Mistakes We Make Page 18

  Molly laughed at her father’s words. ‘If you think they eat a lot now, Dad,’ she said, ‘just think what they’ll be like when they’re teenagers.’

  Billy groaned. ‘I’ve got a year or two yet, hopefully. I remember what Logan was like when he was—’

  He broke off.

  They both did this all the time – they forgot that he was gone.

  ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ Molly said gently.

  ‘I just wish I knew he was safe.’

  ‘I know. Me too.’ Trying to make light of it, she said, ‘Julian says he’ll be sipping cocktails in Brazil. I can just see it, can’t you?’

  ‘Cocktails? If he’s knocking back cocktails while we’re all—’ He broke off. ‘Did I tell you Alastair’s been picked to play in goal for the first team on Saturday?’

  ‘Fantastic!’ Speculating about Logan’s fate would consume them both, if they let it. Better to avoid the subject.

  ‘And Adrienne will be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Where is she this time?’

  ‘America, I think. Or is it India? I’ve got her shifts written down somewhere if you—’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose she even knows where she is half the time. Those long-distance flights must be exhausting. Any news on Agnes Buchanan?’

  Billy got news from Rosemary Blair, who had made it her business to let him know anything she knew.

  ‘The stroke’s left her quite damaged, they say, but there seems to be plenty of evidence that she and Logan were in it together.’

  ‘It’s hard to feel sorry for the woman,’ Molly said, struggling to fight the intense anger she felt every time she thought about what Agnes had done. ‘I suppose until we find Logan we won’t know whether he made her move the cash around or she persuaded him to fill in all those wretched forms and set up false accounts.’

  Billy sighed heavily. ‘Who knows? Maybe Adam has more information. You haven’t spoken to—’

  ‘No,’ Molly said curtly. ‘Listen, if you’re OK I’d better go. I’m at the sandwich shop.’

  ‘Fine, lovey. I’ve got a load of things to do. Ian’s room’s a tip. I’ve told him he’ll get a beating if he doesn’t tidy it, but he takes no notice.’

  Molly laughed, because the idea of Billy lifting his hand to anyone was so absurd. He might grumble, but he loved having the boys there. It was a comfort – as she made lists and organised meetings and events, wrote pitch documents, rehearsed other pitches, met with clients, pacified clients and thought about clients’ needs before they had even thought about them themselves: in short, lived her dream – to know that.

  The only way to find time for such personal indulgences as a haircut was to convince herself it was a necessity rather than a luxury. As soon as she’d reached this tipping point, Molly took advice, and called a smart salon near Bond Street. She put the appointment in the diary in indelible pen.

  ‘Just a trim?’ Rowena, the stylist, asked.

  Molly shook her head. ‘I’d like it just like yours, please,’ she said, eyeing Rowena’s smart chin-length bob.

  ‘Really?’ The stylist lifted handfuls of Molly’s long blonde tresses and let them fall, shimmering, through her hands. ‘But it’s so beautiful.’

  ‘It’s just hair. And I need a change.’

  ‘Cool.’

  As always when she had any time to herself, Molly’s mind began to replay everything that had happened in the last few months.

  The weeks after Logan’s abrupt disappearance had been nerve-shredding, and she hadn’t been able to reassure an increasingly desperate Barnaby that she would be able to join him.

  One day, miraculously, her bank had telephoned. The money she needed had been lodged in her account. No warning, no explanation, it had just appeared. Adam, when she’d called him, had been stiff.

  ‘I’m glad I was able to do it,’ he’d said. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  Typical Adam. A sense of humour so dry you could trickle it through your fingers like sand.

  She’d said, ‘So what’s happening at Blair King?’

  He hadn’t been in the mood for conversation. ‘The law will take its course, and the law, as you know, always takes its time.’

  There was sometimes a fine line between dry humour and pomposity. She hated it when he deployed that kind of self-importance. It had been December – and it was the last time she’d spoken to him.

  ‘What do you think?’

  She stared in the mirror. Rowena was standing behind her, angling a hand mirror this way and that to let her see the back. She hardly recognised herself.

  Molly put a hand up to the back of her neck wonderingly.

  ‘It feels so odd!’

  ‘But good, I hope? You do like it, don’t you? It really suits you.’

  Molly shook her head and watched the bob settle back into place. She said, ‘Thinking about the past gets you nowhere, does it?’

  The mirror wavered. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Don’t mind me.’ She twisted her head from side to side and watched the hair flick and swing. ‘I feel lighter.’

  ‘You will do. That hair was really long.’

  ‘No, I mean inside.’

  ‘Right.’ Rowena sounded doubtful.

  ‘The past couple of years have been rubbish, but getting this lot chopped ... it feels like I’m sloughing off dead skin. Like a snake?’ she added, seeing that Rowena still looked puzzled.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s good,’ Molly stressed. ‘It’s a new beginning, don’t you see?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, ta.’

  Molly emerged into Bond Street smiling at everybody. From now on, she vowed to herself, I’m only going to look forward.

  Chapter Two

  Adam thought a great deal in the grim days that followed the revelation of Logan’s dishonesty. He thought about what he would lose and about what his life now meant. Had everything to this point been meaningless? Had he squandered his education by using it for a career he had never wanted and now stood to lose? He wasn’t sure he knew who he was any more.

  He hadn’t expected to feel jealousy. He’d never expected he would be lonely, but although he loved spending days alone in Scotland’s wild places, he had been astonished to discover that this was different from coming home every night to an empty house, and that he did not cope well with loneliness.

  What he had thought to be natural self-confidence, he learned had depended on the knowledge that Molly loved him. Her belief in him had been a necessary prerequisite to self-belief.

  Most of all, he was amazed to find that, facing ignominy and failure, he turned like a cornered beast to fight for survival.

  Could it be that the law was, after all, important to him? Or was it just that all he could do was react, minute by minute, hour by hour, as events unfolded?

  He met with Patrick Mulgrew at Capital Art and showed him the photos he’d taken at Agnes Buchanan’s bungalow. Patrick – assured, stylish, successful art dealer personified – slipped on his reading glasses and examined them carefully.

  ‘I sold her this one,’ he said, jabbing his finger at the Barbara Rae, unmistakeable with its explosion of reds and gold. ‘Fabulous painting. I could have sold it a dozen times over.’

  ‘Not cheap, then?’

  ‘She’s one of Scotland’s foremost artists. Why do you ask?’

  Adam sat back and looked at Patrick. He’d been a Blair King client since he’d set up his gallery, long before success had made him wealthy. Adam liked the man, and trusted him. In any case, the bad news would be public knowledge soon enough.

  ‘You know she’s our chief cashier?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I thought it might be a good print.’

  ‘A print?’ Patrick yelped with laughter.

  ‘What about the others?’

  Patrick took the phone again and scrolled through the images.

  ‘Some of these were definitely handled by other Edinburgh galleries in the last few ye
ars. I keep tabs on what’s around. We all do. I can’t speak for the others, but I’d hazard a guess they’re all genuine. Miss Buchanan is astute and a very particular buyer. She knows what she likes, and what she likes is quality.’

  Adam struggled to square this fact with the Agnes Buchanan he knew – or thought he’d known. The mousey woman they’d all relied on but had never valued.

  ‘They must have cost a fortune.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘She doesn’t earn that much.’

  ‘Adam, I shouldn’t really be talking about a client like this.’

  ‘I have good reason to probe.’

  Patrick shot him an appraising look. ‘I believe she came into money.’

  ‘Hmm. Any idea when? I mean, has she been buying from you for some time?’

  ‘She was one of my first clients. So – fifteen years or so?’

  Cash-flow problems ... Agnes saying, ‘It’s only temporary, a loan will tide us through.’

  They’d all remortgaged their homes.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  Adam cleared his throat. ‘You could say—’

  The house sold at once, and Adam made bad decisions. He took most of his books and CDs to a charity shop, then immediately regretted it. The music had been a bank of memories shared with Molly and he felt its absence keenly. Many of the books were old friends, some he’d had since childhood. It wasn’t enough to tell himself he could download them all to his e-reader – his e-reader didn’t have the fatty mark where he’d dripped bacon grease out of his sandwich because he couldn’t bear to put the book aside while he read, or the pages that had curled with damp when he’d taken that book up some mountain to read by torchlight inside his sleeping bag.

  He agreed to put a couple of crates filled with Molly’s things into storage alongside his, then wondered why he was doing it when they no longer had any kind of shared life.

  He forgot about the garden shed until the day he was due to hand over the keys to the new owners. The shed’s contents had to be divided between the nearest charity shop and the local recycling and landfill facility, and that was that.

  As soon as the house was sold, the bank took its share, and before he could think too much about it, he transferred the entire balance to Molly’s account. She called him the next day.

  ‘Thank you for the money. I thought you said there was going to be a problem with the bank.’

  ‘They didn’t take as much as I’d thought.’ He didn’t want to explain.

  ‘But what about your share?’

  ‘I’ve taken what I need,’ he said.

  He no longer cared about the wrongs or the rights of what had happened between them. He’d been neglectful, she’d had an affair, he’d lost his temper, she’d left. How could you put those things on the scales and weigh them against each other? He could only go by what he felt was right.

  Weeks of sofa surfing round tolerant friends followed. He tried to develop a nose for a change of atmosphere before he exhausted his welcome.

  When Molly moved to London, Lexie called him, catching him at the office on a particularly difficult day.

  ‘Camp out in my studio,’ she said without preamble.

  ‘Studio?’

  ‘It’s at Fleming House. The garden cottage. I couldn’t suggest it while Molly was living across the way in the big house, but now that she’s gone ... Well, anyway, why don’t you come and look at it, see what you think?’

  He drove out to Fleming House the next morning. What was a couple of hours off work? However many hours he put in now, it wasn’t going to do the firm any good.

  Lexie was waiting for him.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked, looking around. He didn’t know Fleming House; he’d never been there. This was where Molly had fled after she’d left him; this had been her retreat.

  The big house was behind him, and all he could see in front was a stand of trees and the tall wall of the kitchen garden.

  Lexie rubbed her crimson crop and grinned. ‘Behind you. Look.’

  She took him by the shoulders and turned him through thirty degrees. He spotted a path of sorts, and under the thick canopy of a chestnut tree, an old wooden door.

  Adam had always liked Alexa Gordon. She was thoughtful and loyal, but there was a streak of rebelliousness about her that you couldn’t help but admire. When he heard she’d got together with Patrick Mulgrew he’d been more than a little surprised, unable to envisage the sophisticated, sharp-suited entrepreneur and the eccentrically-dressed artist together. His doubts were proved wrong. Lexie had softened Patrick’s sharper edges, while his unswerving belief in her had freed up her creativity. Her career had taken off, until motherhood had put it on hold again.

  She led the way to the door and pulled a heavy key out of her shoulder bag. The door creaked and swung inwards.

  On the threshold, Adam hesitated. ‘But you said this is your studio. I can’t—’

  ‘I’m not working at the moment, because of Keira. I’m not using the studio and I haven’t slept here since Patrick and I got together. Go in. It’s cold right now, but once the stove is lit it gets warms really quickly.’

  ‘What’s the rent?’

  He had to ask because, for the first time since he’d been a student, money was an issue. Blair King was managing to run a skeleton operation and he still had a salary of sorts, but that couldn’t last. The end was in sight, and he knew it.

  ‘Nothing. Patrick’s paying the rent anyway. It’ll be good to have someone here making sure the pipes don’t burst.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘He can afford it. He says Blair King have been good to him over the years and it’s the least he can do. You’d be doing us a favour.’

  ‘In that case – what can I say? I’d love to take it.’

  His intention was just to camp in the cottage, but the appeal of the place was unexpected. He found himself standing at the windows, cradling a hot mug of tea and staring vacantly into the garden. That was the clue: vacantly. The cottage had a kind of stillness that brought serenity. It didn’t matter how difficult the day had been (and most days were verging on impossible), when he returned here at night, he was able to find peace.

  He found himself avoiding Sunita, fobbing her off with poor excuses. Sometimes they met for dinner. On the odd occasion, he found himself staying over at her flat. She was beautiful and affectionate, but because he knew he didn’t love her, he always regretted it the next day.

  He didn’t want her at the cottage; he protected it jealously, as if her presence might violate his sanctuary.

  It was not a good situation.

  Chapter Three

  Adam had often dreamed of leaving Blair King, but he’d never foreseen anything like this. He looked around the boardroom. The few staff who hadn’t already fled the sinking ship were standing around despondently, heads down, shoulders hunched. The other partners had found posts elsewhere, and today only he and his father remained of what had once been a proud family law firm.

  There were thirteen people in the room. He’d known most of them for years. They were decent, loyal employees who didn’t deserve what had happened to them.

  ‘Everyone got a glass?’ he called. He’d gone out and bought champagne – Moët, nothing cheap – out of his own pocket, because he was determined they would not go down hanging their heads.

  James Blair was standing looking out of the window. How often had he stood there over the years? Pondering some difficult case, considering a staffing issue, or maybe just stealing a quiet moment of satisfaction at everything he’d achieved, despite his own father’s divisive will. What must he be feeling now?

  Adam put the thought aside and adopted a determinedly cheerful expression. ‘Then let’s raise them in a toast,’ he said, his lips tightening into a smile that he hoped looked more natural than it felt. He glanced around. ‘To each other – you’ve been a terrific team and I can’t thank you enough – and to the future.’ />
  ‘To each other, and to the future,’ came a ragged echo. James, a half full glass of bubbly in his hand, did not move. He was still looking out of the window.

  ‘Now, no looking back. Let’s keep in touch. You all have my personal contact details. I know most of you have already found jobs. If there’s anything I – or my father – can do to help those of you who haven’t, please let us know.’

  Deirdre Shaw was in tears. Most of the women, huddled together at the far end of the room, were either crying or nearly so. Caitlyn Murray, standing separately, hadn’t touched her champagne. He watched from across the room as she braced herself against the wall. She’d be feeling guilty because she’d been the one to uncover the fraud. She shouldn’t. He must tell her that. As he crossed the space between them, snippets of conversation drifted his way.

  ‘Who’d’ve ever thought Agnes would—’

  ‘I’m still in shock—’

  ‘My hubby says she’ll get ten years—’

  ‘—if she’s well enough to stand trial.’

  ‘Serve her right, I’d say.’

  ‘Ooh, don’t be so bitchy.’

  ‘Well, it’s put us all out of work.’

  ‘And what about Mr Keir? Bet he was the one who—’

  ‘—and they haven’t even found him yet.’

  Caitlyn stood apart from them all in self-imposed isolation.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Her head swivelled towards him, her eyes blazing. The impact of her gaze was so intense that he instinctively took a half step back.

  ‘If you must know, I’m bloody furious.’

  His eyes rounded. In all his years in this building, he’d never heard a junior member of staff swearing in front of a partner.

  ‘What right did they have? Their greed has destroyed this firm. It’s robbed people of their jobs. It’s taken away their dreams.’ Her dark eyes narrowed. ‘Aren’t you furious? You must be.’

  He stared at her. There’d been so much to do. He’d had to stay in control. He and his father had been catapulted into a world of deceit and deception. They’d had to help the investigators to uncover the trail of lies and falsehoods left by Logan and Agnes, while all the time trying to defend their own innocence and keep the business going.