2 The Imposter (35 page)

“You’re leaving Soho for good?”

“Perhaps not for good, but for now.”

An irritation boiled in his blood that made him tremble. He was furious at her foolish inaction, and he could not hide his dismay. “That wasn’t what I meant when I told you what I thought,” he said sharply. “I said you should make Spot think you were giving up––I didn’t mean you should really do it.”

“I know what you meant,” she said, her tone growing firmer. “We decided that the old way of doing things doesn’t make sense any more. The sums don’t add up. It isn’t worth the aggravation.”

The atmosphere seemed to be cooling. Edward wasn’t sure if it was the drink, or the turn of the conversation, or the fractiousness that often came at the end of an evening, or a combination of all them, but Violet’s mood was certainly blackening. He knew he should have smiled politely, acknowledged that surely she was right, thanked her for a lovely evening and excused himself, but he did not. He felt stifled and he could not hold his tongue. “And Spot?” he said. “You’re going to just let him continue on as if nothing has happened?”

She replaced her tumbler firmly, the glass thunking against the wood of the side table. “Be careful with your tone, Edward,” she warned acidly. “You needn’t think we’ve forgotten what he did. He will be taken care of. He’ll be visited by someone when he isn’t expecting it. He’ll be paid back what he’s owed.”

Edward could not help himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just don’t think it’s sensible. The black market won’t last forever. You must read the papers––the government are going to crack down on it harder and harder, and then, eventually, things won’t be so scarce. Things will get back to normal. The money you’re making now can only be temporary. A year or two, at best, and then it all dries up––and then what?”

She regarded him coolly, her tight little smile disappearing as her lips pursed. “And then we’ll concentrate on new areas,” she said, as if she was speaking to a child.

He pressed on. “Such as?”

“Building. There’s a lot of money to be made repairing all the damage the Germans caused. We have some interests in that direction.” She raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “You strike me as a practical man. What’s the point in starting a war when the profits don’t justify it? We’ll make hay while the sun shines and pick our moment to settle the score with Spot.”

Edward found that he could barely open his mouth to speak. “I think you’re making a dreadful mistake,” he said.

“I don’t really care whether you agree or not,” she snapped. “I’m only telling you this because Joseph speaks highly of you. I’m not looking for your approval.”

A look of puzzlement and suspicion had fallen over Violet’s face. Edward could see that she was perplexed at his reaction, and irritated by it, but, at that moment, he did not care. Violet and George were making a foolish error and someone had to tell them before they lost everything. Wasn’t it obvious? He wanted to explain himself, to break through to Violet so that she could understand him, see that he was right, and feel the same way. “Think about it,” he urged. “If you don’t stamp on him now, it will be harder the longer you wait.”

Her eyebrows lowered into a stern, unforgiving frown. “You’ve only been working with us for a few months. You might have ideas, but you have no experience. You don’t know the West End, you don’t know anything about it. You have no idea how the business works––you’d do well to remember that.”

Edward realised, too late, that he had gone too far. “I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “I know, you’re right. I get ahead of myself sometimes.” He laughed a little, tried to make his objections look silly. Violet did not respond, only put the cigarette holder in her mouth and poured herself yet another whisky. Edward felt himself beginning to sweat. He wanted her to say something to him, to tell him that she wasn’t offended, perhaps even to say that she appreciated his candour, even if she disagreed with his sentiments, but instead she said nothing. She was indifferent, looking at him across the table through the long exhalations of smoke.

He sat up, thinking that he had heard a car on the gravel outside, but there was no car. He looked back at Violet but his eyes were blurred. He blinked, trying to bring her into focus, feeling a sudden dread of her. His thoughts turned to her brother, Georgie the Bull, and the things that he had heard about him. Edward took up his glass and, sipping down the last of his whisky, he jumped up so suddenly that he knocked the chair backwards. “Sorry,” he said, setting it back in place again. “Thank you for a super evening,” he managed.

She got up and took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. He dipped so that she could press her lips to his cheek. They were pursed, hard and cold. “Good night, Edward,” she said. Edward’s knees felt like water and, as he passed out into the hallway and took the wide stairs up to the first floor, he felt an overwhelming surge of relief. It was over. He closed and locked the door of his room behind him and sat on the edge of the bed, working off his shoes and then loosening his tie. There was a tall dressing mirror in the corner and he caught his reflection in its glass: he was pale, a little sweaty, and his eyes bore a frightened look. He took off his tie and his shirt and ran the cold tap, cupping the water in his hands and dunking his face into it. He felt thwarted, and sick with fear that he had taken too many drinks and spoken too freely. He dried his face, finished undressing, and slipped between the cold sheets. He knew he would find it difficult to sleep but he closed his eyes anyway, experiencing the conversation again despite trying to think of something––anything––else.

47

EDWARD GRIPPED BOTH ARMRESTS as the Douglas DC-3 accelerated down the runway and, after what seemed like an eternity, took to the air. He had always been a poor flyer and the double gin he had quickly swallowed in the departure lounge had done very little to soothe his nerves. He glanced out of the window and watched as Northolt Aerodrome shrank away, the propellers blurring through the early morning sunshine as they ascended into a low bank of cloud. He watched as the hostesses unhooked their safety belts and made their way back to the galley to prepare breakfast. It was early, just after eight, but he hoped he could order another drink. His nerves were shot to pieces.

They rose into the clouds and then, abruptly, passed through them and into a bright, blue sky. He could see the ground through the jagged gaps in the white below: the tiny houses, the miniature cars passing along ribbon-like roads. It looked so peaceful from up here. It looked unreal.

His thoughts settled again on the events of the last few weeks. The operation was running smoothly, and, as far as he could tell, no-one was wise to what they were doing. He should have felt like one of the heroes in the tuppenny bloods he used to read when he was a boy––illicit, outside the law, putting one up against the world––and yet he did not. He felt awkward and nervous. It was Joseph who was causing his trepidation. Edward could not shift the awful sensation that something had fallen between them. He could not precisely define it, yet he worried that some decision had been made of which he had not yet been made aware. It was a sense of finality that, perhaps, once the last lorryload of goods had been removed from the depot there would be nothing else for him to do. Surely his own lies would come to stand against him. The family would expect him to go back to his medical ‘career’; delaying it again so that he could continue with them would appear perverse and suspicious. Why would he do that? He was an educated man, highly qualified, and medicine promised to be lucrative without any of the risks that they had to run. Why would he put that to one side? Edward could not shift the terrible feeling that there were one or two more trips to make but that when the base was empty of the most saleable goods it would all be over, and then what would he do?

Their relationship was troubling him, too. Edward had always been prone to insecurity and he knew that his insecurity could easily run to paranoia, but, to him, Joseph’s polite cheerfulness on the drive to the airport had been forced, like the good manners of a host who has loathed his guest and is afraid the guest realises it, and who tries to make it up with last minute good humour. Things had not been good between them for several weeks. They had argued regularly since Tommy Falco’s funeral. Edward continued to insist that they must persuade his aunt and uncle that their course was wrong and Joseph had seemingly grown weary of it. Edward knew he should keep his own counsel but he could see them make mistake after mistake and he just could not do it. And if he did not say something, then who would? No-one. They would continue to totter down the road to disaster, oblivious, helpless, and then where would that leave him?

Edward looked across at Joseph. Pretending to be sleepy, he had put a sleeping mask over his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and settled back in the reclining seat. Edward took frequent glances at him, staring at his dark skin, and the thick black hair with the comma that fell across his left eye. Edward knew with a sick sense of certainty that he was failing with Joseph, the knots of his plan fraying and splitting, that careful latticework that he had worked so very hard to weave slowly coming apart. A riot of emotion swelled within him, of anger, impatience and frustration. Joseph had been different when they met in Calcutta. He had been relaxed there, carefree, willing to take risks and damn the consequences. That night they met, when he had come to his aid; what had happened to him since then? The longer he spent in this benighted country, the more he was drawn closer to the bosom of his lunatic family and his lunatic friends, the more different he became. Edward had failed, in every way, but it was not his fault. It was Joseph’s stubbornness, his lack of independent spirit, his unthinking reversion to what he had been used to before. Edward had offered him his respect, his intelligence, his companionship, and Joseph had replied with indifference and now, it seemed, the beginnings of hostility. Edward could see into his future and he knew, as certainly as he had ever known anything in his life, that it held nothing for him. He would be politely nudged to the side and then left out in the cold. He would have to return to the kitchen, to the Labour Exchange, to insignificance.

A pretty hostess rested her hand on the seat in front and dipped her head. “A cup of tea, sir?” she asked quietly for fear of disturbing Joseph.

“I’m sorry to be terribly difficult,” he said, “but I’m an awful flyer. Do you have any gin?”

If the hostess disapproved she did not show it. “Of course,” she said, smiling, and went back towards the galley.

No, Edward chided himself. He needed to pull himself together. It did not serve to brood on things that had not even happened. And, of course, he reminded himself, there was a chance he was over-reacting. That was another of his faults. He concentrated on being optimistic. He had taught himself, long ago, that one could summon the desired mood by simply acting in the fashion that best evoked that mood. If you wanted to be thoughtful, or cautious, or hearty, or joyous, then you simply had to act those emotions with every gesture. So, he would summon optimism: he forced himself to smile, straightened his back and squared his shoulders. If he was correct and there was a problem between them, then surely this trip would be the perfect opportunity to iron it out. It was Paris, for goodness sake! The City of Lights! Edward was confident that his memory of it was good. Joseph had never been to France, let alone Paris, and there would be ample opportunity to enjoy it. There would be museums, galleries, and excellent food and wine. That was the way to look at it: this was an opportunity. They had two days together with no distractions. There was no need to worry about Billy Stavropoulos, there would be no Eve to divert Joseph’s attention, they had no need to discuss Jack Spot or the folly of the Costellos’ appalling response. Two days. That ought to be ample for him to remind Joseph of why he had invited him into the family business. Optimism. This was an opportunity and he would take advantage of it.

* * *

THEY TOOK TWO ROOMS in a splendid little pension on the Left Bank and spent the day exploring. Edward was filled with anticipation for a day of culture and good living but Joseph seemed distracted and refused to be vigorous about anything. He showed no interest as Edward read him passages from his Baedeker, did not seem impressed as he spoke in deliberately bad French (his French was excellent, but that would be difficult to explain) and practically had to be dragged into the Louvre. He complained of boredom as Edward led the way through the narrow streets and sulked until Edward gave up and found a pavement bar where they could drink Bieres Excelsior and watch the mademoiselles go by. Joseph said that he was tired and wanted to sleep before dinner and, in the end, Edward suggested they go their separate ways and rendezvous later in the hotel bar. Edward walked all the way to Notre Dame and back and, by the time he reached the hotel with a half an hour to spare, his feet ached and he was in a bitter and resentful mood.

He reminded himself to be cheerful and, as Joseph came down the stairs to meet him, he popped up with a wide smile on his face. “I’ve read about a great place for dinner,” he proposed, tapping the cover of his Baedeker. “Do you like French food?”

“I don’t know,” Joseph said. “I’ve never had it.”

They took a taxi to Montmartre. The restaurant was off the beaten track, with ten tables, cheap bottles of excellent wine and wonderful food. They took a table on the terrace that offered a view of the white-domed Basilica of the Sacré Coeur. Edward explained the history of the district as they waited for their starters to arrive, telling Joseph about Dali, Modigliani, Monet, Mondrian, Picasso and van Gogh. Joseph was still preoccupied. Edward gritted his teeth with frustration. There they were, in the middle of Paris with a chance to drink in the atmosphere, and all Joseph could do was to ogle the women and make crass jokes at the expense of the French, usually at how they had been occupied by “Fritz.” Edward had known that Joseph was not predisposed towards culture but he had hoped that he might be swayed by all the art and the history that he would be able show him. That had not been the case. His conversation tonight was also tedious. Joseph had been pensive at first but, once the drink had loosened his tongue, he went on and on about what it had been like growing up in Little Italy, telling stories about the trouble that he and Billy had caused, and Edward had found the whole thing disinteresting and frustrating. It was ancient history and it betrayed narrow horizons. He seemed unable or unwilling to think about what he could achieve if he really put his mind to it.