Page 79 of The One Plus One
He let out a breath. ‘Fuck it,’ he said again.
And then he told her, his head down, his hands raking his short dark hair. He told her about a girlfriend whom he couldn’t think how to let down nicely, and an ex-wifewho never quite left him alone, and how his whole life had come crashing down. He told her about his company and how he should have been there now, celebrating the launch of his last six years’ obsessive work. And how instead he had to stay away from everything and everyone he knew all the while facing the prospect of prosecution. He told her about his dad who was sick, and who was going to be even sicker when he heard what had happened. And he told her about the lawyer who had just rung to inform him that shortly after he returned from this trip his presence would be required at a police station in London where he would be charged with insider trading, a charge that could win him up to twenty years in prison. By the time he’d finished she felt winded.
‘Everything I’ve ever worked for. Everything I cared about. I’m not allowed to go into my own office. I can’t even go back to my flat in case the press hear of it and I do another stupid thing and let slip what’s happened. I can’t go and see my own dad because then he’ll die knowing what a bloody idiot his son is.’
Jess digested this for a few minutes. He smiled bleakly at the sky. ‘And you know the best bit? It’s my birthday.’
‘What?’
‘Today. It’s my birthday.’
‘Today? Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Because I’m thirty-four years old, and a thirty-four-year-old man sounds like a dick talking about birthdays.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘And what with the wholefood-poisoning thing, I didn’t feel I had much to celebrate.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘Plus you might have started singing “Happy Birthday” in the car.’
‘I’ll sing it out here.’
‘Please don’t. Things are bad enough.’
Jess’s head was reeling. She couldn’t believe all the stuff Mr Nicholls was carrying around. If it had been anyone else she might have put her arm around them, attempted to say something comforting. But Mr Nicholls was prickly. And who could blame him? It felt like offering an Elastoplast to someone who had just had an arm amputated.
‘Things will get better, you know,’ she said, when she couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Karma will get that girl who stitched you up.’
He pulled a face. ‘Karma?’
‘It’s like I tell the kids. Good things happen to good people. You just have to keep faith…’
‘Well, I must have been a complete shit in a past life.’
‘Come on. You still have property. You have cars. You have your brain. You have expensive lawyers. You can work this out.’
‘How come you’re such an optimist?’
‘Because things do come right.’
‘And that’s from a woman who doesn’t have enough money to catch a train.’
Jess kept her gaze on the craggy hillside. ‘Because it’s your birthday, I’m going to let that one go.’
Mr Nicholls sighed. ‘Sorry. I know you’re trying to help. But right now I find your relentless positivity exhausting.’
‘No, you find driving hundreds of miles in a car with three people you don’t know and a large dog exhausting. Go upstairs and have a long bath and you’ll feel better. Go on.’
He trudged inside, the condemned man, and she sat and stared out at the slab of green moorland in front of her. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be facing prison, not to be allowed near the things or the people you loved. She tried to imagine someone like Mr Nicholls doing time. And then she decided not to think about it and hoped quite hard that Nicky hadn’t used up all the hot water.
After a while, she walked inside with the empty glasses. She leant over the bar, where the landlady was watching an episode ofHomes Under the Hammer. The men sat in silence behind her, watching it too or gazing rheumily into their pints.
‘Mrs Deakins? It’s actually my husband’s birthday today. Would you mind doing me a favour?’
Mr Nicholls finally came downstairs at eight thirty, wearing the exact clothes he’d worn that afternoon. And the previous afternoon. Jess knew he had bathed, as his hair was damp and he had shaved.
‘So what’s in your bag, then? A body?’
‘What?’ He walked over to the bar. He gave off a faint scent of Wilkinson Sword soap.
‘You’ve worn the same clothes since we left.’
He looked down, as if to check. ‘Oh. No. These are clean.’
