by Heleen Kist
A look of horror flicked across Adam’s face. Claire’s mouth fell open. I hadn’t shared that information with her yet either.
I wiped my palms on my thighs. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not bad. It was her forgiveness. She told the world she forgave you. She’d wanted you to know.’ I handed him a small slip of paper; a printed screen shot of the tweet.
A deep sigh fell from his lips. He hunched forward, rubbing his forehead. Claire craned her neck to see the paper, but he folded it up. She turned to me and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head. She crossed her arms like a petulant child.
Adam shifted in his seat and inhaled a giant breath that inflated him back upright. ‘Thank you for bringing this to me.’
‘I thought you should know.’ I twirled my ponytail around a finger. ‘I was surprised to read that you had met. I hoped you would tell me about it because Emily didn’t. I don’t know why.’
Claire’s pout faded and she perked up again.
Adam stroked his shoulder, as though he were cold. ‘I don’t know why either. There wasn’t anything to it. I mean, I’m not saying that it wasn’t important. It was. Very important. And it was great. I couldn’t believe when I heard... I thought we were good. I thought she was okay.’ He rolled the paper into a thin cigarette and rubbed it with his thumb. A watery film clouded his eyes.
‘What did you talk about? Where did you meet?’ I pressed.
‘She didn’t want to talk to me at first,’ he replied. ‘My publicist wanted us to make a joint statement, to quieten down the attacks. I told him that seemed unfair on her, but he convinced me to try, given that by then, everyone already knew who she was. I wanted it, too. A show of unity would be like pulling the extinguisher on those intent on fanning the flames of divide.’
He had a way with words, you had to hand him that. He scratched his chin and continued. ‘Eventually she agreed to meet in private. I got the hotel to set up afternoon tea in one of their small function rooms, for privacy. I apologised. I apologised a lot. Maybe I had misread the signs that night, but I had no idea she wasn’t having fun. She never said anything.’ He sipped his water. ‘I told her although I’d already made the public statement, I didn’t want her to think this was only to save my ass. I needed her to believe that.’ He looked from me to Claire, back at me again, his eyes pleading for us to believe him.
He leaned back. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said. ‘I was angry. She could have talked to me rather than go running to a blog. Or kept quiet. There was no reason for her to throw me to the dogs like that.’ He leaned forward, palms open. ‘I didn’t rape her.’
I bit my lip.
‘She started crying into her tea,’ he said. ‘I wanted to comfort her but figured I would be the last person she wanted to touch her.’ He winced. ‘She said she felt dirty. Used. And she didn’t want anybody else to have to go through it. That’s why she gave the interview. As a warning to men that women are scared to speak up. She wanted to tell guys to listen out for the non-verbal cues.’ He wrung his hands. ‘She told me she regretted it. She apologised. Nearly as much as I did. She said hurting my career had been intentional, but she hadn’t expected it to blow up the way it did.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘She’d predicted a quickie scandal and that was all. She hadn’t expected the backlash. And she definitely hadn’t anticipated people figuring out who she was.’ He frowned. ‘Whoever leaked that photo is an asshole. They deserve to rot in hell.’
‘Yes, they do.’ I didn’t want this to sound like I was excusing him. At the end of the day, if he had left her alone, none of this would have happened — yet he seemed genuine in his remorse, in his belief that his actions had been terribly misinterpreted. Or was he just a good actor?
Emily had forgiven him. I felt forced to do the same. But my itch for justice needed scratching and the more I thought about it, the more it made sense that the person who identified Emily was the true culprit. They’d opened the floodgates to the personal abuse... and her being targeted at home. ‘Did you ever find out who did it? Did you have anyone investigate?’ I asked.
His eyebrow arched, as if this was the first time it had occurred to him he could’ve helped. ‘I... No. I’m sorry. It was a chaotic time. We were fighting fires.’
Fire again. Is that how he’d experienced it?
I looked him straight in the eyes. ‘And of course, your publicity team had you to protect... more than her.’
He squirmed.
Claire uncrossed her arms. ‘The photo was taken at the party, but there was no press allowed inside. I remember my colleague who organised the event telling me that. He’d been surprised at how insistent your people had been there should be no photos taken by anyone other than the official photographer.’ She turned to me. ‘And I mean anyone. People even had to hand in their mobile phones at the door.’
‘This may seem excessive to you,’ Adam said, ‘but when you are me, when you can’t open your bedroom curtains in the morning without somebody snapping a picture of you in your robe, when you can’t leave the house without hordes of paparazzi throwing themselves at your car, hoping these antics will annoy you enough that you get out and throw a punch, when people are constantly stopping you for selfies, you long for a chance to party in peace.’ He leaned forward. ‘This play means the world. What’s wrong with wanting to let my hair down without worrying whether a sneaky lens was pointed at me?’
‘Why have a photographer at all?’ I asked.
‘For publicity. And the sponsors,’ Claire said. ‘Guests had to pose in front of a wall covered in logos when they arrived. The professional photographer’s work would always be approved before being released, though, so no unflattering shots made their way out. Isn’t that right, Adam?’
‘Yes. We always have control.’
A surge of adrenaline spiked through me. ‘Where are those photos now?’ I asked. ‘We have to check if he took that shot.’
‘The guy must have taken hundreds of pictures. We only get the good ones. As do you,’ Adam said nodding at Claire. He slapped his thighs and sprung to his feet. ‘Okay listen, I’ll get my publicist to give you the guy’s details. No. Better yet, I’ll make sure she phones the guy and tells him to give you anything you want — anything at all. It’s the least I can do.’
He said something else, but I couldn’t hear him through the blood pulsing in my temples. I was finally going to catch a break.
20
ME
When Adam Mooney says jump, you jump, I thought as photographer Craig McBen introduced himself on the phone only half an hour after I’d left the theatre.
‘Do you want to meet right now?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, without even thinking. It came out a bit harsh but after all, this was possibly the guy who’d framed Emily. I’d also just arrived home. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow.’
My stomach rumbled. I went to the kitchen where I heated a tin of chile con carne in a copper pan. As it bubbled, I fished a red onion from the net. Out of habit, I opened the drawer and inserted my hand, feeling around for the swimming goggles I used to prevent my eyes watering. My fingers reached the smooth surface of the rubber band. A giant sob overtook me.
Emily.
I sank to the floor and cried. I stretched the band and let go, making it flick against my thigh, like she’d done when she’d given the goggles to me. The snapping sound took me back in time.
My Emily standing in the doorway, her brown work dress creased after a day of sitting. She takes off her knee-high boots and throws them in the corner of the kitchen.
How that had irked me. I’d forgive her anything now.
I rubbed the plastic lenses with my thumb and heard her voice in my head. ‘Here, I brought you these.’
Snap.
A sting.
My ‘Ouch.’
Her laughter.
‘What are these for? I don’t swim,’ I’d asked.
‘I’m hungry and after some chilli. It’s cold outside. But after your blubber
fest last time slicing the onions, I thought I’d play it safe. I don’t want any snot in my food.’
She’d stuck the goggles on my eyes and placed the band around my head, gently removing strands of hair squashed against my face. ‘There you go.’
I’d blinked inside the plastic cups to get used to the kitchen distorted into angular shapes around her smiling face. ‘I don’t think I need these.’
She’d batted my hand away when I tried to remove them. ‘Yes you do. Cause you’re a big softie.’
She wasn’t wrong.
Still anchored to the floor, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and sniffed. I heard the hiss of distressed flames.
Shit.
I pulled myself up. Clumps of burnt chilli coated the pan black. I turned off the gas. The splatters had even reached the worktop. I grabbed two sheets of kitchen roll and wiped; first my face, then the hob.
I replaced dinner with ginger biscuits. I had work to do.
As I drew diagrams and documented explanations of my new software, my mind kept wandering to that photo: Emily and Adam sneaking out a side door beside the bandstand during the opening party, other guests in the foreground clutching champagne, deep in conversation. Adam was instantly recognisable, his tuxedo adding to his classic good looks. His arm hung loosely around Emily’s shoulder; her favourite blue-sequined, floor-length dress flattered her curves. Her blonde wavy hair draped her nude shoulder and only partially hid her delighted face.
Did Craig release this?
The only way to find out was to go and ask. Hot prickles rose form my chest to my throat. Could I ask Claire along? No, I’d already imposed enough on her — though getting to meet a Hollywood star was probably no imposition. Plus, it wasn’t as though we were friends; there was always a professional angle with Claire.
I called Craig back. Could I come after all? He gave the High Street address and explained I’d need to go through the close marked 107 to reach his courtyard entrance. I thanked the heavens it would still be light for a few hours; those narrow alleys could get creepy at night.
I walked through the grey stone arch on the Royal Mile that marked the entrance to the close. Moisture seeped down the sides of the short, dark tunnel. Cigarette butts and an empty, mud-splattered bottle of Buckfast littered the ground. It reeked of urine. I held my breath until I reached the rear of Craig’s building.
I strode up two flights of external stairs. He’d called it his ‘studio,’ but as I examined the labels on the doorbells, I realised his studio was in fact his home. My shoulders tensed up as I pressed the button.
A buzzing sound released the door. Through the intercom, Craig instructed me to go up two more flights.
Oh great, a mansplainer. Anyone in Edinburgh would know 2F3 meant the third flat on the second floor. I looked down at the metal staircase I’d just climbed and gave him the benefit of the doubt. The building’s entrance was already two stories up from a seriously sloped street. He’d probably had his fair share of disoriented visitors to make him want to explain.
Craig stood by his open door when I reached his landing. The first thing that struck me was not his friendly round face, not the baggy jumper with which he drowned his rotund frame, nor the oversized hand I instinctively shook; it was that he was barefoot.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you could come after all. It’s not every day you get a call from Adam Mooney’s people. And they said it was urgent, that you need to see all the photos of opening night. Is there something wrong?’
I gave a curt nod. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’
He led me down a tight corridor, further narrowed by a row of bookcases I would’ve loved to spend time examining. I caught a flicker of a Robert Harris collection — hardbacks, no less. I noticed his taste for history extended into the framed, black-and-white photographs of Edinburgh’s Gothic buildings that lined the walls.
‘Did you take these?’ I asked.
‘Yes, a long time ago.’
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’ He gestured ahead. ‘Here we are.’
The studio was a small, beige-carpeted office with a strange collection of mismatched standing lamps — some without shades — clustered around a workstation with three giant screens. He moved two up-lighters out of the way and pulled a chair up next to his.
I took it all in.
‘A lot of lamps, huh?’ he said. ‘I sometimes get commissioned to take photographs to hang in offices or homes. I like to get a feel for how they might look, given how different the lighting can be. I bought these in charity shops. I put all types of bulbs in them and change the angles to check the images out in different conditions.’
I nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
‘Please, sit down.’
I slid the chair a little further away from his. So far there was nothing alarming about him, but I didn’t know this man.
He turned on his middle monitor. It showed the interface of sophisticated-looking photo editing software. ‘Okay. What is it we’re looking for?’
‘I guess it’s easiest if I come clean... I’m trying to find a particular photo of the opening party. It’s the one that—’
Craig leapt out of his seat. ‘Hold on.’ He bent down and popped back up, holding a wriggly furry creature in his hand. I gasped, thinking it was a rat.
‘Sorry, I forgot to close the kitchen door. I spotted her about to crawl up your trousers and I didn’t want you to freak out.’
A face sneaked out from a curl of black and white fur, dark, shiny eyes on me, a gradient of wide stripes between its pointy nose and rounded ears. ‘Is it a ferret?’ I asked.
‘Yes, this is Scout.’ He presented the animal face-forward and held its hind legs as if it were a machine-gun. ‘Don’t worry. She’s harmless. You can touch her if you like.’
I recoiled.
‘Maybe not,’ he said, laughing as he pulled her away. Her pink tongue darted over her nose.
‘No. I’m sorry. That was rude. I do want to. I’ve never seen a ferret before. Not up close. Scout? As in To Kill a Mockingbird?’
A grin spread across his stubbled chin. ‘You’re the first one to have guessed that.’
‘I have a cat named Atticus,’ I said, smiling. His face lit up. I ran a tentative finger along Scout’s rump. Softer than expected.
‘Let me go and shut her in again,’ he said. ‘She could give Houdini a run for his money.’
‘They have ferrets at NASA for that reason.’
‘What?’
A blush tingled on my cheeks. Why had I said that? I was always blurting out random facts and quotes. ‘I read somewhere that they have ferrets at NASA. They train them to run cables where people could otherwise not get to.’ I shrugged. ‘They probably use robots for that now.’
He stood in the doorway, a goofy grin on his face. ‘And here I was thinking I was the ferret expert. I’ll be back in a minute.’
He stepped away, leaving me unnerved — but in a good way?
To fill the time, I glanced at the long list of folders lining the side of the screen. One was labelled Empisoft March 2016. That was years ago.
‘Right, let’s get to it. You were saying?’ He dropped into his chair again.
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m looking for the photo of Adam Mooney leaving the party with a woman.’
‘His accuser?’
‘Yes, Emily was my friend. I — we — want to find the source of the photo, that’s all.’
‘And you think it’s me? That I put the photo of your friend online?’ His voice reached a distraught pitch and he brought his hands to his chest. ‘It wasn’t me. I would never... I’m sorry about your friend. It’s awful what happened to her. She didn’t deserve that. I can assure you it wasn’t me.’
Watching him protest, he didn’t strike me as the sort. But what would be the sort?
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ I said. ‘Let’s start with whether you took the picture.’
&n
bsp; His movements quickened. Was he keen to show me he was innocent?
‘Okay.’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s mine. And even if it is, loads of people had access to it.’
‘How so?’
‘I put all the ones that were of sufficient quality in a shared folder, which I made available to Pure Brilliant and Adam Mooney’s publicist.’
I found it hard to believe that any of Emily’s colleagues would do this. And it certainly wouldn’t have been in Adam’s interest to fuel the fire.
‘I have a print-out with me, so you can see what I’m looking for.’ I reached in my jacket pocket and unfolded the paper.
He examined it. ‘Hm...’
‘What?’
‘That one’s taken at a completely wrong angle. No way that’s me.’
‘But you were the only photographer on site.’
‘Let’s go through them if you don’t believe me.’ His indignant tone made me want to reassure him, but I held firm. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.
He opened the relevant folder on the screen. The monitor filled with thumbnails of people enjoying themselves, wearing their glad rags and posing like pros, duck faces and all. The colourful images scrolled up as Craig ran through the collection. I asked him to pause a few times, thinking I’d found it, but it was never the one.
‘See?’ he said, dropping his hands on his thighs.
‘Is that all of them?’
He pointed at a little icon underneath each photo. ‘Yes. And all the ones marked with a star were shared with the client.’
I sank into my chair, disappointed, but also relieved: at least the man whose home I found myself in wasn’t a total creep.
‘Who took this picture? Could somebody have smuggled in a mobile after all?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think that was taken on a mobile.’
‘Why not?’
Craig opened the browser window and searched for an electronic version of Emily and Adam’s photo on the Internet. It wasn’t hard to find — it had gone viral. He zoomed in and pointed at the crowd in the background. ‘See how fuzzy these people are? A mobile would have a different depth of field. This has DSLR written all over it.’