I hung up. I should not have done that. Now I hated myself for betraying Benji, protecting him from his poor judgement. And him for making me need to. Now I had a secret from him. I hated that too. I decided, while I dressed, that I would not interfere again. I couldn’t both love him and protect him.
“Hello?”
“Marcella! How good to hear your voice. Is that bad man of yours there?”
Lord Cramp never offered his name when he called. Lord Cramp made my skin creep.
“Lord Cramp. How are you?”
“Harry, Marcella. Harry. Blooming. Blooming. All the better for hearing your dulcet tones. Are you alone?” “Sorry, Benji’s out this evening.”
“And that other bad man? Ashraf?”
“They’re both out. Can I help?”
“Always. Always. You’re the brains of the outfit, I’ve always thought. Just a little business matter. Perhaps I should drop in. Unless you’d like to come here. To The Rose.”
Lord Cramp did his business from his private room over a Mayfair pub. A man in a dinner jacket guarded the foot of the stairs and another served visitors drinks. It was a peculiar way of business that involved him circulating boozily between his private bar and the tables, simultaneously maintaining business conversations with visitors from around the world. No pens or papers were permitted. When Benji first introduced me, Lord Cramp had kept my small hand in his fat one for far too long. “Zanzibar,” he had said. “Slaves and cloves. Slaves and cloves. Am I right?”
“It’s after eleven, Lord Harry,” I now pointed out. “Just Harry, please. Well, as you wish. Benji kept you posted on the South African chappie, has he?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Just as well. Just tell him that the South African chappie is biting. He’s interested. Early days, of course.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Good enough for me, Marcella. "Your word. Maybe a nightcap? I could drop round.”
“Past my bed-time, Harry.”
“Ah!” He hesitated and finally decided against the words that came to mind, offering instead, “You’re a hard one to catch, Marcella. Benji keeps you on a tight rein, eh?”
“Well, you know how it is.”
“Right enough. Goodnight, Marcella.”
I grimaced at finding my name in his mouth again. “Goodnight,” I said, refusing to say his.
I put a notice for Benji on the board: “Friday, 11.00 p.m. Benji, Lord Cramp says South African chappie biting, but early days!! M.” It could have been anything.
“Hello?”
“Marcella, this is Adnam.”
“Adnam, how are you? We haven’t seen much of you recently.”
“Well, business, you know.”
“How’s Monique? And the baby?”
“Mother, baby and father are all doing well. You must visit us. Monique gets lonely.”
“Yes, I’d like to.” But Gabrielle had told me that even she had not felt welcome at Adnam’s Hampstead home. Servants spent more time looking after the little boy than did Monique. When Adnam had proposed marriage, I was one of those who had not discouraged Monique. He seemed to love her and it solved the problem of her planless life. Now, with the rumours of her unhappiness, I felt a twinge of responsibility.
“But before I get carried away talking about my family, I had a special reason for phoning you. Do you legally exist in England yet, Marcella?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I thought not. That’s good. I need you to return a favour, if you would.”
“Of course. If I can.”
“Do you remember that BCCI account I opened for you three or four years ago? When you were just starting out?”
“For the house conversion. Yes.”
“Well, you know it’s still there?”
“No, I thought it was closed when I paid the money back. I opened another account.”
“No, we kept it open. I needed a place to deposit some money recently and we put it in that account. Benji knows about it. Now I need to transfer some money and, of course, I’ll need your signature.”
“How much is in there?”
“Between five and six million.”
“Pounds?”
“Yes.”
For half a second, I laughed. Marcella D’Souza was a millionairess five times over. Then I thought quickly: Adnam is using my name to launder money and there is nothing I can do about it. I can’t refuse to let him have his money and it’s too late to avoid becoming involved. He set me up when he first opened the account for me. All along this was the real reason he helped me with that deal, the missing keystone. Clever, clever, Adnam. My only choice was to cooperate with a show of innocent good grace. But Benji’s knowledge of this was a puzzle.
I said, “This is a surprise. But of course it’s no problem.”
“I knew I could depend on you. And don’t worry, Marcella, I’d never expose you to anything embarrassing. I’ll be seeing you next week, I think. I’ll bring the electronic transfer forms with me.”
“You’re coming round?”
“No, at our meeting. Didn’t Benji let you know?” “Benji has not been around too much.”
“Well, you must come. I’ll bring Monique too.”
EVEN HERE IN VERMONT GEOFFREY STILL WANTS TOhelp me. I was never able to persuade him that I did not need him, or that I was not his responsibility. When I was in London it was important to me that he understood I could stand on my own two feet—maybe better than he could stand on his. Now it’s gone on so long, it’s just a constant, a bit funny and a bit reassuring. Among the case studies that filled out my thesis, I invented an Englishman like him to be the husband of a Filipina woman. In real life she had an English husband but I was short of facts. My point was that false alliances are made between recent immigrants and natives. For a brief period there was an equality between the Filipina and her husband because he knew better how England worked and this counter-balanced her superior intelligence, energy and character, not to mention looks. Time, though, took away her disadvantage. She moved into English life on her own account and the marriage foundered as she outpaced her husband in every way. Influenced by Geoffrey’s irritating refusal to notice how I had
