Shades Of Submission: Fifty By Fifty Part 61

We emerged from the escalator into the bas.e.m.e.nt car park, and I followed Maninder's hulking form to the car, a low, sleek black Jag.

I sat in the back and we were silent for a while, as Maninder navigated his way across London by a succession of back-streets. Then, as we paused at a junction onto a busy road, Maninder half-turned in his seat and looked back at me. "This family is not a family to be fooled with," he said.

I couldn't work out if that was a threat, or a warning, or merely an observation. "Don't worry," I said. "I'm not fooling."

"Good," he answered, and was silent for a time, as he threaded his way out into the slow-moving traffic. Then he went on: "They treat me like a son. I come from a poor background, but they saw beyond that. They are good people. You should know that."

Now I realized what this was. It was like meeting your boyfriend's parents for the first time. I remembered senior prom, when Pop had insisted on meeting Randall Stephens before agreeing to let me go. He'd used almost the same words: Look after her, Mr Stephens. Protect her and respect her. She's a good person. You should know that.

"Thank you," I said now. "I do know that."

What to wear to an upper cla.s.s English funeral? It felt shallow to be so preoccupied with the question, but I wanted to get it right. For me, and for Will. Living in England was a strange mix of the familiar and the strange. Right now I had never felt so foreign and exposed.

Friday morning, and I was picked up at ten sharp. Maninder sat impa.s.sively in the driver's seat of the Jag, his black turban giving him the appearance of a cut-out silhouette until he moved.

Will climbed out to greet me with a brief hug and kiss on the cheek. Maybe it was inappropriate, given the circ.u.mstances, but boy did he look good in that neatly tailored charcoal suit! It hung off his square frame as if it had been made for him, which of course it probably had.

After much deliberation, I had settled on a quiet, understated outfit: black hold-ups and pencil skirt, a dark gray silk blouse and a cropped black jacket that was pinched at the waist. My little clutch bag was a cheapie off a Portobello Road market stall, and my Jimmy Choo peep-toe stilettos were by far the most expensive thing in my wardrobe.

I tried to make conversation, but Will was in a silent mood, his expression fixed as he stared out of the window at the London traffic. After a few minutes, I sat back in the deep luxury of my seat and then, after a moment of hesitation, reached out and put my hand on his hard thigh.

He glanced down, and for a second I had the irrational thought that he was going to move my hand away, but instead he placed his own over mine, and so we sat in silence, heading to the funeral of his druggy, blackmailing, murdered ex-girlfriend.

I hadn't really thought about who would be there, but of course I should have expected my brother Ethan and his new bride (who also happened to be Will's sister) Eleanor. And there was my ex, Charlie, too. It was like a re-run of Ethan's wedding: a small rural church (in Kent this time, rather than Norfolk), a gathering of the great and the good, elderly members of the English aristocracy dragged out into daylight and dusted down for the day.

I climbed out of the car and then paused, suddenly intimidated by it all. This was the first time Will and I had really gone anywhere as a couple, and here was my brother and his new family... Will's family. Should I head over to join Ethan? Shouldn't I at least go and have a chat?

At that moment, he looked up and saw me.

Always trust a man's first reaction and Ethan's was just what I needed right then. He stood there, tall and immaculate in his dark suit, looking bored with the conversation around him, and then he saw me and his face split with that big old grin of his, the Dunkin' Donuts grin, as we'd always called it.

Then he looked beyond me, saw Will, and that grin dissolved.

I felt a need to go to my big brother and try to explain, try to persuade him to put the old bad chemistry he had with Will aside. They had been friends once, after all, as close as brothers.

There was a guy with Ethan, standing with his back to us. In response to something my brother said, this man twisted and peered in my direction and I saw that it was Charlie. I really should have recognized him from behind, given that he'd had his back to me a little over a year ago when he'd fled the apartment we had shared, finally getting the message that I didn't want him there but he was welcome to the ashtray that was sailing through the air towards him.

Now it was one of those moments when everything seemed to slow down, a frozen frame of hesitation. Then Will was beside me, his arm offered for me to take, and we walked together down the gravel path to the church and the gathered crowd of mourners.

The service was short and surprisingly moving.

I'd never known Sally Fielding, and Will had never said much about her. I'd only even been able to piece together her story by digging around and asking people awkward questions.

Sally's parents were in the front row. Her mother must have been about 50, but looked much younger, no doubt thanks to the attentions of some of Harley Street's finest. Her father was a short, round-bellied man with wavy white hair and a surprising twinkle in his eye, given that he was at his daughter's funeral. When they saw Will they rushed up and hugged him, then turned to me for a more restrained greeting.

"Willem," said the mother, "so good of you to attend. I know it must be difficult."

"Of course not," said Will, still holding the woman's hand in both of his. "Sally was a dear friend, and always an interesting one."

"She never did like to be boring," agreed Sally's mother. "Or bored, bless her. You were always so kind to her."

We sat in the second row, and if I were to extract a single life lesson from this whole experience it would be this: never arrange for your first official encounter with your boyfriend's parents to be in the second row of the funeral of his murdered, druggy, s.e.x-scandal-magnet girlfriend. At the very best, it makes for tension in the small talk.

And at worst?

You've just sat down on your cold, hard pew, one of your hold-ups has decided that its name is not necessarily an accurate clue to its function and your thong has ridden up just a little too far for comfort and every time you move you feel as if you're flossing yourself somewhere that should never be flossed. Sitting in that pew, shielded by your boyfriend, you decide that now's the moment for a discreet adjustment, and just as you have one hand up your skirt and the other pulling at your waistband you realize that your man has stood, leaving you exposed to a short, sixtyish lady with silver hair, an improbably balanced feathery black hat and a thoroughly disapproving stare. Like a rabbit frozen in the headlights you can't turn away from that look, and then, when your brain finally remembers the commands to extricate your hands and get you to your feet, all you can think to say to the woman you now realize is your boyfriend's mother is, "Hi, I'm Trudy. I was just having issues in the hosiery department."

She managed to smile, bless her, which was quite a feat when that look of contempt had appeared to be chiseled into her saggy bulldog features. So I smiled back at her, and held out the hand that had so recently been up my own skirt.

"Charmed," she said, with the briefest of nods. And then, turning to her son: "Willem, you excel, as ever."

f.u.c.k.

And so I sat, with Will between me and his parents, hoping in vain that if I sank down far enough into my hard, uncomfortable seat they might not see me at all.

"Hey there, E."

"Hey there, little sis'."

Standing outside in the fall sun, a half-drunk pint of dark beer in his hand. No Will. No Eleanor or Charlie or uncannily intimidating Bentinck-Stanley parents. Just me and my big brother, sharing a drink, like old times, or as close to old times as we were ever going to get right now.

"You okay?"

He nodded.

I didn't have to say any more, didn't have to explain. Two words was all it needed. A couple of years back, our parents had gone off the highway near their Naugatuck home, and that was it: a mere moment between life and totally unexpected, un-planned-for death.

"You?"

My turn to nod.

Then we hugged, briefly, and that was it. Seven words, two nods and a hug and we'd communicated more than we had in most of the time since the accident.

Charlie. I'd been with him for a year, and now without him for a year after I'd kicked him out of the Islington apartment I had paid for and we had shared. Last time I'd seen him he'd been waiting for me outside what had been our home, somehow thinking that two misguided and much-regretted instances of ex-s.e.x meant he could have me whenever he wanted. And then, when it finally sank in that this wasn't going to happen, he'd started haranguing me about Will.

And I'll just say one more thing before I shut my whiney posh little voice up and leave you to think things over. Who do you think benefited from Sally Fielding's death, once she'd re-emerged? Had you wondered about that?

Sowing those seeds of doubt, of suspicion. Fueling the paranoia I already had about Will and his mysterious life. How much did I really know about him? How much did I want to know?

We were out front of the big house, about to walk down the car-lined driveway to where Maninder would be patiently waiting.

Charlie. Apart from an awkward exchange of greetings and a few hard to read looks, I'd managed to steer clear of him all day. This funeral was no place for an encounter, the way Charlie did encounters.

But no... Just as we stepped down onto the gravel driveway, I saw the shape of a man through the bushes, standing in profile, peeing up against a tree.

"Um..." said Will quietly. "Do you think we should say something...?"

Poor drunk Charlie. He must have gone into the cover of the bushes from the other side and not even realized he was on full display to anyone on the driveway, as he stood there, one hand scratching under his strawberry-blond hair, the other casually holding his d.i.c.k as he jetted a dark patch up a tree trunk.

I tugged at Will's arm. I didn't want this. Maybe we could just walk quietly by.

On a gravel driveway...

"Well b.u.g.g.e.r me sideways," said Charlie, a startled look on his face. He turned towards us, the stream of urine tailing off so that now he just stood there facing us, c.o.c.k in hand.

"You might want to put that thing away," said Will, matter-of-factly. "Unless, of course, you have an encore?"

Charlie hurriedly stuffed himself back into his pants, his face reddening in a way I'd only rarely seen before. He wasn't a man to embarra.s.s easily, which was just as well given the way he often behaved.

Moments later, he stepped out before us, re-finding some of his old swagger. His eyes had always been a lovely, clear blue, pale as the sky, almost angelic. He fixed me with them now. "Do you really know what you're getting into?" he said softly. "Have you any idea, Trude?"

I glanced at Will, but he was staring at Charlie, his look giving nothing away.

"Well?"

"That's enough, Charlie," said Will, his voice measured and even. "Are you going to be okay getting home? I could arrange"

"Oh sure," said Charlie. "You could arrange almost anything, couldn't you?"

Will turned to me, and put a hand on my arm. "He's drunk," he said, unnecessarily. "I think we should just"

"Turn the other cheek, eh?" said Charlie, interrupting again, and this time taking a step towards us. "Not get involved, eh? Is that what you told Sally? Did you tell her not to get involved, not to cross swords with the sacred family?"

At the mention of Sally Will stiffened. Or was it mention of his family?

"I love you, Charlie," he said, after a pause, forcing a humorless chuckle. "I don't know anyone else who could take the moral high ground when you've only just put your c.o.c.k away."

Then he went to him, put his hands on Charlie's arms, and said, "Come on, old boy. Enough's enough. We've all had a few drinks. Let's get you sorted for a lift, okay?"

Charlie shrugged him off and for a moment I thought it was going to end in a scuffle, then Charlie took a couple of steps backwards, his eyes flitting between Will and me.

Managing to stand more upright, he pulled his jacket straight by the lapels, and said to Will, "Don't you hurt her, you hear me? If I hear you have, then I don't care what you or your family do to me, I'll make you regret it, you hear? I'll finish you."

And with that, he turned and marched down the drive, away from us. We waited until he was out of sight, or it would have seemed like some walking-pace chase scene as we followed him away from the house.

"What did he mean, Will? You... the family...?"

Will shrugged, smiled, doing that upper cla.s.s English thing of his again. "Oh, you know," he said, when it should have been perfectly clear that I didn't, or why would I have asked the question? "Just the drink talking."

I looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Listen, Trudy," he said. "It's a messy business, this whole thing. I protect people, I negotiate, I take risks. It's what I do, and it's what my father did before me. The family trade, if you like. Sally and her little blackmail scheme exposed her to far more than she bargained for. We know how to handle ourselves, how to protect our own, but Sally didn't know any of that when she let off her little grenade. She was caught in the crossfire."

Just then, there was a discreet bleeping from his jacket. He reached into an inside pocket for his phone. "Sorry," he said. "It's my mother."

"Your mother sends text messages?"

He shrugged. "I'm sorry," he went on. "I need to..."

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "The family calls, right?" I'd aimed for jokey, but ended up somewhere between that and thoroughly p.i.s.sed at him. He picked up the tone right away.

"Listen," he said. "I'm sorry. I really am. It's been a tough day. For all of us. I really appreciate that you were here. I..."

"Go talk to Mommy," I said. "I'll find my own way home."

With that, I turned and started to walk. I couldn't quite work out if it was the kind of departure that would be undermined by me glancing back over my shoulder to check out his response or not, but probably it was, so I just kept my head down and walked.

Maninder was there in the Jag, just inside the gateway. He made as if to get out and open a door for me, but I kept walking. I'd get a cab, if they had such a thing out here in rural Kent. Or a bus. h.e.l.l, I'd thumb a lift from a psycho trucker if that's what it took to get me out of there.

Too much in my head. Too much to try to make sense of.

Next day was a Sat.u.r.day, but even though my head was still muzzy I was in no mood for a lazy lie-in followed by an indulgent breakfast over the Sat.u.r.day papers round at Cafe Creme.

I was at the gym before eight. Bluetooth ear-pieces in, phone clipped to my waist, my exercise playlist on so loud it drowned out everything else in my head. That treadmill never knew what hit it.

I ran until I could run no more, all too aware of the potential symbolism of my chosen form of exercise.

He'd called on the evening after the funeral.

"I'm sorry..."

Apologizing. Always apologizing.

That must say a lot about a man, but I still hadn't quite worked out precisely what it was that it said.

"Yeah," I'd said. I was tired and, although I wouldn't admit it and didn't really know why, I'd been crying; and I was two-thirds of a bottle of Shiraz past Not a good time for this kind of c.r.a.p.

"I..."

For a man who got by through having all the answers, all the lines, he could be a bit s.h.i.t sometimes.

"It's late," I said, although it was barely nine o'clock. "And I need to ... not work in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay," he said. "I'll call tomorrow."

I hung up, and then put my phone on silent, still fearing the Charlie might make another play as he started to sober up. Then I used the rest of the Shiraz to wash down a couple of Night Nurse capsules my fallback solution to sleepless nights and took myself to bed.

Now, at the gym, I was just debating with myself whether I could manage any more running or should settle for a few lengths of the pool and the steam room, when my old trainer, Maria Liu, turned up.

"Hey, Trudy," she said, dropping into a sparring stance. "You need a workout? You up, like, real early today, yeah?"