Her Last Secret

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  * * *

  Jazmine put the phone down with a huff of frustration. She had tried Benjamin a dozen times or more and he wasn’t picking up.

  Stupid, really, to show him loyalty when he had shown her none, but she couldn’t help it. She had wanted to speak with him one more time – to give him fair warning that she was going to call the police.

  There was no other way.

  Benjamin knew the law as well as she did. If one of the directors of a company ran off, leaving debts, the other directors would be chased for the outstanding money. She would, of course, argue she should only be responsible for paying half of the deficit at the very most, but it would be futile. HMRC would chase her for the payment in its entirety, even though she had not been involved in any way with the tax fiddle.

  She would lose everything.

  Unless, perhaps, she blew the whistle on Benjamin first. If she handed over the scant evidence she had gathered, conceivably, they would be a little more lenient with her and, hopefully, she wouldn’t be prosecuted under criminal law.

  Her hand hovered over the phone one more time, then moved away. She wouldn’t call the police.

  She pulled on her coat, and told her PA she was going out and wasn’t sure how long she’d be. Her last thought as she left the building was that she could quite happily swing for her so-called partner.

  Eighty-Two

  Benjamin wasn’t sure how long he had been walking. He realised with a start that he had left his car in the tax office car park. Well, it would be theirs soon enough, so there was no point going back to get it. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, but he didn’t recognise the street or its name.

  His phone rang again. He ignored it. When it stopped, he pulled it out and stared at it. Screwed up his courage and dialled voicemail. Instead of ranting messages about his secret shame, his PA and Jaz were worried about him.

  ‘Just call me, Benjamin,’ his partner begged.

  Her concern made him feel like crap.

  Even more like crap.

  He still wasn’t going to answer the phone, though, because he had absolutely no clue what to say. Pretending to be his usual, cocky self was impossible.

  Benjamin hated being out of control. He needed to find a way to wrest it back somehow. How? Thoughts and fears whirled round his mind faster than a rotor blade. All his options had been closed down to him.

  There was one person who might, just might, be able to help him out:

  The Russian.

  Benjamin thought of the dodgy rumours Jazmine had warned him about. He’d heard a load himself but reckless desperation had driven him to try to woo Vladimir Tarkovsky. Officially, the Russian had refused the business proposition, but Benjamin had an alternative proposal.

  Through the fog, he saw a familiar orange glow coming towards him and stuck his hand up to hail the black cab.

  ‘Southwark Street,’ he ordered.

  Benjamin’s destination was the Blue Fin Building, an edifice named after the 2,000 blue aluminium fins covering its outside. It stood at the back of Tate Modern, in the heart of London’s South Bank, reaching to the sky like an eager child with all the answers. Renting office space there must have cost Vladimir an arm and a leg – or someone else their limbs, if rumours were to be believed. Benjamin tried not to be intimidated by the impressive double-height entrance, huge lobby, and floor-to-ceiling windows. He stood in the middle of the hangar-size lobby and looked up. The view was vertiginous. The architects had left a donut-like hole through the centre of the building, so he could see all the way up to the ceiling right at the top of the building. Surrounding him above were gleaming, glass-fronted balconies.

  There was still time to change his mind.

  Only, of course, there wasn’t.

  Up to the second floor the desperate man went, trying to slide on his mask of charming arrogance. There were so many cracks in it now that someone was bound to see the truth.

  Shoulders back, head high, hands in pockets to add a casual air. He was as ready as he would ever be. Show time.

  * * *

  The receptionist on the second floor looked wary when Benjamin tried to blag his way in, though.

  ‘You don’t have an appointment,’ she kept insisting.

  ‘He’ll want to see me, just tell him who it is,’ twinkled Benjamin. Nothing. ‘You know what? Don’t tell him. On your head be it.’

  He started to walk away.

  Smiled as he heard the PA pick up her phone and dial. A swift conversation later, and he was ushered inside. He tried not to look too smug as he walked past the secretary, but he couldn’t resist tipping her a wink.

  The Russian was gazing out of his window, but turned as soon as his unexpected guest walked in.

  ‘Benjamin. What a pleasant surprise. Have you come to invite me shooting again?’

  Benjamin shook Vladimir’s hand; a two-hander of confidence that encased his new best friend’s paw with both of his – and gave an all-important glimpse of that expensive watch. The one which helped Benjamin land deals and impress people.

  ‘I’ll cut straight to the chase,’ Benjamin smiled. His successful business persona slid into gear as smooth as a sports car. Against all odds, he was in control again. ‘I’ve got a great business opportunity for you. You have a finger in every business pie but accounting. Thomas & Bauer are expanding. Instead of us looking after your business concerns and you becoming one of our clients in the normal way… how about becoming a silent partner?

  ‘It’s a surprise, I know, Vladimir, but hear me out. We’ve got a lot of very exciting opportunities heading our way next year, and we would love you to be a part of that.

  ‘I’ll be honest, right now we need an investment of cash to make those dreams come true – but they are going to be stellar when they do. I thought I’d give you first refusal. You’ve an incredible reputation, and that precedes you in everything you do. I think this could be the start of a fascinating partnership that will be mutually beneficial.’

  And breathe.

  Benjamin held the Russian’s gaze. Forced himself not to break eye contact.

  ‘I’m not interested,’ Vladimir said.

  The words seemed to slip to the floor and shatter as Benjamin looked on, helpless.

  ‘Have a think, get back to me in twenty-four hours. Businessmen like us don’t stop working just because it’s Christmas,’ he tried. He was met with a firm shake of the head.

  ‘If that is all, Benjamin, I must be getting on.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait.’ He wiped at a trickle of sweat running down his temple. Forced a smile. ‘Wait. How about we come to a more personal arrangement then – a – a loan. I’ve heard you offer certain people loans, under certain conditions.’

  A smile as wide as a shark’s grew beneath Vladimir’s porn star moustache. ‘You have been listening to too many tall tales about me, my friend. Imagine for a moment they are true – do you think I am a fairy godmum who waves a magic wand to give people money? There has to be a chance of repayment, and you have the stench of desperation pouring from you.’ He pointed at Benjamin’s forehead, tracing the progress of the traitorous bead of perspiration.

  The Russian leaned in. The men’s faces were intimately close.

  ‘I think you would find my terms of business a little… back-breaking. Particularly given the rumours I have heard about the taxman – yes, I do not contemplate giving someone my business without first doing a little digging. I suggest that tomorrow you hand back all the files you have on us, and you do not contact me again. Otherwise, I will not be a happy man.’

  Benjamin swallowed and stepped away. Nodded quickly. ‘Of course. Yes. Thank you for your time.’

  Eighty-Three

  ‘Yay! It’s Christmas Eve; Santa’s coming tomorrow!’ Mouse eyed up her presents as she drew breath. ‘Could I open one now? Please, Mummy? Pur-lease.’

  Mummy carried on staring into the kitchen sink. She didn’t even seem to realise Mouse was th
ere.

  Everyone was in such a stinky mood. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everyone was meant to be happy, and make snowmen – although it wasn’t snowing – and sing carols. Maybe if she sang some carols… She started to, but Mummy rubbed at her head and said she had a headache.

  ‘You’re so grouchy. I don’t think Santa should bring you a present,’ Mouse huffed.

  She was sick of her family ruining her Christmas. Mummy probably had a headache because of all the shouting the day before. That was why Ruby was in a stinky mood, Mouse knew. She hadn’t meant to get Ruby in trouble, but it had been such a surprise seeing Harry there that she hadn’t even recognised him. Now her big sister wasn’t speaking to her. She wasn’t speaking to anyone, and had hidden herself away in the bedroom.

  This was a rubbish Christmas.

  It better not get any worse, or she’d start telling people exactly what she thought of them.

  Eighty-Four

  Every step up the garden path of his home took all of Benjamin’s strength. The hordes of hell seemed to be hanging onto his limbs, trying to drag him down with them, he felt so heavy.

  He was going to tell Dom everything. He had no choice. It was all going to come out anyway.

  She was in the kitchen, arms up to her elbows in suds, handwashing the delicate glass bowls which were a family heirloom she had inherited from her grandmother. Every year she used them on Christmas Day, in memory of the beloved gran she had been so close to.

  Would she have to sell them?

  It was all his fault.

  The guilt wrapped itself around his petty heart and squeezed off the blood supply until it turned black. He cast his eyes around the kitchen, trying to find the words to explain what he had done, but all he found was more guilt, more anger, more failure.

  He spied a pile of shopping bags. His blood pressure rose.

  ‘You’ve been spending more money? It doesn’t grow on trees, you know, Dom.’

  She turned. Gave him a look full of disdain. She was trying to make him feel small. Bitch.

  ‘Oh, hello, Benjamin. I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘More crackers?’ He continued as if he hadn’t heard her, pointing at the boxes of festive treats. ‘Why do we have to have so many? Why do we have to have them at all? They’re so pointless. The hats and the crackers are so clichéd, and nobody can honestly believe these things make people laugh. It’s another piece of boredom.’

  ‘They’re for Mouse—’

  ‘Amber—’

  ‘She loves them. And I’m sorry if they bore you.’ Her whole body seemed to stiffen, as if about to suffer some kind of seizure, before she spoke again. ‘I know you’re having an affair, Benjamin.’

  Eighty-Five

  She had said it. For all her good intentions of holding it in until after Christmas, for the children’s sake, Dominique had failed.

  She wasn’t sure why she had chosen now to say those words. Perhaps because she liked the crackers and at that moment they seemed to symbolise every difference, large and small, that the couple had. Perhaps she was sick of being the hypocrite Ruby accused her of. Perhaps, simply because the washing-up gave her an excuse to look elsewhere, so she didn’t have to meet Benjamin’s eye as she exploded the lie their life had become.

  She stared hard at the soap suds, fascinated by them, as she spoke the words again, to prove to herself that she had the courage.

  ‘I know you’re having an affair.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he said, voice calm. ‘Is this one of your funny dreams?’

  The thump of hurt and resentment her heart gave made her flinch, but she carried on dabbing at the fragile glass bowl she was holding. It sparkled as she lifted it, the delicate carvings seeming to come to life for a moment as the light played across them.

  She forced her voice to be as calm as his. She needed to bring the ice queen out.

  ‘No, it’s not one of my dreams, Benjamin. You aren’t married to an idiot – unfortunately for you.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, do you not think I have better things to do than discuss your vivid imaginings? I’m going out.’

  ‘Back to work?’ she spat. ‘Poor you, having to work all those long hours.’

  ‘You really don’t appreciate anything that I do, do you? Eh? All the hard work I do to keep this family going, to buy you the perfect house, a decent car, and clothes, get your hair done every week. You and the kids have a bloody awesome lifestyle because of me, and not one of you ever shows any gratitude.’

  What?

  Usually, Dominique would be caught on the back foot by a comment like that. Not today. Today she lost the plot.

  ‘How dare you? How bloody dare you accuse me of not appreciating what you do? I say thank you all the time to you, for all the hours you work, for providing for us. Do you ever listen to me, Benjamin? When was the last time you acknowledged the work I do holding this family together? Or thanked me for creating a comfortable home for you and the kids? You didn’t acknowledge the Christmas decorations that took all day to put up; you completely failed to notice, and only grunted when I pointed it out to you. You certainly expressed no gratitude for me pulling out all the stops when you decided to invite Heidi and James here at the last minute. You hypocrite!’

  Benjamin stood his ground but from the way he pulled his chin in, she could tell her words had knocked him for six. It wasn’t enough. She beat her hands down in frustration, creating tidal waves of suds that slopped all over the counter.

  ‘Is that your excuse for sleeping with someone else, Benjamin? Because I didn’t say thank you enough?’ She flung her arms up, jazz hands, mocking. Rivulets forming down her arms and dripping off her elbows as she turned to him full on, eyes blazing so hard he actually leaned back. ‘Shall I dance my gratitude, Benjamin? Would that be enough? Ooh, I’m so very, very grateful to you for everything you’ve ever done for me. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for pretending to work long hours while actually having it away with someone else.’

  ‘This is bollocks. I’m out of here. See you when you come to your senses.’

  ‘When was the last time you showed me any love, Benjamin? When was the last time you put your arm around me?’

  The recollection of him tenderly leading her to their bed when he found her on the landing, flashed in her mind.

  She turned back to the sink, and her hands dived into the water, grateful of the escape from this awful scene. If only the rest of her body could follow, she wished. But she held onto the anger in order to stop guilt taking over.

  ‘Once Christmas and New Year are over, I want you out. Until then we will keep up appearances for the children’s sake. We’ll sit them down together on New Year’s Day and tell them we are splitting up.’

  ‘Oh, happy bloody New Year. Are you kidding me? Get a grip, Dom, you’ve finally lost it. You’re not taking my kids away from me. You’re a wreck, you’re dangerous around them. Who knows what you’ll do in one of your crazy dreams. You know what? No one would blame me for having someone else on the go, not once they heard how deranged you are.’

  Benjamin turned on his heel. Dominique heard his footsteps receding hurriedly.

  She took a deep breath, then another and another until her heart slowed from painful thumping. There was no triumph at finally telling the truth; and victory over Benjamin was hollow because it signalled the break-up of her family. Her bare feet were soaked from the water that drip, drip, dripped over the counter edge still. Knowing no one else would take care of it but her, she whipped a couple of tea towels off the rail, got on her knees, and mopped up until the only trace of the argument was the slightest sheen on the terracotta tiles.

  Eighty-Six

  Mum had got the shakes again. Bad, man. Harry took the glass away from her before she chucked the whole drink down herself.

  Harry’s mum had Parkinson’s, which doctors described as a progressive neurological condition, and he described as a total bastard. Th
ere was no cure, no magic bullet to make everything better.

  His dad had apparently had a good job down on Angerstein Wharf, something to do with cement or whatever, but Harry wouldn’t know as his dad had walked out on them when he was six – when his mum had given birth to his twin brothers, and she had started to exhibit the first signs of Parkinson’s. She had worked at the big supermarket on the tills until she got too ill and had to leave. There had been complaints, because people thought she was drunk. Although the supermarket had stood by her and done their level best to keep her on, it had got too much for her.

  Many people, Harry knew, managed to maintain a very good quality of life despite their Parkinson’s. With her typical luck, his mum wasn’t one of them, though. The condition had taken a brutal toll on her, and now she had trouble swallowing and slurred her words. She had barely any strength, was constantly knackered. Sometimes she’d sweat like a druggie going through withdrawal, but most of the time she was freezing, which was tough because they couldn’t afford to have more than one bar of the useless electric fire on most of the time. Instead, Harry bundled her up with a duvet.

  The days of her being able to cook, clean, or look after her family were behind her now. She tried hard not to let it get her down, Harry knew, but sometimes she was depressed. Like, proper depressed: staring at the walls and crying non-stop and saying everyone would be better off if she died. That she wanted to die. He hated it when she talked like that.

  Harry did his level best to hold the family together, but it wasn’t easy being Mum and Dad to his baby bros, and carer to his mum, when he hadn’t even yet turned sixteen. Sometimes he felt like screaming, or running away, or both. Sometimes he wanted to die, too.