‘It’s certainly backfired,’ I say, wondering why Tor hasn’t the faintest suspicion that Zac isn’t everything he seems to be.
‘When I told him how cross I was, he started to cry,’ she whimpers.
‘Yes, I imagine he did,’ I say, picturing him crying all the way to the bank.
‘Oh, Lalla, you never want to imagine your family seeing such things. It’s so completely degrading. And I don’t want to lose Zac.’
‘You’re sticking with him after he took advantage of you like this?’ Zac is clearly fleecing her and doing it rather well.
‘It was a little mistake and we love each other. Anyway, the thing is, Lalla. I’ve only got £40,000 at the moment, and I’m £10k short. My money’s not accessible, and I can’t ask Law.’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, realizing I, too, have been duped. This isn’t a friend confiding in me. She needs hard cash, and she’s looking into my eyes.
‘Please,’ she whines.
‘Anything for a friend,’ I say, as I’m sure there’s leverage in this somewhere.
She throws her arms around me. I can feel her desperation and understand why she’s been acting so strangely of late.
‘But I want something in return,’ I say, pulling back.
‘Yes, of course, anything,’ she says, although she doesn’t have the faintest idea of what I’m going to ask for.
As we leave the café my phone pings twice in rapid succession. I look down at two texts from Aisha:
Cait’s been arrested
She’s at Tottenham police station
I type:
Terrible news. What have they arrested her for?
Owen’s murder
Chapter39Vampires
Saturday, 7 December
Just two minutes from Hampstead High Street, four estate agents, in their mid to late twenties, are sitting in large, ergonomically-designed Herman Miller chairs at sleekly curved black and cream workstations, staring attentively at their double-sized screens, scrolling and tapping.
I’m staring at Esmae, who’s looking back at me without blinking. I sometimes wonder if the best estate agents have sociopathic qualities. This one certainly does. I have two hundred thousand pounds deposited courtesy of Stephen’s saving accounts, and she is smiling in a way that is not exactly reassuring.
‘The rest will come,’ I say.
‘Sorry, I can’t take it off the market,’ she says, turning a pencil in her fingers.
‘Two hundred thousand doesn’t do that?’
‘Four hundred is what they need. They’ve been burnt before.’
‘Not by me,’ I say. I look up at the wall behind her. A large map of Hampstead is surrounded by old photographs of bygone times. They are selling nostalgia at eight million a pop.
‘Your offer has been accepted, but you know, timing is everything.’
‘This purchase is worth about £15k to you, I expect,’ I say.
‘The thing is, Mrs Rook, things fall apart all the time. The best-laid plans of mice and men, and all that. House sales fall through, offers are withdrawn. There are a multiplicity of factors. In this case, the vendor wants assurances.’
