The night Freddy had woken naked on the sofa, beside his still-sleeping wife, he had not meant to leave her. Not then, not yet. He wanted more time, just to be with Lily, somehow to imprint upon her how much he loved her, before tearing himself away to put his life in order. But as he’d tiptoed quietly through to the bedroom to get dressed, left the flat to get some supper – soup and decent bread, maybe, something light – before Lily woke, he realized he was just prolonging the agony, dragging out the cold inevitability that he couldn’t stay with her.
Lily was too generous, too loving. She just didn’t seem to fathom the extent to which he’d let her down. But one day she would, and then she would be very angry. Best to part before that happens, he told himself. And he hoped, by the time she began seriously to resent him, he would already have shown her his dedication to cleaning up his act, getting his house in order. Then they could be together without having first torn each other to shreds. It’ll only be for a couple of months, max, he told himself, as he’d walked along Bayswater Road in the darkness, directionless, no plan in mind except a childish need to escape further recriminations, further responsibility.
*
The person he’d finally phoned, around ten thirty that night, was an old girlfriend. They had been friends first and last, with a brief, ill-judged liaison in between, to which neither of them had been committed, the boredom of a hot summer in London – fifteen years ago now – weakening their resolve. She had since bagged herself a lugubrious Austrian count, and had four blond Sound of Music-style children, but they’d remained occasional friends.
Freddy knew Bettina would ask no questions, her house in Belgravia big enough to accommodate him – and half London, indeed – without anyone really noticing. He could hole up for a day or two and avoid all the people baying for his blood, from the Official Receiver to Lau Heng and Barney, his bookie.
It was not so much the liquidation of the company or the inevitable personal bankruptcy that Freddy feared – although he knew he would have to work hard with the Official Receiver to justify some recent accounting lapses. No. That was just a process, he told himself, albeit a tedious and time-consuming one, which would put restrictions on his financial future, his reputation, but wouldn’t threaten him personally. It was the other creditors – below the radar – who could make life very unpleasant for him. But he was kidding himself. The whole thing turned out to be much more daunting than he’d expected.
*
Bettina had disappeared with her brood to Scotland for the last of the Easter holidays, leaving the house silent except for the occasional incursions of Alya, the delightful Malaysian housekeeper, who insisted on making his bed every morning as if he were in a hotel.
He had gone back to Sussex Square two days after he’d left, ringing the bell repeatedly before he went up, to check that Lily had gone. He’d been fairly certain she wouldn’t stay there without him, sure that Prem would step in, look after her, give her back her old job, perhaps. And he’d been right. There was no sign of his wife, although her presence lingered painfully, the ginger scent of her body cream pervading the bathroom, a few items of clothing still in her side of the built-in wardrobe.
With an Addison Lee taxi ordered to arrive in half an hour, and spooked by being in the flat, which no longer belonged to him, Freddy had snatched up his stuff as if he were robbing the place. All the furniture, linen, towels and kitchen contents were part of the exorbitant rental, and now seemed like a painful reminder of his careless extravagance. So he took only personal items, things that mattered to him, including his clothes, laptop and tablet, chargers, a box file of papers, their wedding photo – which Lily had ominously left behind – two framed drawings by his wife and some books. He also packed his Canon 5D and high-end Bose sound system, which he intended to trade for cash. The stuff he didn’t need for his intended travels he stacked in a corner of the capacious basement storeroom at Bettina’s house.
The following week he spent shut away in one of Bettina’s spare rooms, amid the most ridiculous luxury of floor-to-ceiling silk Colefax and Fowler curtains, deep-pile wool carpets, cashmere throws in timeless greys, Floris bath oils, and pure Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count higher than the sum total of his remaining cash.
His time was entirely taken up with clearing out his old life and creating a new, anonymous one. Because the burden of those to whom he owed money lurked like a monkey on his shoulder, he no longer felt safe in the street, although he told himself he was exaggerating, that it was absurd to think he might be physically attacked in broad daylight in the middle of London in the twenty-first century.
He also wanted to avoid a chance encounter with an acquaintance or friend. When he was out and about he felt that everyone was looking at him, as if his shame were burned on his forehead like a branding. It wasn’t his imagination either. Tommy Nars, a technician he’d worked with years back, had been approaching him on the Soho pavement the previous day. He’d thought of Tommy as his friend and had employed him in the past. He watched the man swerve when he saw him and cross to the other side of the street. Just the thought of that encounter cemented his desperate need to escape.
So he raked through his emails, answering virtually none, then began the laborious process of saving addresses and other email data before closing the account and setting up a new Hotmail address.
He bought another pay-as-you-go mobile and took a while transferring essential numbers, breaking up his old Sim and flushing it down the loo, like a gangster.
He dug out a credit card in his previous name, Frederick Slater, which had a small borrowing limit that he had kept ticking over since he’d changed his name by deed poll in his twenties, the card replaced every few years but seldom used. He’d forgotten about it until he found it in the bottom of the box file. It wouldn’t solve anything for very long, but it might buy a plane ticket or a hotel room . . . rent a car.
He fixed a meeting with James Hardy, his solicitor – James had insisted on seeing him immediately.
It was a nightmare. The man bombarded him with a list of documents as long as your arm that Freddy would have to produce for the receiver, questioning him on every last aspect of his complex finances until Freddy felt like screaming, ‘Shut the fuck up!’
He was disoriented. None of it made any sense to him. He had never been good on detail, always leaving it up to others to sort out his financial affairs. But those people were now gone. Even Angus, who had hung on, offering his services – Freddy suspected because he wanted the experience – had backed off when Freddy explained he couldn’t pay him even a small amount.
‘I need to get away,’ Freddy had said to James.
James, a man of Freddy’s age, suave and jolly, undoubtedly rich, with a trencherman’s paunch and expensive tortoiseshell glasses on his broad nose, looked aghast. ‘You can’t go anywhere, dear boy. Our receiver friend will demand your presence at a meeting, probably within the next two weeks. You’ll have to pitch up. And there’s a mass of paperwork to prepare . . .’ He stopped, frowned. ‘Get away where?’
Freddy shrugged. ‘Anywhere. Can’t stand it.’
James raised his fair eyebrows. ‘No, no, I can see that. Nasty business all round. But once you’ve got the documents together and had the meeting, things will settle down.’
Freddy nodded as if he were agreeing. James knew nothing about his other debts, or his gambling.
‘There were times when I took money from the company . . . not large amounts, but will that be a problem?’
‘What do you mean, “took money”?’
‘Well, borrowed money from the company . . . personally. I think you call it a “director’s loan”?’ He didn’t really have any idea what it was called.
James was instantly alarmed. ‘What are you telling me? You took money from the company you weren’t owed?’
Freddy was uncertain.
‘That’s very serious. How much are we talking? And how often?’
Freddy genuinely had no idea. He remembered five thousand he’d liberated after a client had paid up, gone in one night at the tables. Another two grand the month before. But it could have been a lot more, he knew. Stake money, he’d seen it as, and had been certain he’d return it the following day.
He told James what he could remember, the solicitor giving no sign that the amounts were either better or worse than he’d supposed.
‘Hmm . . . We’ll have to deal with this ASAP, certainly before you see anyone at the Receiver’s Office.’
‘But I’m the director of the company. I can pay myself what I like, can’t I? It’s not like I’m embezzling someone else’s millions. It wasn’t more than a few thousand . . . sort of loans for fundraising, trips to meet investors and stuff. I was trying to save the company.’
James shook his head. ‘Fine, if you didn’t owe anyone else money and your staff were being paid. But that doesn’t appear to be the case. They’ll take a dim view about your fitness to be a director, anyway, with this list of transgressions. You’ll certainly be disqualified for a while.’ He stopped and said nothing more as he chewed his lip, head bent, the bald patch in the middle of his pink scalp suddenly visible. When he looked up, Freddy saw resolve on his plump features.
‘Okay . . . listen. Go through your statements and pinpoint when these so-called loans were paid out, then highlight them with a note as to what you needed the money for and send them over to me so that we can see the full extent.’ He frowned at Freddy, obviously not sure his client was in complete possession of his faculties. ‘Can you do that?’
‘I can, I suppose.’
‘Then we’ll have to come up with a plan PDQ, reasons why these borrowings were legit, find some corresponding expenses, without compounding the problem and getting us both into trouble. By the way, who’s been acting for you on the accounts since Mike Stone kicked off? Presumably you told whoever it is about the loans.’
Freddy hadn’t told Angus anything, of course, so he replied, ‘I just had a trainee guy managing the payroll.’ At which the solicitor merely pursed his lips.
‘There’s a bankruptcy deposit to pay, Freddy, as I’m sure you’re aware. Up front. Five hundred and fifty pounds,’ James went on.
‘Five hundred and fifty? I don’t have it. Surely nobody does who’s going bankrupt.’
His solicitor sighed. ‘And an application fee of a hundred and thirty. Altogether six hundred and eighty.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. Where am I going to get money like that when all my accounts and cards are frozen?’
‘Maybe a friend could lend it to you. Your principal shareholder . . .’ he consulted his notes ‘. . . Mr Blackstone. Would he help out? He has a vested interest.’ He was looking at Freddy as if he despaired of him, although Freddy was sure he couldn’t be the worst offender James had ever dealt with, by a long chalk. ‘Where’s your wife in all this? Has she got money?’
‘She did have,’ Freddy muttered darkly. ‘No.’
‘Well, go away and think about it. It’s not a lot of money for some of your friends, I imagine.’
*
Every day Freddy had been on the verge of calling Max. He was the only person who could save him. But his friend had made it abundantly clear at their last meeting that he wouldn’t give Freddy another penny until he was clean and could prove it. ‘The day you can convince me that you’ve stopped for a decent length of time, I’ll help out.’ Max had said something like that. How can I ever prove I’m not doing something, anyway? he asked himself petulantly. And what is a ‘decent’ length of time?
But the truth was that neither the quitting nor the length of time required were criteria met. Freddy had been to the casino every night while he was at Bettina’s. He needed cash for his getaway. And over three subsequent nights he had won nearly fifteen hundred pounds – half of which he’d had to hand over to James for the bankruptcy. So he hadn’t called Max. What with the money he’d got selling his sound system and camera – ripped off on both counts, inevitably, by the man in the Shepherd’s Bush electronics shop because he could smell Freddy’s desperation – he had enough, he reckoned, to keep going for a few weeks. Longer, maybe, if he was careful, and if his plan for Malta worked.
*
Freddy did not sleep the night before he was to meet with the Official Receiver. James had organized all the documentation, then briefed him on what and what not to say. But Freddy was almost shaking with anxiety as he made his way to the Victoria office that morning. His grim mood was not helped by the unlucky coincidence of bumping into Glyn Matthews in Victoria Street.
Freddy had seen the sound engineer out of the corner of his eye – realizing he must just have got off the train from Carshalton, where he lived – and panicked, quickly veering to the right, hoping to escape across the road. But a phalanx of buses was storming down the busy street in both directions, the tyres sending up clouds of spray from the earlier rain, and he was marooned on the pavement as Glyn, breathless, caught up with him.
‘Thought it was you.’ Glyn, unsmiling, made no attempt to shake his hand. ‘Trying to avoid me, I see.’
When Freddy didn’t answer, Glyn went on, ‘Can’t blame you, really. All a bit of a mess.’
Freddy had taken heart from the man’s understatement and said, ‘Glyn, hi. I’m on my way to see the Official Receiver right now. It’s been a nightmare.’ He smiled, but Glyn’s expression darkened at his words.
‘Nightmare, is it? I’ve been ringing and ringing you, Freddy. Phone’s gone dead.’
Freddy squirmed. The man’s eyes were like knives to his soul. ‘Yeah, had to get a pay-as-you-go. All my accounts are frozen, so the old number’s been cut off. I’m skint.’
Glyn’s eyebrows went up. ‘See, that’s what I don’t get. Man like you, wife like yours, friends like Isla-Mae’s daddy . . . Seems hard to grasp, you running out of money like the rest of us.’
‘Seems hard to grasp for me too.’ Freddy was trying hard not to resent Glyn’s hostile tone. ‘Why were you calling me?’
Glyn gave a harsh laugh. ‘Funny that. I was ringing to borrow some money. A loan, like. Having trouble with the mortgage, what with Cath not well still.’ He shook his head. ‘Should’ve known.’
Freddy just wanted to dissolve into the concrete of the wet pavement. The bleak despair, the disdain in his former friend and colleague’s face were devastating. He had known Glyn for more than fifteen years, employed him for nearly ten. They had admired each other, been mates. But now he was looking at Freddy as if he actually hated him. And why not? Glyn had a sick wife, three teenaged children, and was probably having trouble finding another job quickly enough – despite his reputation.
‘I’m so sorry, Glyn. I wish with all my heart I could help. You have no idea how terrible it is, knowing I’ve wrecked so many people’s lives . . . People who depended on me.’
At the obvious sincerity in his voice, Glyn’s face softened just a little. ‘Yeah, well. Don’t like asking for money, anyway. Just made me sick to my stomach when I heard Samuel say it’s the gambling ruined the business.’
So he knew. Of course he did. Freddy bowed his head. There was nothing to say, no excuses to hide behind with his old friend. Standing there, he felt exposed in a way he never had before – even with Lily – stripped bare by Glyn’s contemptuous gaze.
*
Mr Dubash, assigned to him by the Insolvency Service, was quietly polite, nondescript, not at all the disapproving ogre Freddy had anticipated – he was almost disappointed. Dubash had offered Freddy water in a white plastic cup, settled him at the beige, melamine-topped table in the otherwise bare interview room, and merely got on with the job in hand. Freddy kept waiting for judgement or rebuke, but none was forthcoming from the diffident official.
The meeting went on all morning, however, and Freddy, still distraught from his encounter with Glyn Matthews, had wondered if he would survive it, his head banging with lack of sleep, his whole body rackety with guilt and anxiety. He was sure the questionnaire he was asked to fill in and his answers to Mr Dubash’s questions must have seemed confused, almost incoherent, the ravings of a mad man.
Sitting across from him, Mr Dubash did not give any response to the information Freddy offered. He merely listened to his answers with small nods, made his own notes, asked endless, detailed questions and waited patiently while Freddy scrabbled through his paperwork. He was probably used to the gibberish that scared, fractious clients presented to him in his line of work. But when eventually he let him go and Freddy was out on the street again, there was none of the exhilaration he’d expected to feel at getting over the first hurdle. He had merely slunk back to Bettina’s mansion, head well down in case another victim of his chaos should pass by.
But now the meeting was over, his resolve to escape was absolute. It was only cowardice in face of the necessary contact with his father that held him back each time he reached for his mobile.