THREE
The boys decided to go back to school the day after the funeral, with only a week to go until the half-term holiday. Nina too thought this was a good idea: anything to get Connor to leave the cave of his bedroom, in which he had huddled himself away since Finn’s passing. All her efforts at trying to get him to open up to her had been met with monosyllabic grunts of acknowledgement, but very little else. The sound of his crying filtered under her door in the dead of night and she was torn, unsure whether to leave him to grieve alone or to intervene. If she were being completely honest, it was hard to find the energy required to further engage with him. She figured that second best was getting him to open up to his friends, and if this failed, then at least having him out of the house meant he was no longer staring at the four walls of his room.
Declan, too, was quiet, clingier than usual, approaching her for hugs and nestling close to her on the sofa. Not that this was unexpected. She hoped, however, that the distraction of school could only be a good thing. Nina had faith that the staff would be kind and make allowances, and that the boys’ network of friends would be helpful.
After a short, silent drive, she pulled in to the kerb on the grey February morning. ‘If either of you want to come home, for any reason at all, just call, drop me a text or tell a member of staff and I will be here within twenty minutes.’
Connor nodded and climbed from the car, slinging his large sports bag over his shoulder.
‘See you later, Con.’
‘Yep.’ He nodded and closed the door behind him. She watched him walk around to the back of the car and wait by Declan’s door. ‘Come on then.’ He lightly thumped the window. Declan didn’t need asking twice. He grabbed his rucksack and pushed his glasses up onto his nose, then leaned forward to kiss his mum on the cheek. He clambered from the back seat. Nina watched in the side mirror as they loped along the pavement side by side, united by this terrible thing that had happened to them. It caused a lump to rise in her throat and she felt a swell of pride at how Connor, on this occasion, considered his little brother’s feelings.
Pulling into the driveway back home, the phone on the front seat buzzed. It was Kathy Topps.
‘Hi, Kathy.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, as if this could relieve some unseen pressure, and closed her eyes.
‘Nina, I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘That’s kind.’
‘How are things?’
Things are surreal, I am numb, I want to wake up . . .
‘As you’d expect, really.’ It was all she could manage.
‘Well, I wanted to say that I don’t know if you are still intending to grab a break somewhere over half-term, but if your plans have changed, which would of course be completely understandable, I still have an opening for tennis lessons if Declan is at a loose end.’
‘Thanks, Kathy. I’ll let you know.’ She ended the call abruptly and leaned her head on the steering wheel. What was wrong with the bloody woman? Her husband had died; tennis lessons were about the furthest thing from her mind. Her phone buzzed again – Mr Monroe, the accountant. Nina silenced it. She wasn’t up to speaking to him today.
She looked up at the big house and, for the first time ever, felt a little reluctant to go inside. It was her first day alone, without the boys to care for or a funeral to plan; the first day of ‘normal’, although she was convinced that, for her, nothing would ever feel ‘normal’ again, not without the sound of Finn’s key in the door at the end of the day.
Keeping the house shipshape had always been her preoccupation, and today she sought comfort in the familiarity of her routine. She lugged the recycling box up the driveway and thought of Tiggy. ‘Because you’ve changed . . .’ What had she meant?
After folding the clean bed linen in the laundry room, Nina made her way along the first-floor landing and stopped outside Finn’s study. She touched the handle, as she had several times over the last week or so, and considered whether or not she had the courage to go inside. She wondered if he actually had booked something for them over the half-term break; that was always his way: making things happen, bringing them surprises and joy. She felt a surge of longing, coupled with the now familiar flicker of fear at how she was going to cope without him. She laid her palm against the doorframe, picturing him inside, working at his desk with a determined expression, sleeves rolled up, oblivious of the hour, as his fingers skirted over the computer keyboard, or shouting instructions to his team over the phone. She would knock gently and creep in, and he would wink at her, mid-call, as she leaned across and placed a cup of tea or a mug of coffee on his favourite mosaic coaster that Connor had made him at primary school.
Now she placed the laundry pile on the floor, hesitating before she turned the handle and walked in.
The leather swivel chair still held the indentations of Finn’s shape. She inhaled the deep aroma of her husband. It lingered here more strongly than anywhere else in the house, as if his scent, his breath, had been preserved within the fabric, within the walls. She looked at the antique boxes and silver trinkets that littered the bespoke mahogany desk, still fresh with his invisible fingerprints. She noticed strands of hair on the rug, his litter in the waste bin, sheets of paper that had been crumpled up in his warm palms and tossed aside; all of it had now taken on new significance. His everyday possessions: his extra notepads, neatly stacked on the desktop; the pen he favoured when attempting the crossword of a weekend; his china mug with ‘World’s Best Golfer’ written on it, the booby prize when he had come last at a work tournament . . . All of his stuff, now redundant and waiting to either be sorted, binned or made into relics, gathering dust in a cardboard box. Seemingly innocuous items had now become so much more than the sum of their parts. On that first night, she had taken his sweatshirt from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and placed her pillow inside it, taking comfort from the fact that it had touched his skin. She drifted in and out of sleep between fits of sobbing and howling. Nina wondered how long she could keep these items in his office preserved in this way.
She climbed into his chair, tears streaming down her face. She let her hands wander lightly over the desktop, fingering the receipts for materials, letters from council planning departments and a leather penholder with his precious Montblanc pen-and-pencil set inside. She pulled a little yellow Post-it from the edge of the computer screen and read ‘Mac 64500’. Probably something to do with his computer.
It was the first time she had properly considered that she needed to get a grip of her situation. There was no Finn to filter the emails and take care of the household administration. The call from their lawyer in the days following the accident had been brief and reassuring: he was in possession of Finn’s last will and testament and, as she expected, everything was left to her. They had tentatively agreed to meet more formally after the funeral.
She pulled the shiny desk handle of his colonial-style, mahogany inlaid desk, and eased the drawer along the runner. Her tears turned briefly to laughter at the sight of its contents: a haul of items that were deemed illicit in their house.
‘Finn!’ she called out. ‘You little pig!’ There were open packets of sweets, mint humbugs, liquorice wheels, jellybeans and bars of milk chocolate. She thought of the many times she had praised his choice of fruit for pudding and encouraged him with honey in his coffee instead of sugar, and all the while he stockpiled this! She laid her head on her arms and once again gave in to sobs that robbed her of all energy. Her eyes were sore and her throat ached. ‘Good for you, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Good for you, my Finn.’
The phone on the desktop rang, making her jump.
Sitting up straight, she closed the drawer and cleared her throat. ‘Hello?’ She held the receiver close to her face, knowing that the last cheek it touched was that of her husband.
‘Mrs McCarrick?’ She didn’t recognise the stern voice.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Mr Paulson, from Kings Norton College.’
‘Oh, hello, Mr Paulson.’ Her heart jumped at the thought that something might have happened to the kids as she tried to recall whether she’d ever spoken to a Mr Paulson.
‘I am sorry to disturb you at this time. And I wouldn’t do so if it weren’t a matter of importance.’
Nina felt her legs weaken. ‘Are the boys okay?’ Her breath came in fast, shallow bursts; she was not equipped to deal with any more bad news.
‘Yes! Yes, the boys are, as far as I am aware, fine.’ He managed an odd little chuckle that to her felt misplaced. ‘I am calling from the accounts department.’
‘Right.’ Get to the point, she thought.
‘It’s about the invoice for the boys this term.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Placing her palm against her forehead, she tried not to sigh in irritation. Surely anything to do with accounts could easily be conducted via email or a phone call at some later date?
‘I think there must have been some oversight,’ he said slowly, ‘but the account has not been settled for the last term, and indeed we have received no payment for this current term, which is well under way.’
‘I’m sorry Mr . . .’ The man’s name had gone clean out of her head.
‘Paulson.’
‘Yes, sorry, Mr Paulson, my brain is like scrambled egg,’ she confessed. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had anything to do with the household accounts. They are handled by my husband’s office in Bradford-on-Avon.’ It was yet another reminder that her life was changing, that she knew that now she needed to step up to the plate and take control of the things that Finn had overseen. But she didn’t quite know where to start, and the weight of pressure sat on her skull, causing a headache to spring instantly. Saying the word ‘husband’ was all it took for the swell of grief to rise in her throat, threatening to choke her.
She had got used to the situation. When they were first married, Finn’s insistence on dealing with all the finances was a pleasant change from having to watch every penny and wondering what the future held. Suddenly there was a capable man who loved her and who took the worry right out of her hands. He was highly organised and took control of everything – broadband suppliers, phone contracts, bank accounts, passport renewals and insurance. Far from feeling the lack of emancipation, she appreciated that it was done with love, easing her path through life, removing all worry.
‘Ah, yes.’ Mr Paulson sighed. ‘I was led to believe the same, and trust me, I have tried, but to no avail. The matter is now becoming’ – he paused, before stressing the words – ‘quite urgent. I felt I had no option but to contact you, and trust me, I very much hoped to avoid this conversation at what must be a difficult time.’
Yes, it is, very difficult. ‘I don’t really understand.’ She spoke her thoughts aloud as she gripped the receiver.
‘Allow me to clarify.’ His voice was now considerably more animated. ‘You are behind in the payment for Connor and Declan’s education, and unfortunately, if we do not receive settlement in full for the outstanding fees within the next forty-eight hours, we will have no choice other than to ask you to make alternative plans for your sons’ schooling, as returning to Kings Norton College after the half-term break will not be an option.’
A bubble of nervous laughter escaped from her mouth. It was an instinctive, incongruous reaction. ‘Mr Paulson. What a thing to say! My sons have been at Kings Norton since they were three. They are Kings Norton boys. Of course they will be returning next term.’ The idea was unthinkable. ‘I will call our accountant and have the amount transferred into the school account as soon as I possibly can, hopefully by the close of play today. How much is outstanding, exactly?’ She reached for a pen from the silver, glass-bottomed tankard used as a pen pot, and found a discarded envelope on which to scribble.
‘That would be . . .’ There was a pause, presumably while Mr Paulson either totted up or double-checked the figures. ‘Twenty-nine thousand, nine hundred and forty-two pounds and seventy-six pence.’
‘Right.’ She coughed. ‘And that would take us up to the end of next term?’
‘That’s correct, and would clear the amount outstanding from this term.’
‘I shall get on to it immediately, Mr Paulson, and will make sure we have a bank transfer set up to ensure this payment happens automatically in the future.’
‘That would make my life a lot easier, Mrs McCarrick, and would avoid the need for these calls.’ He gave a weaselly laugh, and she ended the call.
Nina sat back in Finn’s chair and rested her sweating palms on the arms of his chair, composing herself, then dialled the office. Melanie set up the standing orders and filed the bank statements; she would be able to throw some light on things. Nina tried not to think of the countless times she had dialled the number to speak to Finn: ‘When will you be home for supper? Did you want me to pop your suit into the cleaner’s? Do you know how much I love you?’
‘Yep?’ a gruff, unfamiliar voice asked. It took her aback, then angered her that whoever was on the other end of the line was so clearly taking advantage of the fact that Finn was not there to keep order.
‘Who is this?’ she demanded.
‘Matt. Who’s this?’ he challenged.
‘I’m Nina, Finn’s wife,’ she said, trying to assert herself with whoever this cocky Matt was, ‘and I was hoping to speak to Melanie.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed her,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Melanie left over a month ago. Is there anything else I can help you with today?’
‘She did?’ Nina managed to ask. How weird that Finn hadn’t told her. ‘I . . . Is Luke there?’
‘Luke the site manager?’
‘Yes!’
‘Ah, Luke went about two months ago. Look, sorry, love, but I haven’t got time to chat to you. I’m with the creditors and we are nearly done here.’ He hung up abruptly.
‘What the hell?’ Nina stared at the phone, her heart racing. She racked her brains. Creditors? Why were creditors in the office? Did they owe money? Surely not. Why had Finn not told her that he had got rid of Melanie and Luke? It made no sense: he trusted Luke, who had been with him for years! She tried to picture who from work had come to the funeral, but it was all a blur. And shock was making it hard for her to join the dots.
Mr Monroe.
Of course, the accountant had been there and had given her his card. She jumped up and ran to the bedroom, opening her bedside table where she had shoved his business card, along with the funeral’s Order of Service, which she still found almost impossible to look at. Sitting back on the bed, she lifted her mobile and punched in his telephone number.
‘Mr Monroe?’ she asked, trying to control the quaver in her voice.
‘Mrs McCarrick.’ He gave an audible sigh. ‘I am very glad to hear from you. Thank you for returning my call. I had all but given up hope and was planning to come out and see you in person. But it might be best if you come here.’
Nina woke early the next morning. She hadn’t slept, not properly. She had instead lain in the wide bed, with her head on Finn’s sweatshirt, feeling a cloak of unease heavy on her body, watching as the hands of the clock trotted merrily on towards dawn. Finally, she shrugged off the duvet, rising reluctantly to get the day started; this silent brooding did nothing to help her fragile mental state. After hauling her leaden limbs from the bed, she tiptoed past the boys’ rooms to the kitchen, where she took solace in her favourite chair. She watched the sunrise over the distant fields, shrouded in a haze of morning mist, and was rewarded by the sight of two deer grazing on the gentle slopes, standing proudly in front of a purple-tinged sky. It always felt like a special gift to be able to observe these majestic creatures, as if they were sharing a secret with her. She felt her face break into one of the first genuine smiles since Finn’s passing.
Later she placed a bowl of scrambled eggs, flecked with freshly ground black pepper and chilli flakes, and a plate of toasted bagels on the breakfast bar, with two tall glasses of fresh orange juice. She looked up and imagined Finn rushing into the room. ‘Any chance of a coffee, love, I’m running late?’ he would ask as he grabbed a bagel and gave her a kiss before rushing off again. His woody scent lingered around her and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
‘I miss you.’
‘Who are you talking to, Mum?’ Declan asked, staring at her as he took a seat and spooned scrambled egg onto his plate.
‘Dad.’ She smiled sheepishly.
‘I talk to him too,’ he whispered, holding the spoon in mid-air.
Connor strode in and changed the atmosphere, stirring the air with his words and breaking the beat of grief that had held them. His voice when he spoke was quiet; he looked downward, as if unsure of the etiquette, awkward in his own home.
‘I . . . I was talking to the coach about next term and I wasn’t sure if we have anything planned for the break. But he asked if I could join the squad for training. It’s quite a big deal. I didn’t know what to say, but I’d quite like to go. I think . . .’ His voice trailed off and he looked sheepish, as if it were wrong to express joy or an interest in something.
‘You should tell him yes, definitely, Con.’ She spoke with a tone of reassurance. ‘It’ll put you in a good place for the team next year.’
I’ll get the fees paid today. Mr Monroe can make the necessary transfer. It’ll all be okay . . . Her self-calming mantra helped.
‘The first thing I thought when he asked me was that I couldn’t wait to tell Dad.’ The wobble to his bottom lip when he was trying to be brave was somehow harder to watch than when he gave in to the sadness. It ripped at her heart.
‘He would be so pleased for you, honey. You know that.’
He gave a brief nod. ‘I should be pleased, too, but without him around, everything feels like’ – he shrugged his shoulders – ‘like “so what?”. Everything is only half as good . . . a bit pointless.’
She drew breath to remind him that she was still here, but changed her mind. This wasn’t about her, but was simply her son longing for contact with his daddy.
‘It won’t always be that way. I promise you. And I understand how it feels, having lost my mum.’ She shook her head. ‘Not that I remember her too much, but I felt her absence, always. It does get easier, but oh my word, not being able to introduce her to the man I was going to marry, or see her hold you . . .’ She looked up and saw the look of horror on Connor’s face. She hadn’t meant to go on. Pointing out the prospect of living this half-life of disappointment and muted joy forever was clearly more than he could bear.
An idea struck. ‘Maybe we should go somewhere for half-term, just the three of us?’ Her tone brightened a little as the notion grew in her mind. ‘It might do us all good to get away. How about Italy? We could find a nice hotel in Tuscany, eat good food, walk in the sunshine?’ She looked at their less than eager faces. ‘I know it will be strange without Dad, but there will be a lot of firsts without him and once we have done them, we won’t fear them any more. This could be our first holiday. What do you think?’
Connor stared at the bagel and egg on his plate, ‘If I’m going to make the A team next year, then I need to be around for training and I don’t really want to go away, Mum.’ He spoke softly, as if to counter her disappointment.
‘I don’t want to go anywhere without Dad,’ Declan confessed.
Nina turned her attention to the making of tea. She didn’t want to do anything without Finn either, nothing at all. All she did want to do was take to her bed, hide under the duvet and sleep and cry . . . but carrying on was what was required for all those who got left behind. No matter how hard it got. ‘That’s okay, boys. We shall stay here.’
‘I also need to finalise my subject options for next year,’ Connor said, as if further justification were needed. ‘Dad was going through it all with me and we had a vague plan.’
‘I can help you with that if you like,’ she offered.
‘Sure,’ he said unenthusiastically. ‘Ms Rabieno says I should take Biology and Chemistry, and I really want to do History too because I love it. But apparently top unis want subjects in matching clusters of topics – nothing too broad. So maybe I should choose Physics, even though I don’t really like it.’
‘I think to study at the level required for university, and to do it justice, you have to love the subject matter or you won’t get the best out of it and it won’t get the best out of you.’
‘Thanks for that insight,’ Connor muttered, and turned his attention to his phone. ‘I’ll talk to Ms Rabieno.’
It made her feel like her opinion was worthless, but he was probably right. What did she know? She never went to university. She felt her stomach cave with a sinking feeling of inadequacy.
After breakfast the three of them made their way to the car. It was a bitingly cold winter’s day. They drove the few minutes to the boys’ school in silence.
‘Are you okay, Connor?’ she asked, looking at his profile.
‘Yep. I’ll speak to the coach today.’
‘I meant more, how are you feeling in general, not just today?’
He took a deep breath. ‘In general? I feel sad, Mum. Sadder than I knew was possible.’ He stared out the window at the solid pale villas that lined the route to school. ‘And I feel angry, at how unfair it is. Some of the guys at school tell me how their dads treat them, hassling them about grades, punishing them even, you know?’ He shrugged. ‘But Dad was’ – he swallowed – ‘Dad was the best, and it makes me mad because he’s the one that died. I thought I had more time.’
Nina nodded and struggled to find words that might help. ‘Me too. I thought we had all the time in the world.’
The heart-wrenching sound of Declan’s sobbing filled the car. She reached back and patted his arm. ‘Don’t cry, my darling.’
‘I . . . I can’t . . . help it,’ he managed. It was a stark reminder that they were always only a heartbeat, a phrase, a mention and a reminder away from this raw distress that they all tried so hard to keep at bay, and it was exhausting. She neared the traffic lights and was greeted by a green light: a good omen for a good day.
Mr Monroe’s offices were in the centre of Bath, entered via a small, unobtrusive door next to the rear entrances of the shops, and at the top of a winding staircase, high above Milsom Street. They offered a glorious view over the shoppers and tourists ambling around the Georgian city. That was if you were tall enough to see out of the apex window. The room was cluttered with boxes and files and smelled of old books. The aroma wasn’t wholly unpleasant but, rather, evocative of libraries and real fires and winter nights and the escape of stories. This in turn made Nina think of her mamma and those early, early years in Frederiksberg, and the cold winter nights when darkness drew its blind on the day. She didn’t remember too much about that time, but the odd memory stood out clear and distinct. She could picture herself with Tiggy huddled under a fur blanket, in the small, slate-floored room, happy and content, with a log fire crackling in the grate, and lamplight casting gentle shadows on the wall, and listening to the rustle of crisp pages turning, with her mum’s beautiful, soft voice reading to them the story of Thumbelina.
Her tears pooled; it was as if Finn’s death had made her miss her mamma more, too. Nina coughed, doing her best to defeat the nerves that threatened to swamp her.
‘Ah, Mrs McCarrick, here you are. Please sit down.’ Mr Monroe extended his hand. He was as wide as he was tall and had a certain awkwardness about his manner, as if apologising in advance for his cumbersome demeanour. He pulled a chair away from the desk and awkwardly wedged himself in.
‘Thank you. And I’m sorry not to have retuned your calls. I’ve had my head in the sand a bit.’
‘Not at all, it’s perfectly understandable, and believe me, I hated disturbing you. But as I mentioned on the phone, I have been very keen to talk to you.’ Mr Monroe gave a tight smile and held his suit jacket closed over his shirtfront. He was far too big a man to be holed up in such a small office; she was sure that with one deep breath he might take all the air from the room. She placed her handbag on her lap and sat up straight.
‘I really don’t know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘I had a call from school about fees, and I called the bank to try to see what had happened to the standing order to try to sort the situation, but I could only get through to an automated system that asked for numeric codes and passwords. The trouble is they have all been set up by Finn, and I have no idea what they are.’ She shook her head at the absurdity of the situation. ‘And when I eventually got through to an actual human, they said that as I had failed their security measures, they could only talk to the primary account holder – who is Finn.’ She bit her lip, remembering the utter desolation at having to explain to the uninterested call handler that her husband had passed away and being told her best chance of success was to write a letter . . . ‘Apparently we are behind on school fees, which I find hard to believe, as Finn has always been such a stickler for paying punctually. I need that sorted today, without question. It’s become quite urgent.’ She swallowed.
Mr Monroe sat forward and formed his fingers into a pyramid that hovered at his chest. She stared at his thick moustache, thinking it must be strange to have more hair on your face than your head as his bald pate shone under the lights.
‘You have had nothing to do with your accounts?’ he asked.
Nina shook her head, embarrassment heating her neck and chest. ‘Not really. Finn always took care of the financial side of things. I haven’t worked outside of the home.’ She felt the blush on her cheeks, as if she needed to justify her position. She wanted to explain that looking after the big house, and Hampy when he lived with them, nursing him until he died, and childcare, running errands – all of it was work in itself. Not that she needed to explain her life to anyone; it had worked for her and Finn, and that was all that mattered. ‘You’ve had to worry about money your whole life, but not any more. I will take care of you. Take care of us . . .’ Nina bit her lip, remembering how his words had filled her with peace, reassurance. She had felt any worry over her financial future slip from her bones, warmed by the fact her kids would never know what it felt like to try to squeeze their feet into last year’s shoes, which she knew from experience made you feel as if you yourself didn’t quite fit.
She looked across the desk at Mr Monroe. ‘I had a bankcard and a couple of credit cards, and there is always cash in the house.’ She felt the weight of the man’s stare. ‘The money, our money, is all tied up with the business, so it always felt more like Finn’s responsibility than mine.’ She closed her mouth, aware that she was gabbling, in part to hide her discomfort. His stare made her feel he was judging her. How could she begin to explain that the idea of looking after the accounts had never occurred to her, that it was just how it was?
‘And your husband didn’t discuss your current financial situation with you? Didn’t say anything before he passed away?’ He tapped his fingertips together, and she noticed that his fingernails were a little grubby, with half-moons of dirt sitting underneath the tips.
‘No.’ She shook her head. She felt nauseous and her legs began to shake. She pushed the soles of her boots down against the wooden floor. ‘But I did speak to our lawyer, Mr Firth, who told me that Finn had left everything to me. I mean, I already knew. We had discussed what would happen under these circumstances, a long time ago.’ She closed her eyes briefly. They had spoken casually over a cup of coffee while reading the Sunday papers together on the couch, sitting top to toe on the sofa in comfy socks, never believing the measures would be needed; they fully intended to live side by side, just as they were, until a ripe old age. It still shocked her that she was having this conversation, shocked her that she was a widow, shocked that the word was hers now. Widow. Would it ever get easier?
Mr Monroe sat back. She saw the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. ‘I hate having to be the bearer of bad news, Mrs McCarrick, particularly in light of what you have been through.’
She felt the tremor of anxiety shudder through her limbs once more. ‘Bad news, how?’
He looked up. ‘I am afraid that when it comes to the money situation, things are not good.’
She unglued her tongue from the dry roof of her mouth. ‘Not good?’ Nina’s mind raced to think what he might be referring to. As a couple, they had had many things to worry about over the years, but money had never been one of them.
Mr Monroe gave a wry laugh and looked up to a stain on the ceiling. She could tell that this wasn’t easy for him. ‘No, not good. In fact, things are about as bad as they can get. I didn’t want to burden you with the details at the funeral.’
‘Is the business in trouble?’ Nina felt her chest tighten, thinking of all the people Finn employed: loyal men and women with mortgages and rent to pay, food to buy, kids and families to support. She felt sick at the idea of some of them losing their livelihoods.
‘The business is gone.’
‘The business is . . . ?’ She must have misheard him.
‘Gone. The business is gone.’
Nina stared at him. She felt her jaw open involuntarily and her stomach drop. His words were clear and audible, but they made no sense. Gone? What did that even mean?
‘What do you mean, gone?’ She laughed nervously after a moment’s silence. She pictured Finn’s latest project: a low-rise block of ten upscale apartments on a prime spot on the river, with a roof terrace to die for, state-of-the-art appliances, ecotechnology, twenty-four-hour security, the finest-quality materials, and five high-end retail units below, a restaurant, a deli . . . The land alone was worth millions.
‘The bank foreclosed on the new development. Finn overstretched on the borrowing to complete the construction, then he ran out of time to complete the sales. Interest rates have been hiked and the bank called in the loan.’ He splayed his palms as if it were that simple, that obvious. ‘Everything else was mortgaged against the success of the new development, so it all fell apart quickly.’
She continued to stare at him, picturing her husband leaving for work every day with a smile on his face, sipping his coffee, kissing her firmly on the mouth, her strong man who kept all the cogs turning, so confident and assured. The man who provided their wonderful, wonderful life.
‘I don’. . . don’t understand.’ Her voice was a cracked whisper.
Mr Monroe took a deep breath, and just as she had feared, all the air left the room.
‘McCarrick Construction is bankrupt. And Finn’s other companies sat under the umbrella of Gerhild Holdings.’
Gerhild was my mum’s name. That’s where it came from, all those years ago. Finn named it in tribute to her. I remember the day – his gesture made me cry.
‘Gerhild Holdings is liable for the debt and there is no money to pay that debt.’ He shook his head. ‘There is a long list of creditors. Outstanding tax liabilities, land registry fees, wages, consultancy, utilities, advertising, service charges . . .’ He shook his head again, and she wished he would stop. ‘The list goes on and on.’
‘I don’t . . .’ Nina struggled to get the words out. ‘How . . . how much do we owe?’ She had begun to run through a list of things she might be able to sell: things of value that might make a dent in the shortfall – anything she might have lying around the house that could help make up the deficit: her jewellery, a spare laptop . . . Her mind darted around the rooms of her home, trying to think of what might be secreted in drawers, anything valuable, and how best to shift it. She vaguely remembered Finn buying some vintage bottles of whisky. Maybe she could find them.
‘All in all, close to eight million.’
There was a beat of silence while the figure flew from his mouth, bounced around the room and settled on her shoulders, where it would weigh her down, stroke her face in the early hours, disturb her sleep and irritate her sensibilities.
‘Eight million pounds?’ she squeaked.
‘Yes.’ He nodded.
Her limbs turned to concrete.
Eight million pounds, eight million pounds, eight million pounds . . .
The amount tumbled in her head on a never-ending loop. It was a huge, huge sum. The two sat in silence for a minute or two. Mr Monroe’s hand hovered near a large box of tissues, as if he were expecting her to cry. She was, however, too numb for that.
When she recovered the power of speech, it was to ask the question that was the most important to her. ‘Have I got enough money to pay the boys’ school fees?’ It seemed impossible, but perhaps somehow, somewhere, there was another account or . . .
The accountant gave a short snort of uncomfortable laughter and ran his hand over his moustache. He shook his head.
‘I’m afraid you have no money at all. There is nothing left,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’ He used his straightened hand to chop at the air. His tone was blunt, punchy, as if this were the approach he now considered necessary to make himself understood.
She tried to picture telling Connor, tried to picture her boys leaving the only school they had ever known, at a time when what they needed more than anything was stability and to be able to grieve in a safe, familiar environment.
I’ll have to sell the house. Oh my God, our home! She placed a shaking hand over her mouth as the facts began to permeate. It should sell quite quickly and then I can pay the school. How are we supposed to live until the sale of the house goes through? Will they let me use any of the proceeds? The overheads are huge. I’m sure they’ll wait if I explain the situation to them. Her head swam at the prospect. ‘I don’t know what to say. I feel sick.’ She placed her hand on her stomach and took a deep breath. ‘What am I supposed to do? What does that mean, no money? What the hell is going on?’
Mr Monroe smiled kindly. ‘I know it’s a lot for you to take in.’
‘I need to get a job, I need to . . .’ She shook her head, trying to think of what job she could get and how.
Mr Monroe spoke again. ‘And I hate to think that I am the one who might be shedding light on Finn’s untimely death . . .’ He paused, as if warned off by the look she fired at him.
What exactly was he suggesting? Finn had died in an accident, and the last thing he would have wanted in the whole wide world was to leave behind the family he loved, especially now. She felt a surge of anger, not only at the man’s words, but also at the possibility that what Mr Monroe was suggesting might be true. You wouldn’t do that to me, Finn, would you? You wouldn’t create this mess and then leave me . . .
Nina felt her skin prickle with sweat as she flushed hot, then cold. ‘I never thought we’d leave The Tynings, but I know it’ll need to be sold.’ She nodded her acceptance of this fact. ‘I love it, of course, it’s our home, but at the end of the day it’s only bricks and mortar. The funds it’ll raise will give us some breathing space, time to plan what to do for the best, and we can downsize. At least it’s fully paid for.’ Even the idea of parting with the house she and Finn had built together, the family home where memories of him lurked in every room, was more than she could bear.
Mr Monroe’s hand again hovered near the tissue box. ‘Mrs McCarrick,’ the man said, then paused again. ‘I don’t think you’ve fully understood the situation. Let me explain.’
She looked up at him, her mind racing, hoping to hear something positive, a solution.
He squared his shoulders, speaking slowly. ‘The Tynings was an asset of the business. As I said, it was massively mortgaged.’ And there it was again: that blunt, punchy tone.
Her chest felt tight. ‘No. No, that’s not right, it can’t be.’ She sat forward, adamant, leaning on the edge of the desk; it was a mistake, and Finn wasn’t here to put him straight; she had to do it, had to take control. ‘We paid cash for our house. Because we could!’ She remembered Connor as a toddler running through the rooms as she and Finn walked hand in hand around the vast empty spaces, planning for furniture and accessories. Finn had turned to her, kissed her on the mouth and whispered, ‘This is our home, and it will always be our home, and it doesn’t matter what happens outside of that front door, in here you will always be safe.’
‘Yes . . .’ he said. ‘But Mr McCarrick took out mortgages on the property – a few over the years. I think it kept the wolf, or more specifically the bank, from the door on more than one occasion.’
How could you, Finn? How could you put our house in danger and not tell me? How could you do that?
‘But . . .’ She searched for the words. ‘But how could that happen if I was living in it? How was I not made aware?’ she asked.
‘With only Mr McCarrick’s name on the deeds, your signature or indeed your approval would not have been necessary. From a legal perspective,’ he offered, suggesting that, morally, it was a whole other matter.
Nina slumped in her chair. She felt the strength leave her core as her thoughts tumbled in her brain. How could I have been so bloody stupid? I trusted him, without question.
‘I can see that you were unaware of this. And again I am sorry to be the one to have to break it to you.’
She met the man’s stare, struggling to breathe.
‘They have served notice and you are being evicted.’ Mr Monroe’s stark words felt like a jolt.
Bang! There it was again, that door slam in her mind. Her body shook.
‘Evicted?’ she repeated, with a nervous twitch playing about her mouth, as if waiting for the punchline. This couldn’t be right. She fought for breath.
‘Yes. They will evict your family, seize your possessions, change the locks and put the house on the market.’
‘Really?’ Her voice faltered. ‘When will they do that?’
‘I can’t tell you when exactly, but in my experience it will be sooner rather than later. I am only giving it to you straight like this because I need you to fully understand the events that will unfold and just who we are dealing with.’
She pictured the lock on the front door, for which she had a key nestling in her purse.
‘And sadly,’ he continued, ‘they will probably sell it for a fraction of its value, because it’s all about getting some money in as quickly as possible.’
‘But . . . I . . . I don’t . . .’ She tried to speak, but instead bent forward, pulling her thick, curly hair from her face and throwing up into the soft-leather chocolate-brown interior of her Mulberry bag.