And now I could lose it all, I think. In a single heartbeat.
This, I remind myself, is what happens when you let emotions get in the way. This is what happens when I break my own rules.
Nothing else for it. Harriet has to be dispatched. Nicely, sweetly and permanently. Now. Fast.
And I can do it too, I think, finding my resolve again as the sound of the early-morning traffic drifts up to my bedroom window.
I achieved the impossible once before and you know what?
Now it’s time for the final act.
Two years ago
God, when I thought back over two years ago now, it had all been so ridiculously, almost embarrassingly easy. But then that was the thing about persuading people, I knew of old. First, you found out their vulnerability, and then you went to work from there. And Harriet’s weak spot was as obvious as the nose on your face. The fact that she worked in the ‘vocational sector’, as she misguidedly referred to that shambles of a charity shop, and had somehow, through pure, stupid, dumb luck, managed to fall in with one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. Or in most countries, for that matter.
Think Prince William, back when he was single. Now throw in Prince Harry for good measure (and looks). Combine the number of women they had throwing themselves at them, prior to each of their very grand, very royal weddings, and that would give you some idea of the number of women Freddie de Courcey had chasing him, ever since he was old enough to be chased, that is.
Back then, my streak of good fortune had continued; the mighty Ellen de Courcey had told me that one ex-girlfriend of Freddie’s stood head and shoulders above the rest, so I went to town on her, and through a very cursory online search, found out everything I possibly could about her.
Her name was Aurelia Beaulieu and she was a doctor, Parisian born, but now living in Ireland and well on her way to being a consultant neurologist, not that it mattered to me. What did matter very much was that this Aurelia seemed to really enjoy her social life, and her long, angular, beautifully French features beamed out at you from all of the gossip columns’ online pages, frequently with Freddie himself looking gormlessly happy by her side. But then, that was Freddie de Courcey for you. The guy’s factory default setting was joyous, bursting on euphoric. A bit like a latter-day Bertie Wooster; you could lock someone like Freddie up in prison, and he’d probably spend the whole time marvelling at how utterly wonderful the whole place was for a good detox. In the real world, in the world the rest of us operated in, there wasn’t a chance in hell that someone as idiotic as Freddie would even have been allowed across the threshold of the de Courcey boardroom. It was only by the sheer good fortune of being born rich and entitled that he was even tolerated at all.
But, even I had to grudgingly admit, Freddie seemed like a perfectly nice person in every other way, on the few occasions when I’d actually met him. He seemed genuinely fond of Harriet, too. After all, she was probably the only living creature on earth who hadn’t a clue who he was in the first place, and who remained stoically unimpressed by his millions. Or billions, more like.
Harriet was the type who could tell you to the nearest pound, shilling and halfpenny what everything cost, and would recoil in horror when she was out with Freddie and would see a starter on a menu that cost roughly the same amount as a flight to Paris. Had Freddie ever come across anyone like this in his life before? I often used to wonder. It was doubtful. Did he find it funny, or endearing?
After their dates, Harriet would tell me all about it and I was only too well able to picture the scene.
‘Forty-two quid for a few tiny little dirty-looking mushrooms?’ Harriet would say, over tea and biscuits in that poky little shop that stank of damp. ‘And I’m not joking you, Meg, I was the only person at that table who was even shocked. All Freddie’s pals just looked at me like they were embarrassed by me or something. “We actually call them truffles,” one eejit said to me. And Freddie just laughed it off, but then he’s such a dote like that, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t much like the sound of those friends of his,’ I said calmly.
‘Oh they’re awful, you’ve no idea!’ Harriet winced. ‘Magnums of champagne everywhere they go, giant bottles the size of a small child that they don’t even finish – it’s shocking! And the way they just toss money around like it’s a head of lettuce, you wouldn’t believe it. One of them is called Jamie Eynsford-Norris, and when I told him his money would be put to much better use if he gave to charity, he just laughed in my face and started calling me Mother Teresa.’
‘I certainly hope Freddie stuck up for you?’ I needled, sensing a chink.
‘Well, yeah, sort of,’ Harriet said doubtfully. ‘I mean, he acted like it was a joke, if that’s what you mean. But then you know Freddie, sure everything is a big joke to him.’
‘Maybe next time he’s out with his friends, you should just find an excuse not to go,’ I’d counselled, hoping to strike at the very heart of this budding relationship. ‘His friends sound so vile! Making you the butt of their jokes like that? I don’t know how you put up with them at all. You’re so different from that gang – thank God. And you’ll never fit in with any of them, so why even bother?’
‘Hmm,’ Harriet said, listening intently, just like I knew she would.
‘The thing you have to remember,’ I gently pressed ahead, knowing that I was playing on Harriet’s very weakest point here, ‘is that Freddie was at public school with that gang, and then at college too. These are the people he grew up with and yes, you’re dead right, they’re probably the snottiest shower you could ever meet, but whether you like it or not, they’re in his life for good. They all know Freddie ever since prep school, or whatever they call it, and he’s never going to give them up for anyone, is he?’
‘No,’ Harriet said, doubtfully. ‘I suppose not.’
‘But you’re so much better than any of them!’ I’d persisted. ‘So why bother trying to get on with that lot in the first place? I know I certainly wouldn’t have the stomach for it. Overprivileged tossers, the lot of them. Except for Freddie, of course,’ I took good care to add.
‘So what do you think I should do?’ Harriet asked warily, biting her lip and for the first time, looking like she was having serious doubts.
I continued to play Iago. I continued to drive a wedge.
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ I’d said. ‘If you ask me, the next time Freddie asks you out with him and his gang, the best thing you can do is run a mile. You know how elitist his circle are. They’ll never accept the likes of you or me. We weren’t born into it, we didn’t go to a posh private school like they did, and that’s just the way it is. I wouldn’t be a friend unless I said it to you out straight,’ I added for good measure. ‘Going out with Freddie and his gang is only upsetting you. It is a relatively new relationship and you went on a date last night, but all you’ve really told me is that his friends were awful to you. Dating should be fun! You should be excited and happy, and you’re not. So why put yourself through all that in the first place? If I were you, I’d tell him that from now on, you want nothing to do with those arseholes. You’ll be so glad you did. And you’d be doing Freddie a big favour too. If he keeps hanging around with that lot, it’s only a matter of time before he ends up just like them.’
‘Do you think?’ Harriet said, beginning to waver.
‘Seen it a thousand times,’ I lied.
Harriet didn’t answer, but then she didn’t really need to. The look on her face told me I’d hit a home run.
And, of course, there was the fact that Freddie had been dating Dr Aurelia Beaulieu right before he met Harriet. Which was manna from heaven as far as I was concerned. Because this Aurelia one was still very much a fixture in Freddie’s life – well, the de Courceys’ at least. Always invited where he was, always turning up. Always, always, always with a photographer conveniently hovering around, almost as if she’d drummed up a media storm single-handedly.
So
I went even further.
The de Courceys were lavish entertainers, and their donations to charity were legendary. All it took was for me to tip off a media photographer I knew well, overpaying him in cash to make bloody sure he did what I asked and kept his mouth shut. I needed a few snaps of Freddie and this Aurelia looking cosy and comfortable together at various art gallery functions hosted by his company, and the more of them, the better. Snaps which, naturally, I took care to upload to various anonymous Instagram accounts I’d set up for this very purpose, with hashtags like #allthegossip! All glossed up and ready to reveal to my ‘good pal’ Harriet.
‘But Freddie denies that there’s anything going on between him and Aurelia at all,’ Harriet had said, at first anyway. ‘She’s his ex, they broke up not long after we met, and they’re still friends. What’s wrong with that?’
A shrug and an eye roll was all it took to cast a shadow of doubt over that.
‘Has he ever asked you to meet her? Or any of his family, for that matter?’ I asked, knowing full well the answer. ‘Besides, once a cheater, always a cheater. My dad was a cheater and believe me, I know first-hand the pain it causes, long term. It’s horrible, it’s hurtful and you never get over the betrayal. I know my mum never did and probably never will.’ For once, I was actually telling the truth, unfortunately.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Harriet said, all wide-eyed sympathy, as she leaned over to squeeze my hand warmly. ‘You’ve never spoken about your dad before.’
‘Probably because he abandoned Mum and me before I was even seven years old,’ I replied stoically. ‘He met someone else, who he’s now married to with a second family and he never looked back. He broke Mum and me and he didn’t even care. Cheaters,’ I added feelingly, ‘are arseholes to be avoided like the Black Death. Unless you want to have a shitty, miserable life, that is.’
‘Freddie’s not like that, though,’ Harriet said loyally. ‘I know he’s not, I just feel it.’
‘You said he was still seeing her when you met,’ I threw in.
‘Yes, but . . . he and I had only become friends at first . . . I mean, nothing had happened between us per se . . .’
‘Does it matter? He was in a relationship when you first got together. Speaks volumes, if you ask me.’
Harriet said nothing, just looked a bit lost and confused.
‘Maybe there’s nothing going on with him and Doctor Aurelia,’ I’d insisted, ‘but can you imagine how thrilled Ellen de Courcey must be at seeing them hanging out together so much? This is exactly the kind of college-educated, high-achieving woman they want in that family. She more or less says so in this month’s Home Interiors magazine. She says Aurelia even helped her source paintings from Paris for her new drawing room.’
‘I suppose,’ said Harriet thoughtfully. ‘I mean, on paper, she really is so much more suited to him that I am, isn’t she? This Doctor Aurelia is the kind who can perform brain surgery on you and knows all about the world’s leading artists, and still manages to have a blow-dry and a perfect manicure all the time. What do I know about? How to get termites woodworm out of second-hand furniture in the charity shop, and how to coax homeless people into eating hot soup when I’m out volunteering with the Samaritans.’
‘She and Freddie are like a match made in heaven, I’d have said,’ I replied, sensing a breakthrough. ‘And the best of luck to them.’
‘I am really out of my depth here, aren’t I?’ Harriet said, sounding truly doubtful now and looking at me from under her lashes, like a modern-day version of Princess Diana.
‘Well,’ I said stoutly, ‘you’re never out of your depth with me, babes. I’m always here for you, through thick and thin. You know that.’
It had been almost touching how grateful Harriet had been.
Almost.
She’d hopped up to hug me, squeezing me tight as her eyes welled up.
‘Oh Meg, where would I be without you? I sometimes feel you’re the only person in this whole city I can actually trust.’
Chapter Nineteen
Meg
A new dawn, a new day and so I start exactly as I mean to go on. This new plan is going to take every scrap of guile I’ve got; this calls for a charm offensive that would seduce an army.
Bang on the dot of 7 a.m., I spring out of bed, ignoring the fact that I’ve got a throbbing head from lack of sleep, and get straight down to work in the kitchen. I bang pots, slam the fridge door open and shut, ask Alexa what the weather is going to be for the day – anything to make as much noise as possible and wake the still-slumbering Harriet up from where she’s crashed out on the sofa.
It works like a charm.
‘Hey, sleepy girl!’ I smile breezily, as Harriet yawns and stretches her way into the kitchen, all swishy-haired and fresh-faced, with not a dark circle under her eyes to be seen. Which annoys me irrationally, but I let it go.
Come on, take the bait, I think, taking particular care not to show the pressure I’m under here. But then, if I say so myself, when I go into character, Meryl Streep has nothing on me. And my performance this morning is ‘supportive best friend, here to do nothing more than apologise for getting off on the wrong foot’. As my nan always told me, you catch far more flies with sugar than with vinegar.
‘Meg!’ Harriet says, sleepily rubbing her big blue eyes. ‘It’s so early – what are you doing up and about?’
‘Like I need an excuse to make breakfast for my best friend?’ I beam back at her, flashing my very brightest smile. ‘I hope you’re hungry, by the way, because you want to see what I’ve got going on here. Fresh fruit to start, then a healthy ginger and carrot smoothie, then scrambled eggs and as much toast as you’re able to eat. You got far too skinny out in Kenya, honey, we need to start piling a bit of weight back on you!’
‘Wow,’ Harriet says, wide-eyed, as she pulls out a stool at the granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen, clambers up onto it and wraps her long, tanned legs around its cold chrome frame. ‘You seem so different this morning. You seem much more like . . . well, much more like you, really.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ I say cheerily, tossing a tea towel over my shoulder and giving the scrambled eggs I have in a pot a good stirring.
‘Because you haven’t been yourself at all since I arrived,’ Harriet says, looking a bit puzzled. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. You’ve been so . . . so . . .’
Instinct tells me to stop with the cooking, and to go with the moment.
‘I know, I know, mea culpa,’ I say, turning around to face her from the opposite side of the island and spreading my hands out wide in what I hope is an ‘I’m sorry’ gesture. Contrite and humble is what I’m going for here. ‘And I just wanted to say that I’m so sorry about that, Harriet. I really am. If I seemed a bit . . . you know . . . maybe . . . distracted?’
‘Oh, no,’ says Harriet innocently. ‘You weren’t distracted at all. You were full-on, out-and-out rude to me. You were practically shoving me out the door. As if I was being a nuisance to you. I was so upset about it. All day yesterday. I even said as much to Freddie when he called over.’
Jesus. This is far, far worse than I had thought. This calls for me at my most charming, my most sincere, my most manipulative.
‘I know, love,’ I say, faux apologetically. ‘And I only hope that you’ll forgive me. It’s this new job, you see. The stress of it is killing me. The hours are horrendous, well, you’ve seen that for yourself, and my manager is down on me like a ton of bricks over even the tiniest little thing—’
I chance a sneaky little side-eye at Harriet, to check if she’s buying into it. Bingo. Sure enough, she’s looking back at me sympathetically, nodding and listening intently, just like she used to with all those aul ones in that stinking charity shop, back in the day.
‘I thought it might be something like that,’ she says softly.
‘Now, don’t get me wrong,’ I hasten to add. ‘The money is phenomenal. In
fact, that’s the one good thing about the job – it means I’m able to afford the rent on this place.’
‘Oh really?’ says Harriet. ‘I did wonder about that, all right.’
‘Anyway, I just wanted to ask for your forgiveness,’ I say, praying that I’ve pitched it right. Harriet used to be so bloody soft-hearted, she’d believe anything, and I’m counting on that not having changed. ‘You and I got off on the wrong foot,’ I tell her, ‘and I’m here to make amends. I was just a bit . . . surprised . . . to see you huddled up in my doorway the other night, that’s all. It was so out of the blue, so unexpected. But in a good way. And now that you’re here, I just wanted to say it’s magic to see you again. It’s wonderful. I missed you so much, Harriet, and you know you’re welcome to stay here just as long as you like.’
The odd thing is that I almost believe myself. For a brief moment I allow myself to imagine having company in this apartment, not coming home to an empty place, day in, day out. I even manage to let my eyes well up as I say it. God, I sometimes think, if this line of work dries up for me, I could always turn to the stage.
It works beautifully. Next thing, Harriet hops down off her stool and comes around the island to give me a big, sloppy bear hug.
‘That’s OK,’ she says warmly, ‘you’re back to being you again, and that’s all that matters.’
‘You’re just the sweetest, kindest friend,’ I say, blinking back a little tear, a gesture copied directly from Nicole Kidman in Big Little Lies. ‘Now come on, sit yourself down and help yourself to scrambled eggs. Americano to have with it? White, no sugar, that right?’
‘You remembered,’ Harriet smiles, doing as she’s told, while I plate up the eggs, sprinkle them with salt and pepper and serve them up to my guest, along with her coffee, just the way she likes it.
The Fixer Page 14