The Innocents (10 page)

Splendid family into which you are marrying. Ellie joined us for tea this afternoon and she’s delightful, she reminds us both so very much of her extraordinary grandmother when we first knew her. Georgina and she have been revisiting some of the documents that we have kept from the days of the Jewish Relief Unit (I’m sure Ziva has told you a little of Georgina’s work with that organization and its actions in the British Zone after the War), and it is gratifying to see a young person take such interest in her history. We are both quite determined to find her a milieu while she’s in London so that she might feel a little more settled. One rather suspects that she might be lonely here
.

Please do fax the contract as soon as possible. R.S
.

Ellie, it seemed, was quite capable of taking care of herself.

8

The following week Adam was in the office going through the post when Jasper called him. As he picked up the phone, he slipped a slim cardboard box into a drawer.

“It’s arrived, mate, but we’re going to have to watch it at yours,” said Jasper in greeting.

“What’s arrived?”

“The film, you know, Ellie Schneider’s film.”

“How do you know?”

“What do you mean, how do I know? I ordered it online, sent some money, someone put it in the post, it arrived, and I’ve just opened it. Dimwit. Anyway, I had to get it from the States and I haven’t got a multiregion DVD player, so I’m bringing it over to yours.”

Adam’s confusion cleared, but he was still unsettled by the coincidence. His own copy had also just arrived, a guilty and clandestine purchase immediately identified by its American stamps and customs form. Ordering it to the office had been a risk, but having it delivered to his flat would have been riskier with Rachel staying over so often, and he had taken the rather brilliant precaution (he thought) of sending it to himself as a gift, with a ribald message from a fictitious male friend. If the film made its way to Lawrence by some horrible error of the GGP post room, he would be able to blame it on his mischievous pal “Tim.”

He had never wanted to watch it. He hadn’t wanted it to exist. But despite the jumble of emotions that the film engendered whenever he thought of it, he now knew that he had to see what it contained. He did not, however, wish to see it in the company of Jasper Cohen.

“I haven’t got a multiregion player either.”

“Yes, you have, we watched those ripped copies of
Mad Men
on it last week. And Gideon’s up for watching it with us, I just emailed him.”

“Oh,” said Adam. “Okay.” He could do no better now than to feign a packed schedule for the next week in the hope that Jasper would get bored waiting and screen it elsewhere. The idea of sitting there while his friends leered at Ellie—particularly performing the acts that were purportedly featured in the closing scenes—was impossible. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see it at all. He had enough images of Ellie alone, with him, with others, images that were bright and strong and cinematic, playing in constant rotation in his head.

There had been no contact from her since he’d walked out of her flat ten days before, clutching his jacket and clutching vainly at the hope that he could leave his confusion behind in Bethnal Green. He had sent her the Sonny Boy Williamson song about London and had heard nothing back; her silence could be read either as annoyance that he’d left so abruptly or relief that he’d done so. Or apathy perhaps, the most distasteful and probable of explanations. If she’d thought of him, after all, she could have responded to the song.

There was a knock and Lawrence’s secretary, Kristine, came in, an incongruous splash of color against the blond laminate door. She wore long skirts of paneled black and plum velvet, usually paired with a loose-necked silk blouse in primary colors, or with a tomato red woolen cape if it was colder. She had worked for Lawrence for twenty years and in that time, Adam suspected, Lawrence had never summoned the courage to suggest that she represent his law firm in more conventional clothes, or indeed to confront her about anything else. Jaffa, for her part, positively encouraged Kristine’s sartorial self-expression. It was thanks to Jaffa that Kristine now completed her outfits with banana yellow plastic clogs, chosen for her in Israel long before their popularity had spread worldwide.

“Lawrence said if you could pop in and see him when you’ve got five minutes that would be grand.”

“Now?”

“If that works for you. He’s free until the call starts.”

Adam smiled at her, keeping the phone pressed to his chest until she’d departed. Once the door closed he said, “Mate, I’ve got to go.”

“I heard. Send my love to Lozza. Tell him to put in a good word for me with his niece.”

“Yup, whatever. Bye.”

Adam set off for Lawrence’s office with a sense of apprehension. He was working for Lawrence on two cases and it could be about either of these or, and this was what he feared, it could be that Lawrence wanted to discuss the Gilberts’ forthcoming family holiday to Eilat. Every Christmas, Lawrence and Jaffa took Rachel to the south of Israel with a shifting group of friends and family, a tradition that had begun when Rachel had still been at nursery school and from which they saw no need to deviate. Lawrence never tired of hiking in the wadis of the Negev, blissful and enchanted by the desert and endearingly unfashionable in his GGP baseball cap, white sports socks, and sandals. At other times he would herd his friends into a minivan to see the Roman fortress at Yotvata or tour the dairy farm on the kibbutz nearby, or the ancient mines at Timna where malachite was once mined and smelted into copper for demanding pharaohs, or he would disappear alone to pay a quiet visit to one of the small charitable projects in the region to which he contributed. There was a tiny desert saffron farm working to ease local unemployment whose profits went to fund parallel farming projects in the West Bank, an old people’s home at which he and his friends subsidized the running of the organic garden, and a literacy program set up for the local Bedouin community. At seven each evening Lawrence and Rachel would play tennis, while Jaffa marveled at their exertions and continued to sit where she had been all day, gossiping on a sun lounger with one of a constant stream of visiting Israeli cousins when the sun had plunged too deep for her to read any longer.

Adam had gone with the Gilberts for the past six winters, but this year he was resisting. It was his last Christmas before they married, after which a lifetime of family holidays would lie ahead. The office was remaining open, and he was determined to be in it. But he suspected that this summons would be another gentle attempt to importune him.

Lawrence gestured for him to close the door.

“I’ve just had a call from Ziva,” he started, and Adam was alerted by his having dispensed with niceties—Rachel’s father usually began their exchanges at work with “All going all right?” and a faint, proud smile at the affirmative response. He waited.

“I’m talking to you about this in confidence now. For the time being Jaffa doesn’t know”—he looked sheepish, as such concealment was uncomfortable for a man so determinedly uxorious—“and I think it best not to upset Rachel with it either at the moment. I don’t want to put you in an awkward position but I think the fewer people involved …” He trailed off and wheeled backward in his chair to retrieve from a shelf behind him a stiff, new manila folder, unlabeled.

“Jaffa’s niece is in trouble again,” he said when he faced Adam once more, setting the file down on the desk between them, “and of course I told Ziva I’d deal with it. I think it requires a litigation specialist but in the meantime I’d appreciate your help with this, a bit of quiet research maybe.”

“Rachel said you were worried that Ellie had been smoking pot?” Adam offered, trying to help Lawrence, who was looking apprehensive and seemed unable to come to the point. As soon as Lawrence had adopted this uncharacteristic cloak-and-dagger approach Adam had known that it was going to be about Ellie. His pulse had quickened, and he spoke aloud mostly to reassure himself that his voice was steady.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but that’s not actually our primary concern right now. I assume you’ve heard all about this Marshall Bruce business—that schmuck art dealer in New York with the divorce and the mistresses …” Adam nodded. He had a premonition, screamingly clear, of where this was going. His stomach contracted.

“Bruce’s wife’s legal team have obviously been moving fast, as I suppose one would under the circumstances. There’s been a fourth name linked to his now, a”—Lawrence glanced down to check some notes on a yellow pad before him—“Cherry Ripe. That’s actually her legal name; she changed it when she turned eighteen from Maura Miller. Her claims are much like the others’—met in a bar, a few hotel shenanigans, some smutty messages and e-mails et cetera—except that she’s also got evidence of substantial monthly payments from Bruce over the last year or so. For us, the more important consequence of the Ripe woman’s allegations is that the wife’s legal team have since uncovered more payments, monthly standing orders, to another girl.” He looked at Adam over his glasses. “You see where this is leading.”

Adam nodded, fighting the constriction of his throat. “How much was Ellie getting from him?”

Immediately Lawrence appeared to ease before him. His shoulders fell and he exhaled heavily, a man unburdened. He was relieved, it seemed, that the unpleasant matter was out, that he had not actually had to say it aloud. Now it was clear to Adam why Jaffa had not been told—it would have tipped her over the edge. Jaffa in a true rage was an awesome, terrible prospect and he could imagine her reaction to this particular family disgrace, standing in the kitchen in Rotherwick Road hurling curses like a buxom, miniature Zeus casting murderous javelins of lightning.

“Five thousand dollars a month for the last five and a half years. She’s even paid tax on it—it was all declared.”

“Wait, five and a half years? So she was—”

“Sixteen. Yes. The age of consent in New York State is seventeen.”

“Okay.” Adam looked down. “Okay. And how close is this to coming out? I mean, her name?”

“Not clear at this stage, but I would imagine it’s only a matter of days. Here, have a look at these. It’s all the allegations in the Bruce divorce case so far, some press clippings from the girls, a couple of the telephone transcripts with the first one and some text message exchanges, the financial statements that show the payments to Cherry whatsherface and Ellie, and a whole stack of photographs of Ellie with him in various places. The only thing linking her with him for five and a half years is the standing order; the photographs are from various times but all within the last three years. Mrs. Bruce got hold of them somehow once Ellie’s name came up. So a lot of it will hinge on what Ellie herself says. The wife is
meshugah
with rage, obviously, and wants to absolutely destroy him. I can’t say I blame her. If Ellie was—” He stopped. “That poor, silly little girl. I wish I could say I thought it wasn’t true, but it was almost exactly around the time that Boaz left, and she was … Anyway, look. If Ellie was having sexual relations with that bastard during the entire period of the financial arrangement then Bruce is in trouble of a completely different order—a messy divorce with seedy infidelities is obviously going to pale into insignificance when compared to a statutory rape claim. Third-degree rape in New York State between a minor and a man over twenty-one carries a sentence of up to four years—which is less than he deserves, quite frankly, although the state won’t press charges if Ellie wants them dropped. So what she says matters. I don’t want her anywhere near all this Bruce divorce business but if she admits she was underage then at least she can remain anonymous in the press reporting. Shall we go for a quick drink after work, once you’ve read through everything and had a think?”

“Of course. God, okay. I’ll start as soon as the call finishes.” They were to be on the same lengthy conference call that afternoon—if Adam was lucky he could remain mostly silent and try to read Ellie’s files during the more tedious points. But Lawrence looked at his watch and then shook his head. “Forget the conference call, I’ll fill you in. This is time-sensitive and I want you to get a handle on it as soon as possible. Take it back and get on with it now. I’ll try to wind up around seven and come by for you. I hope we can help her.”

Back in his office, Adam placed the file on his desk slowly, deliberately, as if careful handling and surgical precision were required to prevent its noxious contents from spilling out. He sat before it with his mind spinning. Half thoughts formed, rose and sank again, subsumed. There was nothing he could do with this, no justification that could make it other than it was. Until this latest development he had, he realized with discomfort, been weaving his own parallel version of Ellie’s life, embroidered to flatter her. The heroine of his story had been naïve and had concealed it beneath postures of brazen knowing. But it turned out that she had actually sold—what had she sold? Something that was worth five thousand dollars a month to Marshall Bruce. That was not romantic. It was revolting.