Food Fight Page 18

  “Can I open the curtains?”

  “If you have to. Do you remember the guy in L’Etranger? What was his name?”

  “Ma, what are you on? The narrator of L’Etranger? It was Meursault.”

  “Well it’s exactly what’s happening to me!”

  “What is? You’re being executed for killing an Arab? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Mimi listen to me. He didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral. That’s how it starts. They would never have sentenced a French person to death for killing an Arab if it hadn’t been for that. Meursault was smeared! It was a character assassination! That’s what’s happening to me now! And I didn’t cry at Serge’s funeral. What was it he said about L’Etranger – that we must all play the game? And if we don’t we’re punished? As I see it, Meursault wasn’t a stranger, he was estranged, that’s why he was an outsider. Can’t you understand, with this DeKripps smear campaign against me, I’m an outsider, not an insider. Ladies and gentlemen, L’Etranger, c’est moi!”

  Mimi looked at her curiously.

  “But that’s fiction, and this is real life. Get a grip. Please.” She stood up and picked up the baby. “Listen, I’m going to have to take Meadow back to Wandsworth today. There’s a train about eleven. Are you going to be okay?”

  “To be honest, I feel like going out there and telling them that the Monitor article is a monstrous lie and that I’ve contacted my lawyer about legal action.”

  Mimi seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Yes, but you know that if you do that, it’ll give them another day’s story and another news cycle on the TV. There’ll be even more ravenous journos outside tomorrow. Thank God granny hangs up every time one calls the house.”

  Susan fell back against the bed with a groan.

  “By the way, I’ll be back at work, but I’m going to ask to be taken off the DeKripps campaign,” Mimi said over her shoulder. “I’m going to do fracking instead.”

  Susan heard the sound of Nellie barking at the reporters as Mimi took the pushchair out of the house.

  *

  “Hello, is that the Red Widow?”

  Susan’s mother passed the phone. It was Lily.

  “Very funny. I was going to ring you but I have to go out to a payphone. We tabloid celebs have to take precautions.”

  “I was starting to get worried after you didn’t reply to my voicemail or texts.”

  Susan had kept her mobile phone switched off since the story broke. She dreaded to see how many messages or missed calls might be there.

  “How are you coping? Is there anything I can do? Are you coming back to London?”

  “Honestly Lily, I really don’t know. I’m just taking each day as it comes at the moment. At least the Scum didn’t put me on Page 3 as a ‘Scrum-ptious’ girl. But the most upsetting thing is the betrayal by people like Ellen. And a friend like Frank. I knew he would be disappointed in me, but I never would have expected this. They want to destroy me.”

  “I saw that bastard Barney on the news, the smarmy beast. He looks exactly like the sleazebag you described.”

  “But did you read the Daily Monitor pieces? Basically I’m a loose woman who sexually harassed my boss. How about that for starters?”

  “Anyone who knows you would realise it’s not true. I’ll testify for you myself if that’s any good.”

  “Bless you. If I need a character reference I’ll bear you in mind. As long as you promise to stick to an agreed script,” she said, then realised she shouldn’t have made a joke like that on the telephone. “Listen, I’ll call you again soon. But thank you.”

  She wondered how much longer she could stay at her mother’s. She was a liability as long as she continued to be a media target. But she was fed up with Nellie’s constant barking, and the fighting over the TV remote. Not to mention her mother’s decision to take cups of tea out to the diminishing band of reporters who’d become emboldened by her generosity, approaching neighbours for quotes every time one of them stepped outside. Could she go back to Lily’s? She didn’t want to overstay her welcome in Bermondsey. Her best option would be to move back into her own house in Hackney as soon as possible.

  That evening, she sneaked out of the house again and rang Mark from Lymington station.

  He told her that the New York Tattle was highlighting the fact that the ‘widow whistle-blower’ was a Brit. “That’s not good,” he said. “Americans come over all patriotic when foreigners criticise them.”

  Susan was reminded of the Tony Hayward incident and ‘British Petroleum’.

  “But I’ve been on the point of giving those reporters a piece of my mind. Talk about blatant lies!”

  Mark warned her that it could be counterproductive if she gave her version of the story.

  “We need to let things die down for a while,” he said.

  “Then at some point, it would be helpful if you come back to Washington so we can start working on the next steps.”

  She liked that idea. But at that moment her mobile rang. It was Mimi. She ended the call and listened to her daughter screaming down the phone. Her flat had been ransacked.

  “Oh my poor baby! I’m at the station now, Mimi, I’m on my way. Call the police. Mother can take care of the paparazzi.”

  For once, Mimi didn’t object. Susan looked at her watch. It would take her two and a half hours to reach Wandsworth with two train changes, so she was looking at a five-hour journey even without spending time at Mimi’s. She would have to stay at their flat for the night.

  She paid no attention to the New Forest ponies as the train sped through the English countryside in the dusk. She twisted her wedding ring, looking out of the window. How could this have happened? Had she placed Mimi in danger with her actions? And the baby? She took out her phone, wondering whether she could risk calling her daughter. Better not. But she had time to check her messages.

  “You have one hundred and twelve voicemails.”

  She began working through the most recent, all of which had been left by journalists. One, from Fox News, had left several, each sounding more aggressive and urgent than the last. She hit the ‘clear all’ button.

  By the time she reached Waterloo she was almost sweating with anxiety. But what she saw when she reached Mimi’s street and climbed the steep staircase to the little first floor flat made her blood freeze.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The door was hanging off its hinges. A white liquid dribbled out of the flat onto the top stairs.

  “Mimi, are you there?”

  As she spontaneously hugged her dishevelled daughter she could see the full scale of the damage over her shoulder. Every drawer had been emptied, bookcases had been knocked over, the cot overturned, papers were scattered across the living room where Meadow was propped up, giggling. The baby had adjusted to the makeover already.

  “Have the police been?”

  “They said it looked like a professional job. He, or they, kicked their way through the front door.”

  “Of course it was professional. One might even say DeKripps.”

  “That’s what I thought. But there were no fingerprints. The police dusted the door. So we’ll never be able to prove it,” said Mimi. “At least they didn’t smash or steal anything. They just left the place in a tip. They might have been watching us and knew when we were out.”

  “The main thing is that the three of you are okay.”

  Josh was busy in the bedroom putting clothes back into the wardrobe, which had been emptied of its contents, dumped in a heap on the floor.

  “I haven’t got anything they want, have I?” said Mimi. “They just want to intimidate me. But if that’s what those bastards think they’ve done, they’ve got another think coming!”

  Susan opened her handbag. The flash drive was concealed in a zip pocket. She was the one with the incriminating evidence.

  “But you’ve not seen the worst yet,” Mimi said.

  They followed the trickle of white liquid into the ki
tchen. She gasped when she saw that several litres of soymilk had been emptied onto the kitchen floor. A thick ruby-coloured fruit spread was smeared on the walls.

  She put her arm round Mimi. She was struck by how she appeared to be taking the whole thing in her stride. There were none of the histrionics she’d expected.

  “I’m so sorry. I feel responsible. Without me this would never have happened.”

  “Without me this would never have happened,” said Mimi.

  “We don’t know that. But let’s face it, we can’t say we weren’t warned. We’re going to have to be so careful after this.”

  She looked around the kitchen again, where the milk pooled at the bottom of a broom cupboard. “Okay,” she said. “Put me to work.”

  “But from now on, for God’s sake please be extra careful.”

  *

  Although Susan was looking forward to recovering her home in De Beauvoir Square, it was strange to wander through the rooms where she and Serge had lived together.

  The kitchen where Serge and Mimi would drink tea while he helped her with her homework. The sitting room where he and Susan had cuddled and watched TV, Serge seated on a floor cushion at her feet. His upstairs study, overlooking the long back garden. She felt like her own ghost, trapped behind a viewing screen. The place even smelled different.

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Serge always used to quote Sartre to announce that particular time of day was ‘too late or too early’ to do anything, before leading her by the hand to the bedroom.

  The furniture showed signs of wear from the family who’d rented the house, and there were scuff marks on the walls. The place would need a coat of paint, she decided. I can paint the bathroom white now, there’s nobody to stop me. She could still hear Serge demanding aquamarine. “It’s a bassroom,” he would say, “it must be blue.”

  As her footsteps echoed to the living room, she was reminded that the year before he died they’d hosted her 40th birthday party here. It was also a celebration of her promotion to Marketing Director, and the house was filled with friends, colleagues, neighbours. Mimi had refused to come because of all the ‘old people’ who’d be there. They had a disc jockey with dance music, and sang along to bands like Crowded House that brought back university memories.

  Serge, of course, was perplexed, and stood in a corner talking to Lily until they put on ‘les Stones’. Frank had arrived with June and planted a wet kiss on Susan’s cheeks, taking glitter away on his lips. He handed her a gift instructing her to wait until later before opening it. When she eventually broke open the silver wrapping, she discovered a watch, engraved on the back with ‘DeKripps Susie’ and a heart between the two. She had no idea what had happened to that watch, whose corporate buddying now repelled her.

  Martin was also at the party, with his young wife Katy. She was glad he’d come as the two of them had been in competition for the job, and Susan knew he was disappointed. In fact she’d expected him to leave the company after she was made Marketing Director. She’d heard that according to Frank, Martin had stayed on as her assistant as a tribute to her ‘professionalism’. She’d been surprised to get the job at all.

  She stepped out of the French window, where Serge used to smoke by the open door, inhaling slowly and half closing his eyes, before casually casting the butts outside.

  She caught sight of the next door neighbours over the wall as she inspected the back garden, which was somewhat overgrown. The barbecue was still standing on flagstones under a green plastic cover in the far corner, next to a wrought iron table and chairs.

  She waved to the couple who were dead-heading roses. They looked surprised to see her.

  “I’m back. Tell me what I’ve missed,” she said, approaching the wall.

  “We had a narrow escape during the riots,” said Larry. He worked in an accountant’s firm or a big insurance company, Susan could never remember which.

  “Really?”

  She’d been glued to the TV at Lily’s then, obsessed by the news about the DeKripps scandal. She’d never realised that the arson and shoplifting that had followed the police shooting of a suspect had been just up the road from her own house.

  “Forgive me, I’ve had a load on my mind recently.”

  “You should have seen it here. A gang of yobs came along there—” he pointed towards the main road “—and tore through the square. They chucked a couple of firebombs into the garden.”

  “What, into our front gardens?”

  “Next door.” He gestured again. “They were away. But we were in, and so were your tenants, so the lights were all on.”

  “It was terrifying, Susie,” said Larry’s wife, Meredith. “It was as though the whole country was on fire.”

  Susan shook her head in disbelief. She looked beyond them to the neatly-tended gardens of London N1. It was hard to imagine their middle class tranquillity being disturbed by anything.

  “But what are you doing now? Moving back for good? Or off to another glamorous place?”

  “At the moment, I’m trying to figure out what to do. I’m not going to rush into anything.”

  “Nice to have the choice,” said Meredith, a note of envy in her voice. They were a couple in their 50s with three children at university. Mimi had been quite friendly with the eldest girl. Susan sensed that with Meredith staying at home, they were probably finding it hard to make ends meet as empty nesters. “You must find it quiet without the kids,” she said.

  “Yes, but they come back for the holidays.”

  “And so does their laundry,” said Larry.

  Maybe the house would be too big for her too. There had been three of them before Mimi left home. A fear of loneliness was creeping to the edges of her mind. But she was determined to see it off.

  “You must come round for a drink soon.” She forced a smile, and went back inside, wondering whether they knew she was the ‘Widow Whistle-blower’ and were mocking her behind her back.

  *

  She was at the kitchen table one Saturday afternoon, stirring a cup of tea while Radio 4 droned on in the background, when the doorbell rang. It was Mimi, her hair still as dull as soot, and Meadow waving from her pushchair. They wheeled her into the house and installed her on the kitchen rug.

  “Do you want an infusion?”

  Susan had soy milk in the fridge in case Mimi chose tea. She couldn’t even think of it now without recalling the break-in, and Mimi noticed the look on her face.

  “We’ve had the locks changed, and got window locks fitted a couple of days ago.”

  Susan switched off the radio. “I’ve got some soothing camomile from Sainsbury’s.”

  The two of them settled cross-legged at the table, just like the old days. A bluebottle circled drunkenly around the kitchen.

  “I’ve got some news, Mum,” Mimi said. “Do you remember what you said about Camus, and being the outsider, when we were in Lymington? Well, it’s inspired Josh! He wrote a piece for Granta Magazine and they accepted it. It’s called, ‘The Smear – interpreting Camus for the modern world.’”

  “That’s fantastic! Good for him,” she said. The meerkat was growing on her. The article would enhance his job prospects anyway, and he was hoping to land a temporary contract at Granta as a result, according to Mimi.

  “Did I ever ask you what his subject was at university?”

  “French.”

  “And what was his PhD on?”

  “Sartre.” That’s why he’d been so interested in Serge’s work on Camus. “What a shame he didn’t finish his thesis.”

  “I know. He says the research for it kept on expanding and actually prevented him from getting down to the writing. I don’t know how long he spent on it, but eventually he decided to turn what he’d discovered into something more concrete. The librarian job seemed perfect.”

  “He probably found it easier to write short pieces, like the one on Camus.”

  “Anyway, everything’s worked out well for him now.”r />
  Susan wondered whether she dared broach another subject: “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  Her daughter looked wary, eyes darting to the baby. She carried on thumbing her smartphone.

  “Mimi, I’m speaking to you.” That sharp tone had crept into her voice. “Do you mind?”

  She put down the phone and waited, sullen as ever.

  “Do you know how hurtful it was when you blamed me for Serge’s death? Just because I sent him out to get the papers? Was it my fault he was on the wrong side of the road and not wearing a seatbelt? I was just thinking there must be more to it than that. Why have you been so resentful about what happened?”

  The expression on Mimi’s face was impermeable. Then she frowned, checked that Meadow was still happily sitting on the rug and said, “Well, there was the baby.”

  “What baby?”

  “Weren’t you trying for a baby? The brother or sister that he said he wanted for me?”

  “Yes of course, but it didn’t happen, and he didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Didn’t seem to mind? How could you say that?” said Mimi, her voice becoming strident.

  “Well, we didn’t really discuss it much. I had my work, and—”

  “That’s the point, Ma. Did it never cross your mind that there was more to life than work?”

  “Just a moment, young lady. Did he ever say anything to you about it? And frankly I don’t see why he would confide in you and not to me on such an important issue.”

  The hostilities flared across the table.

  “And another thing,” said Mimi.

  Susan’s heart sank.

  “Are you aware that he gave up a transfer to Rennes to move to London to be with you? He uprooted himself. You know how important Brittany was to him.”

  “Yes of course I do. He wanted to be with me. Of course he could have had a transfer to Rennes, but he could have done lots of other things too. He could have taught at university – he had an aggrégation after all. But he decided he wanted to be a school teacher. Am I to blame for that, too?”