Killing It

by Asia Mackay

  ‘Oh my God, I am so, so mortified.’ I giggled and shoved Jake. ‘Darling, I told you we shouldn’t be here. I must look so slutty right now.’ I fell on to Jake, prodding his cheek with my finger. ‘This is all your fault for getting me so horribly drunk.’

  Jake grinned at the security guard and gave him a thumbs up. ‘It’s a great party right?’

  The Ruski ignored him and grabbed my handbag before rifling through it and then throwing it back at me. He turned to Jake and patted him down, feeling inside his pockets.

  Jake laughed. ‘That tickles.’

  He looked between us both.

  ‘Get out of here. The party is back that way.’ He motioned to the door behind us.

  ‘We’re very sorry, sir.’ Jake put an arm round me. ‘Don’t know what came over us.’

  ‘Yes, sir, we’re very, very sorry.’ I slouched up against Jake, and made a show of tottering on my heels as we walked away. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him talking furiously into his headpiece. We re-entered the party. Jake kept his hand on my back, as he guided me through the throngs of people.

  A hovering waiter passed and we each reached for a glass of champagne and drained it.

  Jake turned to the group of people next to us. ‘Hi there. Fun party, isn’t it? Tell me, what’s your connection to the embassy?’

  I joined in. ‘Oh wow I love your dress, is it LK Bennett?’

  The ten minutes of painful small talk with our new insurance-broker friends was by far the most torturous part of the whole evening. But we weren’t escorted from the room and Geraint had what he needed. We’d done it.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘AND WHAT TIME DO you call this?’ Will was sitting up in our bed, his laptop open on top of the duvet. He grinned as I leaned down and gave him a kiss.

  ‘I hate work drinks.’ I kicked off my heels and glanced at the baby monitor next to him. The grainy image of Gigi star-fished in her cot lit up the screen. ‘Our little girl been behaving?’

  ‘Perfectly. Three stories and a bit of milk and she was passed out by 7 p.m. and not a noise since.’

  ‘How much milk? And did you let her fall asleep on you?’

  ‘Half a bottle, I think. And you ask too many questions.’ He tapped me on the nose with his finger. ‘Get yourself to bed, sweetheart. I’ve got a painfully early start tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s me every day, mon cher,’ I called over my shoulder as I walked through to the bathroom, ‘especially if you keep breaking the rules.’

  I was the routine Hitler. He was the fun-loving cavalier. Nappies, bottles, boobs – me. Songs, tickles, laughter – him. I would watch Will and Gigi together and envy how easy it was for him. Thoughts unclouded by hormones and sleep deprivation, his mind remained untouched and his body remained unchanged. He had taken on the role of father as easily as shrugging on a warm coat. Parenthood had added another layer to him without suffocating or slowing him down.

  I was the one trying to catch up. Weighed down by a nappy bag full of fears and insecurities. Wanting to be the best mother I could be but not sure how. Killer instinct? Yes. Maternal instinct? Not so much.

  I changed into one of Will’s old shirts. In the early days I would pull one on on a lazy Sunday morning and sashay around the kitchen, him knowing I was naked underneath. Now I wore them because they were easy to breastfeed out of. Then sexy, now practical. Just like my breasts.

  Will closed his laptop and moved it to the bedside table as I got into bed beside him.

  ‘Remind me where you’re flying off to tomorrow? And how long you’re abandoning us for?’

  It was his third business trip in as many weeks. I was glad I trusted him enough that I had no nagging desire to check in with Special Projects to verify his location. Upon my engagement to Will they had presented me with a two-hundred-page report on his life to date including bank statements, email passwords and social-media logins. I kept it for a week and then handed it back unopened. I knew I needed real life above the ground to be untouched by the dirtiness of the world beneath it.

  Besides, if I was ever worried he was cheating I could just go through his phone while he was in the shower, like normal wives.

  ‘It’s only three days. I’m seeing a high-maintenance client in Texas.’ He yawned. ‘So all big guns, big egos and big bullshit.’

  Our jobs really weren’t so different.

  He kissed me and rolled over to turn the light off. I lay staring at the ceiling knowing sleep would take a while. I was still buzzing. Tonight had gone exactly to plan. I needed to feel I could do this. Succeed at both. Rat and mother. Very different roles yet certain similar skillsets; attention to detail, an ability to multitask and an indifference to handling bodily fluids.

  I listened as Will’s breathing deepened. He was asleep already. I touched my lips. He may not have been my only kiss of the evening but at least he was my last.

  Posing as a couple was an invaluable part of how successful Jake and I had been as partners. In response to my post-honeymoon complaint he didn’t have to be quite so enthusiastic in our cover story I got a grumbled, ‘Surely your husband would prefer my tongue in your mouth to someone else’s bullet in your brain?’

  It was a fair point.

  If that security guard had discovered two men somewhere out of bounds it is highly unlikely they would have been able to talk their way out of it. Long ago I had squared it all away in my ordered mind as totally acceptable cheating but tonight it had felt wrong.

  Maybe it was because I couldn’t remember the last time Will and I had kissed like that. Tired and grumpy didn’t really translate well in the bedroom. My idea of a night of unbridled pleasure was now a deep, deep sleep that would last all night long and end late-morning with a loud, satisfied yawn . . .

  Will’s hand was lying next to my face, touching my pillow. I kissed it and closed my eyes. I thought of Dasha, in her Notting Hill mansion, and how cold she must be lying next to Dimitri, knowing he would soon be dead.

  *

  Unicorn spent the next morning trawling through the data we had stolen from the Russian Embassy. There were huge amounts of background information on each of the names on the list. It was now just going to be a question of narrowing them down to a shortlist and double-checking the intel to determine the best candidates to guide Dimitri’s younger brother Sergei in taking over the family business and playing into our hands.

  Geraint interrupted the concentrated quiet with a shout.

  ‘Dasha has made contact on the website again.’ He clicked a few buttons.

  Alexis, you must join us for coffee. We have so much to catch up on. 11 a.m. the Brasserie.

  I looked at my watch.

  ‘I don’t have much time. I have to go home first.’

  At Platform Eight we could wear whatever we wanted, which meant my daily wardrobe involved jeans, old T-shirts, trainers and my hair in a scruffy ponytail usually hidden under a baseball cap.

  ‘What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?’ asked Jake, giving me a once over.

  ‘It’s an undercover mission where I’m attempting to infiltrate a group of West London yummy mummies. This’ – I motioned towards my outfit – ‘will not do.’

  ‘Just head out to the shops and buy something.’

  ‘I could but I can’t buy the other thing I need to bring.’ I looked round at confused faces. ‘My baby?’

  *

  Back home, I managed to dig out a few items that might just pass the scrutiny of the discerning eye of Dasha’s inevitably designer-clad friends. Smart black trousers with my least scuffed leather boots and a threaded jacket which was trying to look Chanel but was actually Zara. A few chunky necklaces finished the look. I knew what I was up against. I had noticed women like Dasha when on maternity leave. Admired their grooming, their wolf-pack togetherness, united in their perfect appearance and clean-faced, well-behaved children. They would sit enjoying leisurely lunches while I scuttled by with unwashed hair and baby
vomit covering the shoulder of my old university hoodie.

  I had found such women terrifying.

  But this was about playing a role. And this mother was one of ‘them’. Strong, confident, rich. I could pull off the first two but the last was going to be a struggle. I wondered if the department budget would stretch to highlights and a new wardrobe.

  I packed Gigi into her pram. This time I was prepared. After the initial hurried meet with Dasha, R & D had made amendments to some of the contents of the nappy bag. There was now Snuggles the Bullet-spewing Bunny Rabbit, who had my pistol safely ensconced in his belly. I could slip a hand inside his bum and be firing bullets out of his oversized grinning mouth in no time. Accompanying the bunny was a large purple polkadot baby rattle. The satisfying noise given off with every shake was courtesy of the spare ammo securely stored inside. Importantly, there was also a pram blackout cover, which was now bulletproof. If I sensed a threat I could have the invincible cocoon fastened on in seconds.

  The Brasserie was in Notting Hill. I hopped in a black cab – it was important to arrive in character.

  I spotted Dasha at the back of the elegant restaurant, holding court to a gaggle of other women. She got up as I approached the table.

  ‘Alexis, hello.’ We air-kissed as sickly-sweet vape smoke surrounded us. In all the Surveillance photos, Dasha was clasping her electronic cigarette as tightly as a teenage girl does a mobile phone.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Dasha.’

  I clocked her ever-present bodyguards, stony-faced at the next table.

  ‘Let me introduce you to everyone.’ She motioned towards two blonde women sat next to her. ‘This is Claudia Grimaldi, and this is Cynthia Daudy.’

  ‘Hello.’ I found myself looking from one woman to the other, marginally confused by how similar they looked. Similar in that they had clearly used the same plastic surgeon – both had that slightly stretched surprised look and matching plumped-up trout pouts. Surely wrinkles were better than this unnatural mask they were both now sporting? Claudia and Cynthia looked up long enough to give me a short ‘hello’, and returned to cooing over photos on one of their phones.

  ‘This is Francesca Harvey.’ She motioned to the busty brunette on her other side.

  ‘Actually, it’s Frankie. Dasha is the only person who insists on using my full name.’ Frankie had a soft Scottish lilt and was smiling as she spoke. I was torn as to what to make of her. She looked friendly but was wearing extremely tight leather trousers and a nipple-skimming low-cut top.

  ‘And here is Tamara Smith-Bosanquet.’ Dasha took another drag of her vape as she gestured towards a well-coiffed blonde in a shirt dress and suede boots. Tamara gave me a small nod as she fiddled with the string of pearls round her neck.

  ‘And last but not least,’ with a look that insinuated perhaps she did not mean this statement, ‘Shona Backhouse.’ Looking at the group together it was hard to see how Shona fitted in. She was dressed down in workout gear, had her hair up in a messy ponytail, horn-rimmed glasses, no make-up and was simultaneously cutting crusts off a piece of toast for a two-year-old boy and rocking a pram with her foot where another identical one slept. She looked, for lack of a better word, normal.

  I looked round at the group renaming them with more memorable monikers for my report to the Platform later. The Plastics were the two Cs. The Glamourpuss was Frankie. The Sloane was Tamara. The Tracksuit was Shona. And the Queen Bee was quite clearly Dasha.

  I sat down next to Shona, and parked Gigi’s pram just behind me. Dasha continued to stand, as she addressed us all.

  ‘Alexis, you have now met the whole bonfire committee. This year we’ll be putting on Chepstow Hall’s finest ever Bonfire Night. Everyone, Alexis volunteers for the charity Kids First, which we have nominated to receive the proceeds of this exciting event. As president, I thought it would be nice to have a charity liaison working with us.’

  So this was Dasha’s play. It was a clever one. I now had an official fake reason for hanging out with her.

  Dasha continued, ‘Alexis neglected to get her daughter down for Chepstow Hall at birth.’ She paused for dramatic effect; the Plastics duly obliged with gasps. ‘So she really needs to show the school how serious her commitment is in trying to secure a place.’

  I looked over at the bodyguards; this elaborate cover story might be wasted on them, they looked so bored they could barely keep their eyes open.

  When Dasha finally finished her monologue there was a long discussion that involved talk of whether toffee apples should be banned as surely we couldn’t condone all that sugar (that was Tamara’s gem), maybe we could get a celebrity to light the bonfire (Cynthia/Claudia’s suggestion) and, ‘Who gives a shit about the food – who’s sorting the booze?’ (Frankie’s question). I sensed I was going to like her the most.

  Shona had remained disengaged in the whole conversation as her two-year-old had rejected his crustless toast and was now licking each different pastry in the basket on the table.

  I listened to them talk. They were all women whose lives were undoubtedly very different to mine. But I could speak the universal language of motherhood and hopefully be accepted into the fold. As Dasha and the two Cs pored over her scale map of the exclusive Notting Hill communal gardens where the Bonfire Night was to be held I turned to Tamara, Frankie and Shona. ‘How did you all find weaning?’

  ‘It has to be done properly. I only used bottled water to boil the vegetables. Volvic, of course, as it has the least sodium in,’ announced Tamara in a cut-glass public-school accent.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ I said trying not to imagine her horror if I confessed how on the days when I was so tired I could barely turn the kettle on, let alone chop up and puree organic vegetables, that I used Ella’s Kitchen readymade pouches. Though I still insisted on spoon feeding them to my daughter rather than letting her just suck from the packet. I wasn’t a complete animal.

  ‘You just Supermum the shit out of life don’t you, Tamara?’ cut in Frankie, cackling.

  ‘I just want what’s best for my girls,’ sniffed Tamara. I imagined her daughters as miniature versions of her.

  ‘Okay, ladies,’ Dasha stood up again. ‘I have prepared a timeline of what we need to have achieved each week. Study your copy carefully.’ She handed out laminated sheets. ‘As you know I’m one of those lucky enough to be shortlisted to be next year’s head of the Parents’ Association.’ Knowing looks were exchanged between her and Claudia and Cynthia. ‘So Bonfire Night is very important to me. I will be upset if anyone lets me down by not giving it their all.’ She sat back down and looked pointedly at me. The threat hung in the air.

  While the mums at one end of the table were distracted with talk of abnormal smear tests, and those at the other end were debating whether it was better for six-year-olds to be excellent at piano or proficient at both piano and violin, I spoke to Dasha.

  ‘Thanks so much for those recommendations. We really are excited to have some new playmates.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Alexis. I had a feeling you would get on.’ She sipped the disgusting-looking green smoothie in front of her. ‘Bonfire Night is going to be amazing. I’m so glad my husband doesn’t have to fly to Russia until the day after. The date was brought forward on some hearing he has to attend, but thankfully he still gets to join in the fun before he goes.’ She turned her attention back to the group, ‘There is so much we need to do, let’s work really hard on killing it.’

  Message received, Dasha.

  Dimitri’s lawyers had been successful in bringing the hearing forward, meaning we had just lost a month of preparation time.

  Bonfire Night was six weeks away, and counting.

  We needed to isolate and recruit three Russian businessmen to our cause, pinpoint and plan the exact right moment to eliminate Dimitri and make it look like an accident. All while helping organise the grandest fireworks event West London had ever seen.

  Thankfully, I knew how to multitask.

  Chapter
Ten

  HER TROOPS NOW BRIEFED and her assassin activated, Dasha had obviously decided her time would be better spent elsewhere. Claudia and Cynthia got to their feet as soon as she did.

  ‘Ladies, I must go. I have another meeting.’ We all chorused goodbyes and with a wave of her hand Dasha turned on her heel, followed by two tottering blondes and two lumbering bodyguards.

  I had to get back and update the team. But Gigi’s grumpy cries reminded me it was feeding time. I pulled her out of the pram and attempted to get her into position without exposing my whole breast to the restaurant. It was not an easy struggle. Breastfeeding in public was something I had managed to avoid. By pretty much never leaving the house. We had been trained to never show weakness and nothing felt more vulnerable than sitting in a crowded restaurant with your tit out.

  I was aware that Tamara and Frankie were both unashamedly watching my efforts. Tamara opened her mouth to say something, but her phone rang and her attention was thankfully diverted to berating the person on the other end of the line.

  ‘How have you found breastfeeding?’ asked Frankie.

  I thought about how to answer this. In those first few weeks I had felt like I was being attacked by a furious, vicious creature, desperate in its need to feast on me. I would try not to weep as she latched on to me and then come away with her little mouth stained red as she wreaked yet more damage. I was convinced I had given birth to a deranged vampire baby. She didn’t want milk – just blood. I would sit gritting my teeth as she fed and stare at the box of breast pads, which featured a photo of a smiling mother looking lovingly into her baby’s eyes. How dare she be so happy and pain-free? But all I said to Frankie was, ‘It wasn’t easy at first.’

  ‘That’s a fucking understatement. I wanted to grab every woman I’d ever met and scream how had no one told me that this supposedly beautiful natural bonding experience was really more something out of a horror film.’

  So it wasn’t just me.