Between You and Me (16 page)

‘Charlie Trevetti?’ I whirl round to see a small, thin man with dark hair gripping my forearm. Sweat forms a sheen on his face and his clothes look like they’ve seen better days. Grime sits in the beds of his fingernails.

‘Who are you? Get off!’ I yank my arm away and feel for the cash and my phone in my pocket. Still there.

‘I am Radu Popescu.’ I stop, staring at him. Small, slight with a swarthy complexion, this is not how I imagined Radu Popescu to look. I also thought I had seen the last of him after my email. This can only mean trouble ahead.

‘Look, Mr Popescu, did you get my email? I already told you there is nothing relevant to my work that you can tell me. If you have a problem, or if you need to speak with Mr Pavlenco, you need to contact his office directly. I’m terribly sorry but I can’t help you, and accosting me on the street is not going to do you any favours.’ I smooth down my shirtsleeve, as if to wipe his handprints off me.

‘You don’t understand. I have to speak with you, but not here. It has to be private. What I have to say to you is very important. I have tried to speak with Lucian but with no success. Please, you are the only one who can help me.’ His dark eyes look at me beseechingly, and I start to feel ever so slightly nervous under his intense gaze. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, leaving a shining trail in its wake, and I swallow in distaste.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Popescu, I really can’t help.’ I move to the left as if to swerve around him, and he sidesteps, blocking the pavement.

‘Mr Popescu, move out of my way immediately. This is harassment and I am within my rights to have you arrested.’ I move to the left again and once again he sidesteps and blocks my way. A prickle of alarm snakes up my spine and my palms start to sweat. There is something not right; he is too insistent, and I am starting to feel extremely on edge.

‘Charlie Trevetti, my name is not Radu Popescu. My name is Lucian Pavlenco.’

I go cold, a shiver running down my body.
Is he serious?
My mouth falls open and I find myself gaping at Popescu, or Pavlenco, or whatever he wants to call himself.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, my name is Lucian Pavlenco.’ He stares at me and I stare back, completely lost for words.

‘Yes, I thought that was what you said. I’m sorry, but I really do think you need to explain yourself.’ I don’t believe him – of course I don’t believe him – but something needs to be explained. The man is delusional, schizophrenic or something; that’s the only answer. There is no possible way this can be the truth – no possible way at all. He must be a lunatic.

‘Like I told you before, I have to speak with you in private. I can’t tell you anything where he might be able to find out what I am saying.’ Radu peers over his own shoulder as if Lucian Pavlenco is about to pop out from behind a parked car at any moment. Definitely delusional. It seems as though I have no option but to go along with his idea to see him privately, so I agree to meet him later on that afternoon.

I head back to the office, minus the lunch that I stepped out to get. I seem to have lost my appetite this afternoon. I tell Anita to clear my diary; that I have an urgent meeting that has arisen unexpectedly and I am not sure what time it will finish. Closing my office door I lift the telephone receiver and dial Lucian Pavlenco’s direct line.

‘Pavlenco.’

‘Mr Pavlenco, it’s Charlie Trevetti.’

‘Ahhh, Charlie. So good to hear from you. I told you, call me Lucian. Now, what can I do for you?’ His voice is like thick syrup, soothing, and it’s easy to see how he has managed to win over so many people, and come so far in business.

I explain to him that I have met a man named Radu Popescu, who says he has urgent information for me, and that he has told me his name is actually Lucian Pavlenco.

‘What does this man look like?’ There is a sharp edge to Lucian’s voice now, no longer soft and syrupy. His voice is hard, telling me he hasn’t come so far in business by simply winning people over. I describe Popescu, and Lucian lets out a little laugh.

‘I have never heard of this man, Popescu. From your description he sounds like nobody I would ever deal with. Charlie, do not be fooled. This man is nobody relevant to either me or to the deal we are about to undertake. Do you hear me? He is
nobody
.’ I breathe a sigh of relief, a little shaken at how relieved I am, actually – I must have been more worried about this guy than I thought. I knew that Lucian would either know him, and I could deal with it, or he wouldn’t know him and it would be exactly as I thought – another bloody crackpot trying to cash in on someone else’s fortune. I hang up, apologising to Lucian despite his being very understanding about the whole thing, and decide to skip the meeting with Popescu. I have a lot to do, preparing for Lucian’s deal, and I don’t need to waste time with a crackpot loony.

When I leave the office at eight o’clock that evening there is a familiar face waiting for me.

‘You said you would meet me this afternoon. I waited and waited and you didn’t turn up. Why?’ Popescu is standing right outside the entrance to the Hunter, Crisp and Wilson offices, still looking slightly sweaty and with a pretty pissed-off expression on his weasel-like features. I sigh, heaving my laptop bag more firmly onto my shoulder and shuffle him over to one side, out of sight of the doors. The last thing I need is for Stan or one of the other partners to get wind of this – I need to get it dealt with, and fast.

‘Listen, Mr Popescu, I spoke with Mr Pavlenco today. I told him I saw you and that you wanted to meet and he said he’s never heard of you in his life. Explain that, if you can.’ His face pales, and the only way I can describe the look that crosses his face is pure fear.

‘You spoke to Lucian? Oh, no. Oh, no, this is terrible. You’ve made a terrible mistake.’ He wipes a shaking hand across his sweaty forehead.

‘No, Mr Popescu, you have made a terrible mistake. Please, just leave. Go on and get on with your life and stop meddling in Lucian Pavlenco’s.’ I step past him, intent on making my way towards the train station when he grabs the arm of my jacket.

‘You don’t understand. Lucian Pavlenco’s life
is
my life.’

That’s it. I have no choice but to sit down with this crazy, sweaty lunatic and get to the bottom of exactly what it is he wants to say. I’m afraid I have no chance of getting rid of him until I at least hear him out.

‘OK,’ I hear myself saying, ‘Half an hour, all right? You can have half an hour, and if I still can’t do anything to help you, then you leave me alone. Yes?’ He nods enthusiastically and we walk a little way up the road, where I know there is a half-decent bar where we won’t be disturbed.

I get us both drinks and we sit in a small, dark booth at the back of the room hidden away from the door. The booth is chosen by Popescu, and it occurs to me that he is either very eccentric or very, very frightened.

‘So …’ I take a large sip of my cider, a taste that always takes me straight back to my first summer with Sal. ‘Tell me what you’ve got to say.’ Popescu takes a deep breath, sips his Coke and stills his slightly shaking hands on the table.

‘It’s true, what I said to you. My name is not Radu Popescu. My name is Lucian Pavlenco. I came to this country many years ago, to try and make a life for my family. I travelled over here and a few months later my best friend followed. We had known each other for years in Romania. We grew up together in our tiny village. Our parents were friends. His family was my family and my family, his. We went through a lot together.’ He takes another small sip of his drink and tears glisten in the corners of his eyes. While this is all very emotional, I am still failing to see what it has to do with Lucian Pavlenco.

‘I travelled here legally, with papers,’ he goes on, ‘but my friend, he couldn’t. So, he came here illegally. I didn’t care about that; I was just so happy to have him here with me. I said I would help him to get a job, cash in hand, something to keep him going until we could get his papers sorted out, and I did. I found him work washing dishes in a small restaurant. Just like I am now.’ He pauses, looking at me as if checking to see if I am still listening.

‘Go on,’ I urge. ‘Then what happened? Did he get caught? Was he sent back to Romania?’

‘No,’ he states simply. ‘He found that he had a bit of a gift for buying and selling. If someone had something to sell, he would buy it from them, and then somehow end up selling it at a profit. He started to actually make money from it. The problem came when he decided that was what he wanted to do; he wanted to build a business, but he couldn’t because he was illegal. He was making some money from buying and selling, but not enough. He was sending money back to Romania, we both were, but he wanted more and more.’ I am starting to feel nervous, a sick feeling beginning to churn low down in my stomach, hoping against hope that Radu is not trying to tell me what I think he’s trying to tell me.

‘So, he had an idea. I was working legally, for a car workshop. Back home in Romania I worked in the best garage in town; I was a very good mechanic, but there is no money there. The garage was going to close and I had no choice but to come to England and try to make a better life for my family.’ His voice is becoming hoarse, and he takes another small sip of his drink, while my nausea intensifies.

‘My friend told me he had a plan. If I would lend him my identity, as a legal migrant, his business idea would grow. He already had the contacts he needed to make it successful; all he needed was his papers to make it legal. He promised me that, if I would give him my identity and become Radu Popescu, he would pay me a 60/40 split of the profits. He did all his sums, and showed me I wouldn’t need to work; the profits from the business would give me a comfortable enough life. I would be able to watch my children grow up, instead of working all hours to ensure there was enough food on the table. Like a fool, I agreed.’ A single tear tracks a silvery line down his rough, stubbled cheek. I feel as though I want to vomit, my mouth watering and my stomach churning like a washing machine on a spin cycle – I do think Radu is trying to tell me something that I really,
really
, don’t want to know.

‘Are you trying to tell me that your friend, the one who came over as an illegal and used your identity, is Lucian Pavlenco?’ I rest my hand lightly on top of his. He nods, slowly, staring into the depths of his drink and I close my eyes.
This is a fucking disaster.

‘He did pay me, in the beginning. A payment would come into my bank and I would be able to feed my family, to buy my children new shoes for school. I gave him my passport and all my papers and he took them to someone he knew. When I got them back, it was still my picture, but it said Radu Popescu instead of Lucian Pavlenco. He was me, and I was him. It was that easy. But then, after a few months, the money stopped. He was in the newspapers, shouting about companies he was buying and then selling on at a huge profit, and my family were sitting there with nothing to eat. I am working now, cash in hand. I am washing dishes, just as he did all those years ago. I tried to contact him, to ask him why he had stopped paying me, why he would leave my family with nothing. He threatened me, told me he knew people who could shut me up. He told me he would have me deported; leave my family hungry and alone with no one to take care of them. There is nothing left of the boy I grew up with.’

Shit.
This had better not be true. Everything I’ve worked for is going to go up in flames if this is really what happened. If Lucian Pavlenco is an illegal immigrant.

‘Listen, Radu. I’m going to need some proof, OK. I can’t just take your word for it.’ Thinking about it, I am pretty confident there won’t be any proof. Lucian Pavlenco is absolutely not an illegal immigrant; he can’t be. And even if he is, I’ll bet he’s made damn sure there’s no proof. Radu nods. ‘I can send you proof. I can do that. My best friend has betrayed me. All I wanted was a new life for my family and now I have come to you because I am desperate.’ He bows his head, and I pat his hand quickly, before he can draw attention to us with more tears.

‘I will try and help you, OK. But you must not speak to anyone about this. If you do, there will be nothing I can do for you, understand?’ I speak sharply to him, as if he is a small child. I have to sort this mess once and for all and no one must ever find out.
Fuck. This sweaty, weasel-faced little man could ruin everything.
There is no way I can let this take down my entire career, and I have already decided I will get rid of Radu Popescu one way or the other.

Chapter Twenty-Five

SAL

You have been nothing but sweetness and light since Mr Hunter told you how much he enjoyed the dinner party, but I am struggling to shake off the dark clouds that seem to constantly hang over my head. I am not sleeping terribly well, tossing and turning all night long – this insomnia seeming to hold me in its vice-like grip every time we argue. It’s almost like my brain wants me to lie awake at night going over everything I said, everything I did, wondering what particular comment or action set you off. Wondering what I need to remember to lessen the chances of it happening again, the list growing longer every time.

It takes more and more time for me to get over it and return to a normal sleep pattern. Just when it seems as though everything is settled, when you are being kind and decent, making up for what has gone on before and I can once again sleep through the night, something else happens. I say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, you get angry – lash out – and then the whole cycle begins again. I feel like I’m forever walking on eggshells. I’m constantly living on a knife-edge, and it’s exhausting. I have no other option, though, it seems – if I retaliate or tell you you’re wrong the consequences are so hideous, it’s no longer worth trying to stick up for myself, and if I tell you it’s over you’ll do what you did last time, and hide away in the bathroom with razors, screaming at me through the bathroom door that ‘this time’ you
really
mean it; you’ll kill yourself and it will all be my fault. I can’t put Maggie through that, so I just soldier on, trying not to offend you in any way.