“What’s going on here?” I said brightly, tucking my hands in my pocket as I entered the office. Despite my pounding heart, I played it cool.
“Oh. Oh. Harrison. My boy,” George said, and my throat tightened at his visible relief in seeing me. “This … this swindler is trying to steal my manuscript.” He scooted awkwardly from behind the desk and approached me faster than I’d seen him move in some time. His arthritic finger jabbed in Frankie’s direction. “Trying to steal my words.”
Frankie didn’t speak. There was a stillness to her that reminded me of when you came across a bunny in the field, as if not moving would somehow make them invisible. I couldn’t decide if that made her distrustful. I interrupted something volatile, and she wasn’t exactly trying to explain the situation.
“Let’s see if we can’t clear this up,” I said affably as I hugged George. I glanced at Frankie, who met my gaze solemnly. She glanced away, jaw clenched.
“I’m going to go check on Collette. Excuse me.” She brushed past, head down, as she walked briskly out of the office.
“Where’s William? He handles this sort of stuff.” George looked left and right, patting his pockets. “And where are my damn glasses?”
My blood went icy. Was he really asking about William? He couldn’t have possibly forgotten about William’s passing. Not when that had been the worst year, probably more, of his life. He didn’t leave his room for months. He couldn’t write for over a year.
Here now, George looked around, distressed, shaking hands reaching, then tucking back in at his sides.
I wasn’t even sure what he needed. There wasn’t anything I could do. This was too much. Why was he acting like this? The child inside me wanted to cower, but the man’s fear drove me to help him through this. I kept my tone light and easy. I bent for his bifocals on his desk and handed them over. I didn’t feel equipped to handle this.
He put them on, hands shaking so much I had to assist him. “Thank you. Yes.” He cupped my cheek. “Harrison. Bloody good to see you, my boy.”
I swallowed with effort, trying to smile. “Hiya, George.”
“Now.” He looked away and leaned over the mess of papers on his desk. “Where is—what was?” He shook his head again. “Blast it! I know I was doing something.”
“Are you working on a book?” It was the only thing I could think to ask. My brain felt mushy and slow, with worry-soaked thoughts. I couldn’t keep up with myself, but one instinct was clear. If I got upset and succumbed to the nauseating fear that seeing him this way caused, I would only escalate the situation.
Calm. Happy. I was great at this role. The carefree, unbothered charmer.
George was still looking around. His face contorted in that way, saying he’d been just about to say something but lost the train of thought. I was familiar with that face.
“I, uh … I don’t … Harrison?”
I smiled brightly and felt the edges of it tremble. Absurdly, I could hardly keep myself together seeing him so lost in his thoughts. But he hadn’t been this bad before. He’d not ever been angry. Just confused at the worst of times. This was not normal.
“Hey, George. Just popped in for a visit. I hope that’s okay?” I said as he clasped my arm, steadying himself as he shifted to look at me more closely. His eyes watered, his hand cupped my cheek.
“Yes. Oh, my boy. My Adam. Of course. You are always welcome. You know that.” Tension melted from him, and he sighed.
“Thanks, George.” My throat was so tight I could hardly get the words out. “Would you like a cuppa?” I asked him.
He settled himself into the chair, rubbing his forehead. The injustice that had been fueling him quickly burned out. “Wait. Wait. Before I forget. I feel it shifting away. Like the flashes of a dream when you first wake up. Something about the money.” He rubbed his brow with one hand as he pointed at his overcrowded desk with the other. “The ledger. Something with the ledger and that woman. Stealing my book.” His voice faded as his eyes shut, and he leaned back.
“I know what you’re saying,” I lied. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good, yes. You’ll take care of it.” His words began to slur as exhaustion took over.
“Of course, George. You rest for a minute.”
“Good. Good. Yes. Maybe just for a moment. Check the back of my eyelids.” He chuckled with strain as he crossed his arms and settled deeper into his chair. His head lolled to the side, brow relaxing as he slipped quickly into sleep.
I braced myself on the side of his desk, head dropping. This was more intense than I let myself imagine. Watching him struggle before hurt so bad, but this felt like an entirely new stage of trouble that couldn’t be denied. My eyes moved over his messy desk and caught on a thick, ancient-looking ledger. I reviewed the accounts, handwritten, month by month, specifying the various expenses to keep up the estate.
Francesca Ricci repeated monthly with a modest sum and “archiving” next to it. It went back for years and years. A growing suspicion. I flipped to the most current entry.
“Final book - Francesca” and a sum I couldn’t even fathom being worth any sort of note-taking or archiving. The worst sort of thoughts swirled around my brain. Who was this woman? She worked at the shop? She looked after Collette? She was always here, yet I knew absolutely nothing about her. Was this why she hadn’t wanted me to know her better, wouldn’t even give me her name, because of her connection to George? Christ, I’d been a fool. She probably knew who I was from the beginning. Emma and Charlie would have warned me.
Something we all learned the hard way in the film industry was that almost everybody you met was in it for their own benefit. They would do whatever it took to get what they wanted, no matter the cost to any supposed friend. A peer who swore he didn’t want the role you were auditioning for would throw you under the bus the first opportunity they got to get a callback for that same part.
Was this a woman taking advantage of an aging man? Hadn’t I known everybody in his life? She felt like a stranger who had recently become a fixture.
