The Mistake I Made (13 page)

Perhaps she was, I thought idly, as she left the path, cutting an angle across the grass. Perhaps, in between speaking with me this morning and this moment, she had come to discover just what I’d been doing with Scott Elias in a country hotel. Today was Thursday. I was scheduled to meet Scott once more at a different venue on Friday and, apart from the general feeling of anxiety that comes with conducting oneself as a secret prostitute, unlike before, this time I wasn’t totally dreading it.

Here’s what I learned about Scott Elias the night before last: His pleasure was derived directly from the pleasure he gave to the woman he was with.

I’d say he wasn’t unusual in this respect. Most men I’d known were not selfish in bed. Scratch that,
none
of the men I’d known were selfish in bed. They wanted their woman to come. They wanted to be the one to
make
their woman come. They needed to feel her muscles contracting hard around them to reach orgasm themselves.

Scott was no different. Except that I’d mistakenly assumed that, since he was paying for it, my enjoyment wouldn’t be part of the deal.

I was wrong. Scott was tender, lustful, giving and, as I lay there at three in the morning, when we finally decided to call it a night, I was thinking,
Did that really just happen?
It was not the most mind-blowing sex of my life, but I’ll say this, it certainly wasn’t the worst sex I’d ever had. The electrifying joy of true desire was absent, but I was more than a little into it. And compared with some of the shoddy experiences I’d had in the past, there was the additional turn-on to be had just from the sheer decadence of the whole thing.

I made up my mind there and then that if Scott wanted to repeat the evening, I would do it.

Four thousand pounds for one night?

I didn’t have the luxury of refusing.

In a few weeks I could be back on my feet. I could pay off my landlord, clear the credit-card balance and reimburse people I never thought I’d be able to pay back in this lifetime.

It would be a chance to start over. To finally put the mistakes of my past behind me. I had to do it again.

‘Crisp sandwiches?’ said Petra disdainfully after we’d embraced, tutting and shaking her head as she dusted down the bench before sitting next to me.

‘Do you want a bite?’

‘Go on then,’ she said, and opened her mouth wide. Still chewing, she held up her left index finger. ‘Does that look swollen to you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What do you think I’ve done?’

‘No idea.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Roz, at least pretend to be a little interested. I know you have to deal with this all day, but I’m worried. Could it be arthritis?’

‘You’ve probably strained it picking up a suitcase.’

‘So you don’t think I should go for blood tests?’

‘No.’

‘But what if it
is
arthritis?’

‘It won’t be. But if it’ll make you feel better, go for the tests. I wouldn’t bother, though. If it still hurts in a week,’ I said wearily, ‘I’ll look at it.’

Pacified, Petra let her full weight fall against the bench, tilting her face towards the sun, before exhaling long and hard. ‘God, I feel like I’ve been cooped up for ever in that office. It’s so nice to be out.’

‘You’ve only been back a day.’

‘Yes, but you want to see all the crap they’ve left for me. They do nothing when I’m not there. Honestly, they just throw everything on to my desk with no thought as to how I’m going to get through it.’

Petra worked three mornings and one full day a week as the school secretary. The size of the place didn’t warrant a full-time position. To listen to her, you’d be under the impression that the place would fall down around them without her there to run it properly.

‘Did Clara have a nice time with Liz?’ I asked.

Liz was Vince’s sister. She was single, again. Relationship after relationship seemed to fizzle out, leaving the poor woman wounded and bewildered, with no clear idea what she was doing wrong.

Keeping her face angled towards the sun, Petra shifted in her seat. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that,’ she said, her words taking on a sharp tone. ‘Clara says that Liz has been bullying her.’

‘Bullying?’

‘Well, perhaps bullying’s too strong a word,’ she conceded, ‘but she
has
been picking on her. How do you think I should broach the subject with Liz?’

‘Perhaps Clara’s exaggerating?’ I suggested, thinking of Vince’s gentle sister, who doted on her niece and who I’d never once witnessed being unkind to anyone.

Called to mind also was the brooding nature of Clara, who protested if she felt outshined or excluded, even in a minor way. Petra would feel her daughter’s hurt, often launching a direct attack on the perpetrator as a result.

This mindset made Petra unwaveringly fair when dealing with groups of children. Which I admired – everyone was included, everyone invited. But if her own child was shunned? Woe betide. She’d be out gunning for whoever was responsible.

‘I’m sure
you’d
have something to say if George was being bullied,’ Petra said.

‘You know I would. But I think you should check again with Clara first before you risk offending Liz. She’s a sweet woman, Petra, I can’t imagine she would even dream of—’

‘Okay, okay, let’s drop it,’ she said abruptly, when it was clear I wasn’t going to give her the outraged response she was hoping for.

Oh dear. Liz was in for a roasting.

‘So what have you been up to since I’ve been away?’ she asked, now brightly.

‘Not a lot.’

‘Seen anyone?’

‘Not really. Work and more work.’

She turned to face me, lifting her sunglasses and giving a small, sympathetic smile. ‘Vince let it slip that money was tight again,’ she said carefully.

‘Money’s always tight.’

‘How bad is it this time?’

‘I’ll manage.’

Silence.

‘It’s just—’ Petra said, and stopped. She blinked hard a couple of times and I thought for a moment she wouldn’t actually go where I knew she was going with this.

Ultimately, she was unable to restrain what she had to say. ‘It’s just that I really don’t want a repeat of last time, Roz.’

‘Don’t worry, it won’t be.’

‘That’s the thing,’ she replied. ‘I
am
worried.’

‘You needn’t be.’

‘You’ve said that before.’

‘Leave it, Petra.’

She dropped her glasses to cover her eyes and fell silent as we watched a young bearded guy throw sticks into the lake for his retriever. He wore an olive-green T-shirt, which hung loose around his lanky frame, and a pair of matching olive trousers. The uniform of a tree surgeon. At one point the dripping dog hurtled out of the water straight towards a pug being led along the path a few feet in front of us. Petra flinched, gripping the seat of the bench with both hands. One fast shake from the retriever and we’d be soaked.

‘So you’ve not asked them then?’ Petra said, her words casual, said in a way that belied just how much weight they carried.

‘No.’

I could feel the static in the air. A quick sideways glance towards Petra revealed she was rigid with tension, and it was clear what this meeting was really about.

‘Because I’d rather you asked
me
for money than it come to that again,’ she said.

‘It won’t come to that.’

And she nodded.

‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘If you say so. I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.’

When I first began hunting for property from which to run my physiotherapy practice, it was evident pretty quickly that it was going to be slim pickings. There were no short-term leases or what I would consider fair rental agreements. Property was in high demand and so was at a premium. Landlords around Windermere and Bowness were tying tenants up in ten-year leases, the majority of the buildings needed extensive external and internal maintenance; some were even without heating. I needed a place with two treatment rooms, a waiting area, a toilet (all preferably at ground level, for patients who had difficulty walking) and within easy reach of somewhere to park.

Such a place did not exist, and it was at this point, when I was considering giving up on the dream and either staying with the NHS or renting cheaper premises in Kendal, that my dad advised me to buy. Naturally, the prices were extortionate, the business rates cruel, but my main problem was that I wasn’t eligible for a commercial property mortgage unless I had a forty per cent deposit. Which I didn’t.

Not wanting to see me walk away from my vision, my parents came to me one evening, with the intent of withdrawing money from their savings to invest in the practice. Property prices were still rising, interest rates on savings were low, and they decided that their money was safer in bricks and mortar rather than the bank and they could even see a greater return on it.

They loaned me a hundred and ten thousand pounds. Money they’d accrued from downsizing to a two-bedroom bungalow, money that was to supplement their pensions when the time came. And I borrowed the remaining two hundred and forty thousand from the bank.

After Winston’s wage cut, his womanizing, the loss of the baby, the credit cards and his subsequent departure from our home, my mind wasn’t exactly on the job. I couldn’t make the payments on both the mortgage on the business and the one on our house, and I lost it all.

The properties were repossessed by the bank. And because I was too ashamed, I didn’t tell anyone about the extent of the mess until it was too late and there was no time for a quick sale at a much-reduced price – meaning my parents ended up with nothing, when they could have perhaps salvaged at least some of their money.

What I should have done at that point was declare bankruptcy – wipe out Winston’s loan and the credit-card debt. But a combination of pride and worry about being turned down for a mortgage in the future meant I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Just before retirement, and after much soul searching, my parents put their bungalow on the market and moved to Silloth – over an hour’s drive away, in a cheaper part of the county – to ensure they could live out their years with adequate money.

Our family became fractured.

Sick with shame,
I
became the culpable person everyone now knew me to be: not to be trusted with money, not to be given any real responsibility, looked upon with a combination of disdain and pity.

And Petra lost her babysitters. Which was what today’s dig at Liz was really about.
If you didn’t lose all that money, I wouldn’t have to make do with Vince’s sister
…

And so it went on. We danced around the issue with normal sisterly chitchat, Petra covering her annoyance and disappointment in the best way she knew how, but, ultimately, all roads led back to this: How could you have sabotaged our parents’ lives in that way?

I wish I had the answer.

Petra gave a small shudder as though to rid herself of the negative energy that threatened to take hold. ‘Lecture over,’ she said, and placed her hand on top of mine. ‘Listen, we’re going out to dinner with Scott and Nadine on Saturday – nothing flash – why don’t you come? My treat.’

‘No, I … I have to—’

Petra turned to face me and frowned. ‘What do you have to do? It’s not your weekend to have George, is it?’

‘No, but I …’

I couldn’t think fast enough. Words escaped me. Lies escaped me. There was no way I could sit through a dinner with Scott and Nadine after spending the whole of Friday night with Scott.

‘Roz?’ she prompted. ‘What’s going on? Are you seeing someone?’

‘No,’ I said quickly, and immediately realized I should have said yes. A pretend relationship would be the perfect foil in this instance.

Petra, bewildered, shook her head, before giving my hand a squeeze. ‘I know what this is about,’ she said. ‘And it’s high time you got over this inferiority thing, Roz. You can’t keep thinking of yourself as worthless like this. Just because Scott and Nadine are wealthy doesn’t mean they won’t want to spend time with you. They’re not like that. They don’t judge the way other people do.’

I stared down at our clasped hands, unable to bear looking at my sister.

‘Please come,’ she pressed. ‘I know you’ll enjoy it. I’d love you to be there, and you never get out for a nice meal. Go on.’

I was about to speak when she cut me off.

‘Roz,’ she said seriously, ‘I will take it as a personal insult if you don’t.’

15

LIKE A LOT
of criminals, it wasn’t the crime itself that was problematic, rather, it was what to do with the cash.

In an age when everything is digitized, from earnings to dental appointments, clearing debts with freshly minted twenty-pound notes was not as straightforward as I first thought. In fact, it wasn’t straightforward at all.

I had assumed I could deposit the four thousand Scott paid me directly into my bank account and, from there, I could pay my rent arrears.

But no.

Shortly after making the deposit I received a phone call from my bank, apologetic, but firm nonetheless, requiring verification of the origin of the cash deposited. They were now obligated to check on large cash withdrawals and deposits in the fight against fraud. Thinking on my feet, I explained that the money was a loan from my parents to help me out of a financial fix, but it was quickly apparent that I would not be able to use this excuse on a regular basis. If ever again. Apart from anything else, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs would also want to know the source of any further deposits.

What I thought was a fail-safe way to earn my way out of debt suddenly wasn’t. And it got me wondering, just exactly how did those escorts operating from their spare bedrooms in their semidetached houses ‘show’ the money they earned? You can’t run a home on nothing. Either they were claiming benefits and the cash supplemented their income or else they listed their occupations as something other than ‘prostitute’ on their tax returns. ‘Masseuse’, perhaps.

I had an appointment with Scott that evening, as George was to be picked up directly from after-school club by Winston (the international man of business was now back in the country, it appeared), so I had the rest of the afternoon to come up with a way of accepting payment for my services that didn’t arouse suspicion. It seemed almost unfair. I was doing my utmost to pay off my debts, but the law said I wasn’t allowed to do it in this way. I thought about the drug dealers that commonly featured on
Traffic Cops
, their pimped-up Range Rovers with the blacked-out windows, and wondered how they got away with it (assuming drugs, like escorting, was a mostly cash business).