Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

up here.’

‘Oh, I know. But you can’t blame a place for the inhumanity of

the people who’ve lived here in the past. Or can you?’

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‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ he says gently.

It is peaceable among the hubbub. The outdoor heaters have

been fired up and have taken the chill off. Blankets provided by the restaurant are neatly folded on the backs of chairs in case that is not sufficient. An Australian woman strums a guitar and churns out

passable acoustic versions of pop standards. People toss loose

change into her guitar case as they pass. Betty is looking out on to the cobbled marketplace, a smile on her face that conveys contentment. Roy decides that now may be the moment.

‘I’ve been sorting out my affairs,’ he says, sidling up to the

subject.

She is jolted out of her reverie. ‘What? Here?’

‘No, no. Before we came out here. Trying to get a few things

sorted.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s a nightmare for us pensioners.’

‘What is?’

He thinks: is she being deliberately obtuse? But he maintains his

equilibrium.

‘The recession,’ he says. ‘It’s hit us pensioners especially hard.’

‘I suppose so,’ she replies, as if she has never given it a thought.

‘Yes. Low interest rates. High inflation. Difficult for your investments to keep pace.’

‘Yes, well. I have my occupational pension, which suffices, even if it isn’t particularly generous. And my savings. There are trust funds that my husband set up. The rest I more or less leave in a deposit

account in the bank.’

‘Oh dear. Oh dearie me.’

‘What’s wrong, Roy?’

‘I don’t mean to pry, but that won’t do. Presumably you have a

reasonable amount of capital?’ He looks at her expectantly.

‘Oh, I’m comfortably enough off. I’m not interested in money.

I’m more interested in living,’ she says cheerily.

‘Goodness me. But having said that, finding a safe place to invest

and a decent return is a challenge, I can tell you.’ He shakes his head despondently.

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‘You have some money put away?’ she asks.

‘A little,’ he replies. ‘Though no doubt rather less than you, I

should have thought. If I sold my little flat I’d have more.’

He pauses before continuing. ‘People don’t like talking about

money, do they? It’s a taboo subject, isn’t it? Yet it’s so important.’

‘Like sex,’ she says.

‘Pardon?’

‘Like sex. Critically important but not a subject for polite

conversation.’

‘Oh, I see, I see. Indeed. But the thing is . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘You see. I have this man. Accountant chappie. Miracle worker, I

call him. He’s looked after my portfolio, such as it is, for years.’

Betty does not reply but looks at Roy as if perplexed.

‘Yes. I believe you’ve mentioned him,’ she says eventually.

‘Name of Vincent. Works wonders. Could sit down with you if

you like and go through your holdings.’

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Living in Sin

1

They were living in sin. Over the brush, as she had put it, with her knowing Northern giggle. It seemed that, inexorably and inexplica-bly, he might be settling down. She was a stunner, this new girl of his, without a doubt. Kenny down the pub had emitted a discreet

‘phwoar’ when he had introduced her to the smoky atmosphere

some four months previously.

She came from Manchester, or Liverpool, or Leeds. One of those

places anyway. A graduate trainee at the Ministry, she had been

placed for six months in the outlying office in the suburbs where he held a low- profile, menial post. They had met in the shabby kitchen area, with its refrigerator full of grey- green mould and the stench of curdled milk, and its lime- encrusted no longer stainless steel sink.

She had been searching for a mug that was at least not so filthy as to pose a health risk, and he had offered her his spare one, together

with a gleaming teaspoon, which he had fetched from his desk. She

was a looker, so he had turned on the charm, framing himself as an

oasis of humanity – and cleanliness – in this desert of anonymity.

He had explained to her how the hierarchy worked. He was an

underling, a clerical officer buried under a pile of management and paper, and not so very different from a Dickensian quill- wielding clerk. She, on the other hand, was an executive officer, of the graduate cadre no less, one marked for potential greatness, or as much

greatness as the Department of Education and Science could

muster.

And so it had progressed. Lunch was followed by dinner, and vis-

its to the cinema. His age – he was some twenty- three years

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older – seemed not to matter to her. If anything, it seemed to be an advantage. She found people of her own age so immature, she said.

Eventually they had found themselves in bed together. This was

very satisfactory. Maureen was youthful, exuberant evidence that

the world was at last emerging from the guilt of war, untainted and unconstrained by loss, guilt and deprivation.

He had quickly learned that she thought of herself as a radical.

Horrified by the church- organ- playing yachtsman Heath, despairing of grimy Kagan Gannex Wilson, she was a vociferous member of an

obscure Trotskyist political organization. This did not dismay Roy; she could be a card- carrying member of the provisional wing of the Tufty road safety club as long as she emitted those gratifying little yelps in her nakedness every so often. Her earnest do- gooding political commitment rather amused him, though he took care to hide

his mirth. He had on occasion to pay lip service to her feminism, but it did not particularly affect their life together. He took care not to talk about current affairs, lest his less egalitarian view of the world became evident.

They had come gradually to the idea of living together. The deci-

sion had been at least partly practical. Neither of them was exactly flush, with their meagre Civil Service salaries, and they were spending more time together. He found himself navigating towards a

calculation that he might hitch his fate to hers. While they did not work in the same office in the building, he knew well that Maureen

was both gifted and highly regarded. When she returned to head

office she would be going somewhere. Her radicalism was if any-

thing an asset here in this outpost, but she might later need to tone it down somewhat. He could advise her on that: she seemed to see

in his bluff practicality a kind of wisdom.

Cohabitation was a significant point along this continuum. It

gave him the chance to assess at leisure whether a life with Maureen was a long- term option for him. He had never lived with anyone

before, as an adult. He did not count his time in the post- war

military. He was unaccustomed to the trivial and important com-

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without let or hindrance. Whether the sex and the promise of finan-

cial security were sufficient compensations was an open question.

But still they drifted on and the direction of the current was clear to both of them.

The available time to make his choices was finite. Maureen was