FRAUD Page 3

  On the drive to Surrey, he felt as though he was on his last journey to the gallows. As he was signing in, the receptionist – her normal cheery expression conspicuously absent – phoned through to Dr Lennox to inform him of his arrival. He appeared a moment later. “Come into my office,” he said.

  The office was large, comfortable, calm and orderly – a far cry, Dominic imagined, from what went on beyond its oak-panelled walls. Dr Lennox sat down at his desk, gesturing to the seat on the other side. The frame of the wide bay window behind him, with its view over the gardens, rendered the stocky Scotsman larger, almost godlike.

  “So what’s this all about?” he said.

  Dominic’s palms were sweating. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve mentioned it right at the start...”

  “So you knew about it, then?”

  He frowned. “Dr Lennox, I’m not with you.”

  “Nicola’s informed me she’s discharging herself and wants to come and stay with you.”

  Flabbergasted, a tornado of thoughts whipped through Dominic’s brain. Where was she going to sleep? What do you give a superstar to eat? Why had he allowed the flat to become such a tip?

  “When?” he managed to say.

  “Well, now, I think. She’s packing even as we speak.”

  Dominic’s next panic-stricken thought concerned the pair of jeans he had discarded the night before – still containing a pair of pants – and whether he had left them on the sofa or thrown them into the dirty clothes basket.

  “Dr Lennox, I swear I know nothing about this.”

  “Yes, well, that doesn’t really surprise me. I suggested to her that it might not be convenient for you and she just said she’d go to a hotel. Either way, she’s determined to leave – and she’s not being manic, she seems calm and rational. Amazingly enough she doesn’t have a place of her own, she’s always just hopped between hotels and rented properties. She seems to prefer a life of impermanence.”

  Dominic barely heard him. He was still thinking of those underpants.

  “So, what are your thoughts on the subject?” Dr Lennox asked.

  “I... I don’t know.”

  “Well I’m very unhappy about it, if you want the truth. I’ve tried my best to dissuade her but when all’s said and done I have no choice in the matter. Nicola’s here of her own free will and she’s perfectly entitled to walk out any time she likes. And obviously if someone feels ready to go back to the real world rather than live in a psychiatric hospital, that’s got to be a good thing. But she seems to be investing an awful lot in you and I just wonder how prepared you are for that. Not very, by the look of it.”

  “No, I’m just... in shock. She did mention wanting to leave but she never gave the slightest hint that this was what she was planning. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want her,” he added hastily.

  “So, what’s your situation? Are you working? Apart from your website?”

  “No, I’m, I used to have a job in pu... in public relations. I had the offer of a job in America but decided against it, so now I’m looking for another job.”

  “Well I have to say that Nicola seems a lot happier and more balanced since you’ve been coming to see her. She’s always had a problem with relationships, ever since she was a child, and it’s got worse since she’s become famous because she’s always convinced people are only interested in Nicola Carson the star not Nicola Carson the person.”

  “That’s understandable, I suppose.”

  “But you seem to have cut through that somehow. She trusts you. Please tell me you’re worthy of that trust.”

  “I... I am.”

  “And are you worthy of my trust?”

  “I am.”

  Dr Lennox scrutinised him for a moment. “Okay,” he said, leaning forward and placing his forearms on the desk. “Let me explain to you something about what we’re dealing with here. When you first started coming, you probably noticed a bandage on Nicola’s wrist which has now been reduced to a plaster and I’m sure you guessed what is was doing there. Nicola suffers from a condition called bi-polar which is essentially a mood disorder. The patient can swing between a state of manic euphoria where they believe they can fly, change the world, produce amazing works of art – you name it – and moods of utter blackness and despair where they can barely function. Nobody really knows what causes it. A large body of research has suggested abnormalities of the brain – possibly genetic – but there’s no question it’s also connected with life events and environment – childhood trauma for example. My guess is it’s a combination of the two. After all, life’s a battle for all of us, isn’t it? But things which you or I might be able to deal with relatively easily could drive the bipolar patient over the edge, possibly even to suicide. My sessions with Nicola have revealed that she’s experienced both states in the most extreme form, but by a combination of medication, counselling and therapy we’ve managed to get her mood swing spectrum a lot narrower.”

  “They often do produce great works of art though, don’t they?” Dominic interjected.

  Dr Lennox looked at him, surprised. “Yes. Yes, they do.”

  “So, in a way, it has a positive side.”

  “I suppose so. But it comes at a high price.”

  They both fell silent for a moment.

  “Anyway,” said Dr Lennox, getting to his feet. “I’m going to keep her on the same medication for the time being and trust her to self-medicate – she’s got the times and dosages on her medication schedule which I’ll give you and I’d like you to make sure she sticks to it. I’ll go through the precise details with you both before you leave but basically they’re a combination of anti-depressants and mood stabilisers and it’s vitally important she takes them at the right time of day. But I warn you, there’ll still be mood swings but hopefully the suicidal thoughts are a thing of the past. Just the same, I’d like her to come back as an outpatient for her group therapy sessions and her counselling, and I’d like to see her myself once a week to monitor her progress and her medication. I can’t force her to co-operate, of course, but I’d be grateful if you could encourage her to. And if you have any problems – any problems at all, day or night – I’m just a phone call away.”

  “Thank you. That’s good to know.”

  When they stepped out into the hall, Nicola was there with Maisy and three packed suitcases. “Dominic, I’m really sorry about this,” she said in a calm but resolute voice. “If it’s a real pain for you I can go to a hotel. But I just suddenly need to get out of this place. No offence, Dr Lennox, or to you Maisy, you’ve both been brilliant.”

  “None taken,” he said.

  *

  When they were on their way, she said excitedly, “I just thought if we were going to work together on this book, we’d be better doing it at your place. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate with Maisy peering over my shoulder all the time. But we couldn’t tell them that, could we?” she added with a conspiratorial giggle.

  “No. No, we couldn’t.”

  Dominic could not quite grasp the fact that Nicola Carson was installed in the passenger seat of his old Golf, the seat in which Katie used to travel. “Would you like a Trebor mint?” he asked, reaching for the glove compartment.

  “No thanks.”

  “I’m really sorry about this car.”

  “I know!” she laughed, glancing around, “Where’s the minibar? And the telly? And the hotline to my agent?”

  He was so distraught it took him a moment to realise she was joking.

  “Dominic, just relax! I love your crappy little car. It’s so real.”

  “Yeah, well I hope you feel the same way about my flat,” he said, still trying to remember what he’d done with those pants. “That’s pretty real too.”

  “Trust me, if you could see some of the places I used to doss before I made it. I was wandering round London for months just crashing on peoples’ floors and sofas – I couldn’t even afford a place of my own.”

  “Yeah,
but you don’t have to do that now, do you?” he said, flicking up the indicator to take a right. “That’s the whole point.”

  “Look, Dominic, you could turn this car round right now and head up west, I could whip out my plastic and we could be living in some fancy apartment overlooking Hyde Park with a sauna and private cinema and Christ knows what...”

  “That sounds okay!” he laughed.

  “Yeah, but it’s not what I want. Not right now. I don’t want to be constantly running into everyone in Julie’s or Harvey Nicks and having to dodge the paparazzi everywhere I go. As far as the world’s concerned I’m still in Malvern Hall, and if it ever gets out that I’ve left, they’ll be looking for me in Chelsea or Knightsbridge, not in... wherever it is we’re going. Where are we going, by the way?”

  “Stratford.”

  “Well, that’s fine then. What better place for an actress than the birthplace of the Bard?”

  “Not that Stratford. The other one.”

  “I knew that!”

  On arrival at the flat, Nicola strolled around as though she were a prospective buyer. “This is nice,” she proclaimed, glancing out of the window, “It’s got a fabulous view of the bottle bank.”

  “Thanks,” he said, dumping down her bags then surreptitiously snatching the offending jeans from the armchair and slinging them through the open door of his bedroom. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  “So you live here alone?” she asked, following him into the kitchen.

  “I do now. I used to have a girlfriend but she left.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “Oh, we just had... different plans for the future.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, so am I. This place was always neat as a pin when she was here. I think I’ve got some Hobnobs but they may be a bit soggy.”

  “I’ll pass thanks.”

  They took their coffee into the living room but, after just a few sips, her spirits seemed to implode. “Dominic, I’m actually quite knackered all of a sudden. All this excitement’s worn me out. I think I may go and lie down for a while if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He was dithering over the sleeping arrangements when, to his horror, she simply went through to his bedroom and curled up on his unmade bed. He wanted to insist on at least putting on some clean sheets (if he had any clean sheets) but she seemed to have already fallen asleep.

  Her withdrawal at least gave him the chance to tidy the rest of the flat and pop out to the corner shop for some proper food. When he returned the place was still silent and he collapsed into an armchair, suddenly exhausted himself.

  Gazing out of his window at the rooftops and drainpipes of Stratford, he knew everything had changed. He could never go through with his mission to write his earth-shattering book about the girl who lay curled up on his bed, the mission which had begun the day he opened and read the first page of the copy of Loss which Katie had bought for their flight to America. Not in the form he had planned it, anyway.

  *

  “So when do we make a start on our book?” she asked later, as he was making spaghetti Bolognese – one of his specialities.

  “I don’t mind. Whenever you’re ready. But tomorrow you’re supposed to go back for your group therapy.”

  “Oh Christ, am I? I can’t face going back to that place!”

  “I think you should, Nicola. I kind of promised Dr Lennox I’d make sure you keep up with your treatment. Maybe we should give ourselves tomorrow to acclimatise and start on the book the day after.”

  “Yeah, okay,” she sighed. “I can see you’re going to be really strict with me.”

  As they were eating and feeling rather mellow after a couple of glasses of Chardonnay, she asked, “So this girlfriend of yours. What was she like?”

  Dominic laughed, surprised by the question. “She was petite. Pretty. Ash-blonde. Beautiful blue-green eyes.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Katie.”

  After a pause: “You must have been devastated when you split up.”

  “I was. But I had a sort of feeling the writing was on the wall.”

  “So did you... part amicably?”

  Dominic laid down his fork and sat back with a sigh. “No, not really. I mean, we didn’t have a blazing row or anything. But something happened. Something I regret.”

  Nicola glanced at him. “I’m sorry to be so nosy. It’s just that people fascinate me. It’s part of my job.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “So what was her plan for the future that was different to yours?”

  “She wanted to go and live in America. California. And as far as I know, she did.”

  “But you didn’t want to?”

  He considered the question. “I quite fancied the idea at first. I had the offer of a really good job out there. But somehow I was never one hundred per cent sure about it.”

  “Because you wanted to write?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to write.”

  “Being an artist always involves sacrifices,” she murmured as she sprinkled some formaggio on her Bolognese sauce.

  “I just hope I’ve got the talent to justify those sacrifices.”

  “Of course you have!”

  “There hasn’t been much evidence of it so far,” he snorted.

  “Well, there will be soon. I’ve got a couple of little secrets up my sleeve that are going to turn your book into a sensation, I guarantee it. And after that you can write whatever you want and the publishers’ll be gagging for it.”

  “I can’t wait!” he laughed.

  “Nor can I. And I want to pay you something up front. And rent for staying here.”

  “For that poxy little room?”

  “Dominic, why have you got to make everything so difficult? I can tell you’re hard up and I want to help you. We’re in this together, remember?”

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Maybe we should do a synopsis and come up with some sort of proposal. Start putting out feelers to agents right away. Get them gearing up for a rights auction.”

  She turned her spaghetti over a few times, mixing it with the sauce. “No, let’s hold off on that for the moment. It’ll spoil the surprise.”

  4

  On their way home from group therapy the following day, they stopped off at the local Sainsburys to stock up on provisions. Since leaving Malvern Hall, Nicola had been dressing down in plain tops and jeans and a baseball cap and, with her eyes hidden behind her Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, she seemed, so far, to have passed unnoticed. Only Sandra, Dominic’s friend and neighbour in the flat across the hall, had been taken into his confidence and she had sworn on her life not to betray it. In the supermarket, however, he noticed, more than once, people glancing furtively in their direction, then whispering to one another, and he knew what they were thinking and saying. How long, he wondered, would it be before the paparazzi got wind of her whereabouts?

  Later, as they were standing in the queue for the check-out, some young teenage girls began circling timidly around them like doves round discarded breadcrumbs. One of their number was finally nudged forwards and asked, “Can we have your autograph please, Miss Carson?” whereupon Nicola gasped. “You didn’t think I was Nicola Carson, did you? Wow, that’s really flattering!” The little party retreated in a confusion of giggles and mutual recrimination.

  “And you say you’ve lost your talent,” Dominic murmured.

  *

  The next morning they rose late and Dominic was pleased to note that she ate slightly more than usual. A cup of coffee and a whole croissant was, for her, a hearty breakfast. When they had finished, they carried their coffee through to the living room, Dominic reckoning it would be a more comfortable and conducive ambience for work. He fetched a notepad and a Dictaphone from his bedroom, then they settled down opposite one another, she lengthwise on the sofa propped up b
y a pile of cushions, he in the armchair.

  “Would you mind holding this?” he said, handing her the Dictaphone. “You don't have to keep it right up close to your mouth – it’s quite sensitive.”

  “I’m not talking into that!”

  “It’s just so I don’t forget details. I’ve got a terrible memory.”

  “You don’t need a memory. You’ve got me.”

  “I know, but...”

  “Take it away, Dominic! Right away. Put it back in your bedroom.”

  He did as she asked, though he was a little surprised by her reaction. “Do you mind if I at least take notes?”

  “Can’t we just talk at this stage? I need to get things straight in my head.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  But instead she lit a cigarette. Dominic sensed it was her security blanket.

  “So what do you want me to talk about?”

  “Anything. Start with your childhood if you like.”

  “There’s nothing to say about my childhood. Except that it was crap.”

  “Okay, that’s something. Chapter One. Nicola's childhood. Crap.”

  She smiled. “Well, it wasn’t all crap. Not until after Dad left.”

  “Did you have a good relationship with your father?” he asked, feeling like a psychoanalyst.

  “I did. Until he abandoned me.”

  “In what way did he abandon you?”

  “He fucked off with another woman when I was seven.”

  “But surely,” Dominic ventured, “surely it wasn’t his intention to abandon you? That was just collateral damage, surely?”

  “Look, Dominic, if you know more about my life than I do, why don’t you write this book on your own! He abandoned me, okay?”

  “Okay. Sorry. I’ll shut up now and let you speak.”

  “Good.”

  From then on he remained silent and haltingly, little by little, she opened up. The bad bits about her childhood. The good bits about her childhood. Happy memories. Horrible memories. Then her teenage years, her posh girls’ boarding school which she loathed and from which she would have been expelled on a number of occasions had not the school wanted to hang on to the extortionate fees her parents were paying. From time to time she would smile and launch into an anecdote – mostly about her triumphs in school performances. The sunbeams pivoted across the green, threadbare carpet as morning turned into afternoon, the couple so engrossed in their work they forgot to stop for lunch.