The Mistake I Made (7 page)

‘So,’ began the head, ‘I’m sure Mr Toovey brought you up to speed with last week’s problem and, really, what we’d like to do now is get your thoughts and come up with a suitable plan of action for George. A plan that we can all work towards that will—’

I cut her off.

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘You’ve spoken with Winston about this?’

Hilary Slater frowned. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You haven’t?’

‘This is the first I’ve heard.’

‘Oh,’ she blustered, uneasily. ‘Oh, that is … unfortunate. I just assumed that since …’ Her words died off and she looked to the other teachers for inspiration.

George’s class teacher cleared her throat. She was a kind, pleasant woman in her early fifties who was very approachable but who had the annoying habit of pretending not to recognize you if you should come across her outside school. ‘We did
try
to contact Mr Toovey today to be part of this meeting but we were informed by the man who answered the call that Mr Toovey was out of the country on business.’

I cast a glance at George, who raised his head before quickly lowering it again. His knees were grass stained and the lace in his left trainer had rejigged itself so that one end was too long, and the other too short to tie.

‘That’s regrettable,’ I said, all of us knowing it was Winston himself who had taken that call. ‘But you say you’ve spoken to him already?’

‘Yes,’ said Hilary Slater. ‘Twice. The first time would have been last Friday, and then again on Tuesday of this week when Mr Toovey came to collect George from school. Things had been disappearing for some time—’

‘What kind of things?’ I asked.

‘Stationery supplies and whatnot … nothing of any real value, but that isn’t really the point. Stealing is stealing, Mrs Toovey.’

‘And you told Winston about this?’

‘Yes,’ and she paused, biting down on her lip before continuing. ‘Mr Toovey didn’t seem to take it very seriously. He appeared to think that this was normal for little boys. In fact, he joked that his mother had to sew up his pockets when he was George’s age. I apologize that you weren’t informed, but I assumed that Mr Toovey would relay our conversation to you.’

I looked at George. ‘Honey,’ I said gently, ‘you should have told me about this.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t get George to talk about it,’ Hilary Slater said. ‘He won’t admit to his wrongdoing and we can’t seem to find a reason why he’s doing it. And, other than this, as you know, he performs very well in school. And it goes without saying that he is well liked. He is a kind and popular member of the school.’

‘George?’ I prompted, but he simply shrugged.

Turning my attention back to the head, I said, ‘So, stationery supplies. Is that it?’

‘I’m afraid not. The reason we were able to ascertain that George was the thief was because he was trying to sell these supplies to some of the other children.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘One of the Year Two children was found with a staple gun in his backpack.’

I winced.

‘And sadly, today,’ she continued, ‘we found George in the staffroom during lesson time going through the handbags. He had forty pounds in his pocket, and we’re almost certain it’s not the first time he’s done it.’

I moved from my chair. ‘Christ, George,’ I said, crouching beside him, ‘what on earth were you
thinking
?’

He started to cry.

‘Mrs Toovey, we know things have been a little unsettled at home for George for a while now. Perhaps you could have a chat and see if there is anything worrying him,’ said Hilary Slater.

‘Are you going to punish him?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘We feel that is not the right way to tackle this. Obviously, if it happens again, then we would be forced to take action. But we’re confident George now understands the seriousness of this and I’m sure there’ll be no more incidents. Will there, George?’

He lifted his tear-stained face. ‘No,’ he whispered.

Moments later, when we were sitting in the corridor, I said, ‘Look at me, George. What is going on?’

‘Nothing.’

‘George,’ I repeated.

He wiped his eyes. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Of course you know. Why did you take the money?’

And he started to sob. Big, wracking sobs, shuddering through his small frame.

‘Because you haven’t got any money,’ he wept.

‘I’ve got some money. I’ve got enough money,’ I said.

He took a breath.

‘And I wanted to buy Cesar,’ he said. ‘I wanted to buy our dog back.’

7

IT WAS THE
day after Scott’s first appointment. And he was back for another. I hadn’t asked how he persuaded Wayne to reassign my third patient of the day, because I was fast becoming aware that Scott did not operate within the usual parameters. My mood was low after the meeting at school and the full weight of what my financial situation was doing to George was upon me. I didn’t really feel like engaging in another dance with words, but Scott was insistent that I would want to hear what he had to say so, after the treatment session, I allowed him the courtesy.

‘I know you’re in financial trouble,’ Scott began when I told him to go on. Yes, I would hear him out, because when you’re eighteen thousand pounds in debt, and your son is stealing from school – because even George had realized how bad things had got – you’re more willing to listen to business propositions (even though I’d had my fair share of pyramid sellers over the years. patients who tried to get me involved in selling everything from algae food supplements to water purifiers).

‘What I’m about to say might shock,’ Scott said.

‘I used to work in the NHS,’ I said. ‘I don’t shock that easily.’

‘I’d like to pay to spend the night with you,’ he said.

I blinked. Then I laughed.

‘I thought you had something serious to discuss,’ I said. ‘Is this to do with that thing I said about prostitution on Friday? I didn’t really mean it. I’d had a lot to drink and it was just an observation—’

‘I’m totally serious.’

‘No you’re not,’ I replied, but I could see by his expression that he was.

‘Shit,’ I whispered.

I’d been asked some strange things over the years. Only last week one of my regulars – a diabetic drinker with gout in both feet – inquired if perineal massage could help him maintain an erection. To which I replied I couldn’t say for sure that
it wouldn’t
, but I didn’t know of a person who provided such a service locally, stopping the exchange before it had a chance to go any further.

‘Look,’ Scott said, ‘this would benefit both of us. You refused my offer of a drink—’

‘Because you’re married.’

‘And I would like to spend some time with you – your humour, your candour, the natural way you have about you makes me want to … well, let’s say it’s refreshing.’

He paused, waiting for my reaction.

‘And,’ he went on, ‘as I said earlier, I gather from what Petra said at the party that you could really do with the money. Though, obviously, Roz,’ he said, his tone suddenly turning more serious, ‘I am putting myself on the line here. So if you’re really not interested, I’d rather you just said so straight away. I don’t want to take the chance of this conversation becoming common knowledge.’

‘I won’t say anything about it,’ I said quietly, and he nodded.

I said this
not
because I had any intention of going along with his outrageous suggestion but because of his wife, Nadine. From experience, I can say that the grief which settles around your heart after you’ve been cheated on never really leaves. Certainly, with time, the raw, ragged edges become smoothed, but it always remains, and I hoped to spare Nadine that.

‘Will you think about it?’ Scott asked.

‘No need. The answer is no.’

‘But you haven’t even asked how much I was prepared to pay.’

‘I don’t need to ask. I’m not for sale, Scott.’

‘Everyone’s for sale.’

‘Now you really are sounding like a dickhead,’ I said.

He smiled in spite of himself and lifted both hands in a gesture to indicate he knew when he was beaten.

I probably should have been angrier than I actually was. I mean, paying
me
? For sex? Jesus.

Then I caught myself, because wasn’t this exactly the kind of thing I had suggested on Friday night?

Petra’s appalled face flashed into my mind.

‘If you change your mind,’ he said, ‘the offer still stands.’

‘I won’t.’

The morning passed by quickly in a haze of sweating bodies, endless talk of the heat wave. Lots of
Well, if this is global warming, I’m all for it
type of conversations.

By lunchtime I’d all but put Scott’s proposal from my mind. But I was left with a rather odd sensation – as if I were slightly soiled and in need of a shower.

I headed to the staff bathroom, where I filled the basin with cold water, removed my tunic and gave my upper body a good soaping. I was reluctant to dry off with the hand towel, as it was also used by both Wayne and Gary used, but I decided the chances of them washing their hands after taking a leak were pretty slim, so I went ahead.

I smartened up my hair, securing it with some old Kirby grips that were lying at the bottom of my handbag. Stuck to the lining was a Hall’s cherry Soother that had managed to unwrap itself.

I examined my reflection and wondered if I had encouraged what had occurred earlier. Granted, my candidness on Friday evening had perhaps encouraged Scott’s behaviour somewhat, but I couldn’t remember actually suggesting that I should become a prostitute. My general idea was that for some men there is clearly a need – always was, always will be – so it might be a lot less fuss if they simply satisfied this need, without the call for affairs, and the subsequent break-up of marriages and families.

I could now see that what seemed a relatively straightforward, sensible idea to me could be perceived very differently. Petra had responded like she’d had a slap to the face. Her husband, Vince, as though it were a whistle he simply could not hear. And Scott – well, Scott had taken the idea and run with it to a whole other level.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps Scott had been on the lookout for a while and decided I seemed reasonably game, so what did he have to lose?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had no idea what went through other people’s heads.

I left the bathroom, planning to grab a coffee – to head off the afternoon slump – and to eat a banana in the sunshine. There was a wooden bench outside the front entrance to the clinic, which I avoided. This was because old people tended to arrive stupendously early for appointments and would take refuge on this bench. Before you knew it you’d find yourself ensconced in the kind of small talk you’d been having all morning: The heat, immigration, the frivolous spending habits of the daughter-in-law, the overcooked pork at the wedding reception they attended the previous weekend.

So I grabbed my rucksack with the idea of heading around the back of the clinic to eat lunch alone on a dusty step, very much out of sight.

Wayne, however, had other plans.

‘A quick word, Roz,’ he said as I passed reception. He did not lift his head. He had his eyes fixed on the monitor in front of him.

‘I was just going to—’

‘Won’t take a minute,’ and he met my eyes, giving me a sympathetic kind of smile.

‘There’s an issue with the takings,’ he began.

Wayne Geddes was a colourless man. His skin, his hair, his eyelashes and even his gums were a peculiar shade of nothing. He was what I would describe as instantly forgettable.

Apart from, that is, his propensity to sweat.

If you’ve ever left a lump of Parmesan cheese out of the fridge for a time you’ll notice a series of fatty droplets develop along the rind. That is Wayne’s forehead. Doesn’t matter what the weather’s doing. You had to feel sorry for the guy.

‘An issue?’ I said.

He frowned at the computer screen as though trying to make sense of something. Then he looked at me. ‘The takings don’t always match the appointment schedule,’ he said. ‘There are a few inconsistencies.’

‘And what has that got to do with me?’

He hesitated.

‘Spit it out, Wayne.’

I glanced towards the open door. We have so few sunny days throughout the year the pull was irresistible. I stood regarding Wayne, twitching like a greyhound in the traps, primed and ready for release.

‘Nothing you want to tell me?’ he asked carefully.

‘No.’

‘You’re quite sure? Because I could help you, Roz. You only need to confide in me and I promise I’ll help you.’

I held his gaze intently. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, I need to—’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’ And he regarded me sadly, as though I was letting him down. ‘There is something else. You’ll have to cut your lunch break short today,’ Wayne said. ‘I’ve booked Henry Peachey to come in at 1 p.m.’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘The insurance agent? The one you were supposed to call, and didn’t?’

Oh. That guy.

‘I couldn’t let it run on any longer, Roz,’ he said. ‘You need this assessment. We’re not fully insured without it.’

‘So you keep saying. But did you have to organize it for today?’ I asked, glancing at my watch. That only gave me fifteen minutes.

‘Henry only works Tuesdays and Wednesdays.’

‘That’s nice for him.’

Wayne sighed heavily. ‘Just do it, okay? Help me to help you. Besides, it won’t take that long.’

8

‘
IF I COULD
begin by taking your date of birth,’ the insurance agent said.

‘Twenty-fifth of December, Nineteen seventy-one.’

He raised his head. ‘Christmas Day.’

I nodded.

Now people would generally say one of two things: ‘Do you get twice the presents?’ or ‘I’ve always felt sorry for those whose birthday falls on that day.’

He actually said neither. ‘I’m not really a big Christmas person,’ he said, and smiled.

His smile was warm and sexy at the same time. And I was completely thrown off centre.