‘Mustn’t wake the sleeping beauties,’ Diane said, closing the front door carefully.
‘You can’t fob me off much longer,’ Elizabeth said as they made their way to the bus stop. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re making it up. Whatever it is.’
‘Patience. Let’s find a nice café, treat ourselves to a coffee and a cream cake, and then,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘I will reveal all.’
The bus stop-started its way towards the city centre. The traffic was light and orderly in comparison with the London madness to which she was accustomed. She gazed out of the window at the semi-detached houses lining their route. What would it be like to live there? Or there? Not so very different from living in West London, or East London, or anywhere else, come to that. Aspiration, disappointment, satisfaction, revenge – all were playing out on the far side of those net curtains. Regardless of where they happened to live, who didn’t want the best for their children, a couple of weeks holiday in the sun and a doctor’s appointment when they needed it?
The streetscape changed, squat semis gradually giving way to taller Victorian terraces. The brickwork looked so red and sharp in the morning sun that these dwellings might have been built yesterday.
‘Student-land,’ Diane said. ‘In term-time, you have to battle your way down the pavement.’
Another change – more abrupt this time. To the right, parkland bordered by mature oaks and beeches, to the left, edifices of pale grey stone.
‘Law Courts. City Hall. Over there, with the columns, the National Museum of Wales.’ Diane pointed to a grassed area with a fountain and old-fashioned flower beds. ‘They set up an ice-rink here at Christmas. And a fun fair.’
‘How much are they paying you?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Who?’
‘The Cardiff Tourist Board.’
‘Not enough.’ Diane reached out and pressed the bell. ‘C’mon. This is our stop.’
They ended up in an old-fashioned café in one of the city’s Victorian arcades, where a skinny girl with Slavic cheekbones took their order.
‘So,’ Elizabeth folded her arms and leaned forward. ‘What’s this all about?’
Diane took a deep breath. ‘Think back twenty-five years, to the mid-eighties. You came to see me around that time. I don’t know if you remember. I was living—’
‘In Leeds. In that basement flat.’
Elizabeth wasn’t likely to forget that visit. Diane had written, asking her to come – a melancholy little note with no specific reason given for the invitation. So she’d left her young sons with Laurence and gone to Leeds, hoping that she’d got the wrong end of the stick. But her instinct had proved right. Grieving, damaged, short of money and directionless, Diane was in a bad way. An air of hopelessness hung over her. She was clearly suffering from depression. She needed help. Yet, sitting in that dank basement, preoccupied with thoughts of her family – had Laurence remembered to latch the stair gate? Was Ben going down with another bout of bronchitis? – Elizabeth was conscious that, despite her promises and good intentions, she was in no position to offer Diane the help she needed. They’d spent a miserable few hours together and Diane had made no attempt to dissuade her from catching an early train back to London. As she was leaving she’d shoved a handful of notes into Di’s pocket but this simply made her feel more wretched about failing her friend.
‘It’s seared into my memory. I cried all the way home.’
Diane reached across the table and touched Elizabeth’s hand. ‘You always saw things so clearly. You never got bogged down with useless crap. I was sure you’d to come up with something – a survival strategy, if you like. But as soon as I saw you, all grown-up and sorted whilst I was floundering in the mire, I knew it wasn’t going to work. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t your fault. We were simply out of synch. I was totally fucked. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. That’s why I kept moving around – to kid myself that I was doing something, which was probably what saved me from … but it meant I was never anywhere long enough to make friends. Acquaintances, yes, but not friends.’
She twisted her spoon in the saucer. ‘I hit rock-bottom in Leeds. I’d lost touch with my family. They’d always been a waste of breath. All of them. You were the only person I had. But there was no way I could come to London. It wouldn’t have been fair to you. And besides, Laurence didn’t like me. He considered me a bad influence.’ She smiled. ‘He still does, come to that.’
Yes. He does.
‘Thanks for letting me off the hook,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Nonsense. Anyway that was over twenty years ago and we’ve had plenty of fun times together since then, haven’t we?’
Elizabeth frowned. ‘So why have you never told me … whatever the hell this is that you still haven’t told me?’
‘I know, I know. I’ve come within a whisker so many times.’
‘And?’
Diane folded her paper napkin in half then in half again. ‘This sounds arsey coming from me but I really value your respect, Lizzie. I didn’t want you to think I was a totally spineless, witless, immoral, corrupt—’
‘Drama queen?’
‘Something along those lines.’
The waitress collected their empty cups.
‘You like another?’
They ordered two more coffees.
‘Paul’s death was so random. So pointless. Til Death do us part. Oh, and by the way, that’ll be today. Like a spiteful joke. I honestly think I nearly died of a broken heart. But I survived – just about – and I swore that I would never let that happen to me again. From then on, I kept my distance and kept on the move, as you know. Most of the time it was bearable, and there were always men around if I needed …’ she grimaced, ‘comfort. Do I sound like a complete tart?’
‘Yes.’ Elizabeth’s gentle tone belied her reply.
‘I carried on like that for a long time. Kept on keeping on, as the song goes.’
‘I’m so, so sorry?’
‘It was bad timing. You were busy being a student. Then Laurence and the kids came along. Like I said, we were out of synch.’ Diane smiled. ‘My life was a mess but I have to say I thought you were out of your mind when you chucked everything up for domesticity.’
Chucked everything up. Was that what she’d done?
She’d met Laurence Giles when she was halfway through the final year of her sociology degree with no idea what to do when she graduated. He was a handsome, witty, confident young solicitor and within a month of their meeting, he had wooed and won her. No one had said much when she announced that they were getting married. Her parents, the ones who might have felt let down, had been caught in a quandary. Their daughter was, on the face of it, wasting her education, but becoming a solicitor’s wife was as good as having a career, wasn’t it?
‘I’ve forgotten how or why I ended up in Leeds. Maybe because that’s where the bus stopped. I got a part-time job in a pub, working enough hours to cover rent and food. I spent any spare time I had painting and touting my stuff around galleries, hoping to get spotted by an agent.’
‘Yes. That flat reeked of linseed oil and turps.’ Elizabeth closed her eyes. ‘I can smell it now.’
‘Bar work suited me. Company and conversation without the hassle of relationships. I could observe from a safe distance. In fact I included a few of the regulars in my paintings.’
‘Like Toulouse Lautrec.’
‘Sort of. But with longer legs and less talent.’
Diane sat tall and flexed her shoulders. ‘One evening, a young man came into the pub. I’d seen him once or twice before. You couldn’t miss him because of his hair, blue-black, like jackdaw feathers, curly but greasy enough not to look girlish. I guessed he was Spanish or Italian. His face was interesting. Beautiful yet cruel. Until he smiled. Even his crooked teeth couldn’t spoil that smile.’
Diane stared out of the window. Elizabeth kept quiet, anxious not to interrupt the unfolding story.
‘His name was Marin Vexler. He was Romanian. He’d been involved with some political group, working to oust Ceausescu. The Securitate were on to him. He’d managed to give them the slip and get out of the country. Somehow he’d bribed his way across Europe. At least that’s what he told me. At the time the whole thing sounded totally plausible and extremely romantic. It fitted with everything we were hearing about Romania. And don’t forget my life was utterly banal. I was desperate to find a focus, something to give it meaning. I suppose I wanted to believe in him, and he was smart enough to latch on to that.
‘He told me he was picking up casual work as a car mechanic and getting paid cash. It was all very vague. His English was adequate but not fluent enough to express complicated ideas. He didn’t say much and I didn’t press him. We started seeing each other.’
‘Was this before or after I came to see you?’
‘After. As I say, I was really struggling, prepared to grab anything that might dig me out of the shit I was in.’
The waitress cleared the table, lingering hopefully.
Diane stood up. ‘I can’t face any more coffee, can you? C’mon. Let’s get some fresh air.’
As they walked, Diane reverted to small talk, clearly enjoying keeping Elizabeth on tenterhooks, making her wait for the next instalment of the story, enjoying the drama of it all. Elizabeth didn’t press her. With recollections of how she’d failed her friend raw in her mind, she resolved to let Di call the shots.
Diane led her through an underpass to the grassy area in front of the civic buildings. The grass was dotted with groups of people – mainly visitors judging from the maps and cameras they were carrying – enjoying a respite from shopping and sightseeing.
Elizabeth flopped down, patting the turf beside her. ‘So, you and this Marin Vexler…’
‘Became lovers. Yes.’ Diane shrugged. ‘I guess that tends to happen sooner rather than later if you don’t speak each other’s language. You can only spend so much time miming and drawing diagrams.
‘I won’t embarrass you with the details but I’d been single for a while and the sex was … fantastic. The language thing – the lack of it, I mean – made it all the more romantic. It certainly put the emphasis on the physical side of things.’
‘Were you in love with him?’
‘Infatuated, certainly. Love? It was nothing like Paul. But nothing ever will be so there’s no point in making that comparison. Anyway, he moved in. It made sense. Neither of us had any money and it was crazy to pay rent on two places. Then …’ she closed her eyes as though not daring to see Elizabeth’s expression, ‘then he asked me to marry him.’
‘Marry him?’
‘He was perfectly frank about his reasons. He said if I married him, he could stay here and carry on the struggle. He’d be “legal”. He didn’t pretend he loved me. He didn’t try to mislead me.’
‘For crying out loud, woman. He might be legal but what would it make you?’
Diane raised her fist in the air. ‘Mrs Marin Vexler, martyr in Romania’s battle for democracy.’
Elizabeth groaned. ‘Please, please tell me you came to your senses.’
‘Of course I did. But not, unfortunately, until a few weeks after the wedding. Around the time Marin disappeared with what little money I had. He did leave a note, though, saying how fond of me he was, thanking me for everything and promising he’d pay back the money when he could.’
Elizabeth watched a toddler chasing a butterfly, not sure if she was glad or not when the little boy tripped and the butterfly escaped. She felt distinctly detached from what Diane had just said, as if she were watching a play. Now it was the loyal friend’s turn to speak. ‘Didn’t you go to the police? Or the immigration people?’ (Was that the right sort of response?)
Elizabeth studied Diane’s face, waiting for a fooled you grin to turn this nonsense into an elaborate joke. But she stuck to her story.
‘Why would I do that?’ Diane looked puzzled. ‘I went into the whole thing with my eyes open. It wasn’t as if he’d conned me. And, besides, I’d broken the law by marrying him in those circumstances. You must have seen Green Card? We’ve got laws here about sham marriages, too. To be truthful, at that time I couldn’t face having my life raked over. And I certainly wasn’t planning to get married ever again. It seemed best to forget the whole thing and – dreadful phrase – move on.’
‘What d’you mean “forget the whole thing”? You had grounds for divorce. He’d deserted you. Maybe you weren’t ever technically married. Any lawyer would have been able to sort it out.’
‘No doubt that’s true, but I don’t need to tell you, of all people, that lawyers cost money. Money I didn’t have.’
The butterfly boy jumped up and down with excitement as a fire engine, siren wailing, screeched along the dual carriageway separating the civic area from shopping streets.
‘So you’re telling me you’re still married? You’re still Mrs Vexler?’
Diane held out her hand. ‘Ce mai faceti. That’s “how d’you do” in Romanian.’ She threw her head back, closing her eyes against the strong sun.
‘Who else knows about this?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘No one.’
‘Your family?’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘What about Carl? You must have told him.’
‘Must I? Why? We were simply, and happily, living in sin like half the couples we know. My being married wasn’t relevant. But now Carl’s gone and screwed everything up by proposing.’ She bared her teeth in a silent scream.
‘You’ll have to give me a few minutes to digest all this.’
Elizabeth had to face the fact (at least for the time being) that Diane wasn’t joking. Her friend needed advice not criticism and she suppressed the impulse to list the mistakes Diane had made from the moment that the Vexler character had entered the pub.
‘I really can’t see that you have any option but to tell Carl what you’ve just told me. He won’t like it but he’s not going to walk away, is he? Maybe, given the unusual circumstances, he’ll be happy to carry on as you are. It’s not as if Vexler’s a threat to your relationship. It’s not as if he lives round the corner.’
Diane cleared her throat. ‘That’s not quite the end of the story.’ Fumbling in her bag, she pulled out a small Jiffy Bag. ‘This arrived ten days ago.’
She handed the package to Elizabeth. The printed label on the front stated ‘Personal. For the attention of Diane Shapcott’ and was addressed not to the house but to the Art College where she taught.
Elizabeth squeezed the padded bag but it yielded no clue to its contents. ‘What is it?’
‘Take a look.’
The bag contained a fat manila envelope – unsealed – and, inside that, a wad of twenty-pound notes. They looked improbably crisp and colourful. ‘Are they real?’
‘I don’t know. How d’you tell? And, before you ask, it’s five thousand pounds.’
‘Blimey.’ Elizabeth stared at the notes then shoved them back in the bag as if they might fade in the sunlight. ‘Who’s it from? Was there any message with it?’
‘Nope. It wasn’t even sent recorded delivery so there’s no way of tracing it.’
Elizabeth peered at the postmark but it was no more than a dark smudge across the Queen’s stoic profile. Diane was watching her as if she had given her the necessary clues and was expecting her to fathom out the riddle.
‘Ahhh. You think it’s from him? From Vexler?’
‘I can’t think of anyone else who owes me money.’
‘How much did he steal from you?’
‘Borrow. Three hundred and twenty-seven pounds.’
Elizabeth raised the package. ‘This is a helluva good return on your investment.’ She weighed the brown bag on the palm of her hand. ‘Actually the money is irrelevant. Wherever it came from, it doesn’t alter things. If you intend staying with Carl, you’re going to have to come clean and tell him everything.’
Diane tugged at a clump of grass. ‘But if it is from Marin it means that he’s still alive.’ She pointed at the British stamps. ‘And, what’s more, he’s in this country. It’s not a nice thing to say but I had it in mind that he was dead. Fate kind of even-ing things out. Taking a husband I couldn’t bear to lose, then taking one that I could.’ She tossed a few blades of grass in the air and watched the breeze take them. ‘It freaked me out – Carl proposing and this money turning up, all within a few weeks.’
‘Assuming the money is from Marin, how did he track you down?’
‘Google? Facebook? No one’s life’s their own anymore.’
One rainy Sunday, Elizabeth had Googled ‘Elizabeth Giles’. There was a local councillor of that name who lived in Wednesbury, and dozens of entries mentioning long-dead Elizabeth Gileses – bait, she presumed, to lure family historians into subscribing to genealogical websites. But ‘Elizabeth Mary Victoria Giles’ simply wasn’t there.
‘It’s odd that he didn’t bring the money himself. It could mean that he wants to draw a line under what happened.’ Elizabeth said.
‘But why leave it until now? What’s he been doing for the past twenty years?’
‘Liberating Romania?’
‘Ha-bloody-ha.’ Di flopped back on the grass, covering her eyes with her forearm. ‘What am I going to do?’
Despite the money, Elizabeth was finding it hard to take Diane’s story seriously. And what was all that guff about not telling her because she valued her respect? It didn’t add up, especially when she considered some of the sordid escapades Di had cheerfully shared with her. So what was Di expecting from her? Shock? Condemnation? Envy? Maybe her attention was enough.
‘First of all, you must tell Carl everything. He worships you. He’ll understand that no woman reaches the age of fifty—’
‘Forty-nine.’
‘No woman reaches the age of forty-nine without a few skeletons cluttering up her cupboard.’
‘Except you.’
‘Care to swap places?’
Diane poked her tongue out. ‘Fuck off.’
An ice-cream van, mangling We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside, parked on the pink tarmac a few metres from where they were sitting.
Diane sat up. ‘Fancy a Magnum?’
Lamenting as shards of chocolate sheared off and tumbled onto the warm pavement, they made their way to the bus stop.