crudité of myself. My mother loves to tell people how I once went to the corner shop and asked for a ‘pinch of nutmeg’ and a ‘clove of crushed garlic’.
I peeked into his fridge. The fridges of most of the bachelors I know contain a few petrified lumps which could once have been chorizo, some chutney bottled during the reign of Alfred the Great and some yoghurt whose expiry date reads ‘When Tyrannosaurus Rex Roamed the Earth’. But Nathaniel’s fridge was groaning with gourmet delicacies. There was really no excuse not to try to concoct something.
First, I’d chop the onions. Not wanting red eyes, I rummaged through his laundry looking for swimming goggles and found a mask and snorkel. Donning this aquatic apparatus, I diced away happily. I managed to brown the onions without any major disasters, thanks to the fact that, without watering eyes, I could see what I was doing. Then I threw in some bacon. As I cracked eggs into a saucepan, I began to wonder why everybody made such a fuss of Domestic Goddesses and Gourmet Love Gods. This wasn’t so hard. I was getting on with Nathaniel’s kitchen like a stove on fire . . . Except for the fact, that – um . . . it was.
Roxy always jokes that I use my smoke alarm as a timer. And, today, it proved terrifyingly true. Moments later, black smoke was billowing from the hob. The tea towel I’d left too near the flame had caught fire. As I dealt with the miniature inferno, the bacon spat fat in every direction. The fire alarm in the hall made sure everybody in a ten-mile radius would know about my gastronomic faux pas. It screeched into eardrum-grating life. The high-pitched shriek was cranium-piercingly loud and toe-curlingly constant. Turning off the gas rings, I scrambled up on to a chair to prod frantically at the alarm. When I failed to silence it, I tried to detach it from its base so I could smother it in cushions or hurl it out of the window. I tugged on the contraption with all my might . . . Which proved too much might, as I was immediately showered in ceiling plaster. It fell around me with the soft, snuffled thud of snowflakes. But that’s not all that came tumbling earthward. The hall was now intriguingly carpeted in money. Great wads of ten-, twenty-and fifty-pound notes wafted carpet-ward amidst the ceiling plaster.
I stood, shrieking smoke alarm in hand, staring in bemused shock at the impromptu windfall. When Nathaniel walked in, the moment was frozen in time: me, wearing a snorkel and goggles, covered head to toe in plaster dust, him bug-eyed with bemused disbelief.
Nathaniel took the smoke alarm from my hand and gently squeezed out the battery. The sudden silence was equally deafening. ‘You’re obviously as good at DIY as you are at culinary pursuits, Tilly. I take it that you always cook in a snorkel in preparation for the high-pressure hoses of the fire brigade?’
I’d forgotten about the goggles. Through perspex sockets I watched Nathaniel kick at the cash on the carpet. ‘What the hell’s all this?’ he asked, scooping up a bundle of money. His expression hardened, and he spoke gravely. ‘Bloody idiot!’ His voice sounded as though he’d eaten cut glass for breakfast.
‘Who?’ My own voice was now as nasal as my mother’s Aussie twang. I pushed the scuba-diving goggles up on to my crinkled forehead and spoke normally. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Sorry. I’m house-sitting this place for a banking mate of mine, Christopher Grayling, who went to the dark side,’ he said, brushing plaster dust off my legs. ‘In fact, he’s the one who needs goggles and snorkel, as he really has dived into the deep end.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He started doing a lot of coke. Banking mates called this place “Antarctica” – or “Snowman’s Land”. I got suspicious that Chris had started dealing because of the amount of cash he carried. We went to the races once and he bet £20,000 on a horse without batting an eye. Twenty thousand!’ Nathaniel took my hand and helped me down from the chair. ‘The problem with dealing is that if you earn lots, you have to spend lots, too, otherwise, how do you explain it to the taxman? Anyway, he eventually got caught, of course, and sent down for three years. He sits in a cell twenty-three hours a day now. I can’t even send him books. And all they have in the library is Jeffrey Archer. Now that really is punishment! Anyway, I think you just found his secret retirement fund.’
‘At least it saved you from having to eat my cooking. We’d better call the police, though.’
‘Yes.’ Nathaniel reached for his iPhone, then paused. ‘But we have to be careful. When Chris was arrested I did wonder why the undercover unit was targeting what they call “low-hanging fruit”. Why did they nab my mate instead of the kingpins at the top of the criminal tree? Some covert operations become focused on getting “heads on sticks” which means “Let’s bag as many people as possible for whatever offence we can.”’ He picked some plaster pieces out of my hair. ‘But, other times, it’s because the cops in the drug squad are in on the act and taking a cut. The drug squad’s notoriously corrupt. This year alone, rogue cops have siphoned off more than £1.2 million worth of drugs seized in police raids and then sold them back on the streets. We’re not talking about one bad apple, but rotten-to-the-core institutionalized corruption.’
‘Roxy always says that you can tell an undercover cop . . . but you can’t tell him much,’ I agreed.
Nathaniel’s face took on a cloudy cast. He scanned the room. ‘I have to be really careful about getting framed, too. Through my work, I’ve put a lot of noses out of joint, and made a lot of enemies.’
‘How?’
‘By exposing various officers, on charges ranging from rape to drug dealing . . . Giving one cop away to another cop is very dicey. The blue brotherhood and all that . . . I think the best thing is if I take this load down to Scotland Yard myself this afternoon and speak to the chief . . . But let’s keep it quiet. I don’t want any addicts breaking in and ransacking the joint looking for contraband or quick cash. Jesus, what a hassle. But thank you for attempting to cook for me.’ His eyes sought mine. ‘Although I think what really set off the alarm is the fact that I have such a smoking-hot babe in my bed.’
He leant me back against the wall and kissed my mouth. His hands were on my haunches, pulling my hips against his. He scooped me up and lay me on the carpet, there among the piles of money, and breathed along the inside of my thigh, his lips brushing the skin, each place more delicate and electric than the last.
Later, when we finally stirred and got vertical, I looked at the mounds of money around us and grinned. ‘I think you’ve over-tipped, Nate.’
‘Really? I’d say you’ve undercharged.’ He held my hand to his lips and kissed it softly.
‘But, seriously, if you’re worried about the drug squad being corrupt, why don’t I ring my father? He has so many friends on the force. He’ll know who to trust. God knows, he’s desperate to help me.’
Nathaniel gazed at me with an expression that was both tender and perplexed. ‘You’d trust a man who cheated on your mother? . . . Those undercover operations had a terrible impact on the lives of innocent women. After you’d told me about Danny, I did a bit of snooping on the snoop, actually. And do you know what I discovered? Your father won an award for the best undercover infiltration of a left-wing group . . . But what are you? An embarrassing little postscript? A doggy-bag daughter? No. Better not tell him anything. Officers from those elite covert operations units inside the Met, they don’t shoot straight. Some of my clients, ex-dealers – well, the Special Branch guys give them class-A drugs as bribes. I’m told they often take the drugs themselves.’
‘Not Danny. I know he did some bad things in the past, but I’m convinced he’s changed. The man’s not just turned over a new leaf but a whole new tree.’
‘I don’t want to upset you, Matilda, but the truth is I saw your old man buying coke from a dealer. On my estate. Right near my office.’
My facial features rearranged themselves into the look of someone who had just been handed a jar of warm sputum. ‘What? Are you sure?’
He nodded sadly. ‘Yep. And I have a rule about that. Lawmakers cannot be law-breakers, even if they are washed-up hasbeens.’
‘You’re a hundred per cent sure that it was Danny? I mean, do you know what he looks like?’
‘Portia showed me some photos of him, one night when I was at your place. That’s why you have to be very careful about Danny’s influence on your daughter . . . I suppose you know she’s still sneaking off to see him? I saw them together a number of times through the summer, around Camden. I didn’t tell you before because you were so stressed preparing Chantelle’s case. I just kept an eye on her for you.’
I flew across the room as though propelled by a poltergeist. I grabbed my phone and punched in Portia’s number. When there was no answer, I was dressed and off out the door within minutes. See Mother run! Hear Mother talking to herself! See Mother get down the bottle of tranquillizers! . . .
I hailed a taxi and offered the driver a big tip to put his foot down. Careering west along the river towards Blackfriars Bridge at breakneck speed, I tried to reassure myself that Portia was okay. But I had a feeling that if I filled in a magazine quiz to see whether I was a ‘good mother’, I’d fail. And that I’d fail even if I cheated.