Scandalous

by Martel Maxwell

  Lucy felt the wind through her vintage Westwood cream-satin blouse and tight black jeans but she felt numb to its assault. A photo album of images of her mother flashed through her mind. Swimming naked with them in Cornwall when Max and Lucy were children, putting on plays for the return of her stepfather from work. Lucy had a biological father she loved but Fergal had been just like a dad, always making her feel equal in his heart to Max.

  While he had worked hard to establish his carpentry business, Marj had marketed the company and it became a household name in Dundee and nearby towns in Tayside. But she had seen her full-time job as investing every ounce of energy into making her daughters happy and strong enough to take on the world. And this was how she had been rewarded.

  And all because of Hartley. Lovely Hartley. She could not think badly of him through any of this. He was probably as bewildered as her, perhaps more so. While Lucy knew the details that had been published painted her wrongly as a ruthless liar, gold-digger and opportunist, Hartley knew no such thing. He must think of her as such a fraud. And yet she could not help but hope he had glimpsed the real her – the honest woman who loved him dearly. But it was stupid to think he would hold on to his impression of Lucy after all of this. And anyway, what did it matter? She had heard rumours and spotted a diary piece hinting that Hartley had started seeing Bridget again. The thought of him with anyone else, let alone Bridget, was too much to bear. It hurt like hell to think Hartley had moved on so quickly when she still thought about him all the time.

  Carlos would know what to say. Shit, now she remembered: he was trouble-shooting in the Bahamas after a model had assaulted an air hostess on the way to a job there. No doubt she was high as a kite and would blame the stresses of work/lost luggage/a recent relationship breakup – or rather, Carlos would invent a kick-ass story to save her from community service.

  The sharp ringing of her mobile cut through her thoughts. It was Amy. They hadn’t spoken much since the evening they met Hartley at Annabel’s. They had texted and emailed, promising to meet up soon, but Amy had a new project on at work which had her working late. Lucy had been busy too, at the magazine and – she smiled sadly as she admitted it to herself – falling in love.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Boy, am I glad to hear your voice. I take it you’ve seen the story?’

  ‘I have. Don’t worry. Today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapping, Luce.’

  Amy was relieved to hear her friend at least try to laugh. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘There is. You can help me get very drunk tonight.’

  EXPOSED: TRUTH BY TEXT

  Getting Bridget’s mobile number had been easy. A journalist friend had given her the number of a dodgy contact who specialized in ‘pulling’ phone bills – give him the name, date of birth, address of anyone and the chances were he could get not only their mobile phone number but their credit card details too.

  Max had then bought a cheap pay-as-you-go phone. Armed with a new anonymous number – the last person she wanted to have her real number was the ghastly Bridget – she considered for some time what she would text.

  There was no doubt in Max’s mind that Bridget was behind what had happened in Scotland. She worked on the assumption that Bridget had paid the photographer. Lucy had told Max he had a thick London accent. He would hardly have travelled all that way for free – and Bridget could afford to pay him handsomely through the Bank of Beames.

  Max could also assume that Bridget had sworn this man to secrecy – she could never be linked to the incident. Max’s hunch was that Bridget had not so much as divulged her name to the man, for fear of him ever blabbing. But Bridget’s control-freakery would have made it impossible for her not to bark commands at him by phone to ensure the job went exactly as she had planned.

  Max played with the wording of her text before settling on: ‘This is my new number should you need me again. Your photographer friend.’

  Max knew it might amount to nothing. Bridget might suspect something was up and call the snapper’s old number. But this trick had worked for Max before. She had bought a pay-as-you-go a few months ago and texted a Cabinet Minister she suspected of having an affair with a pretty student. ‘This is my new number, Cheryl x’ it had read and… bingo! He had replied with: ‘I wish I was buried in your breasts right now.’ Ha! That had made the front page and a double-page spread inside. Cheryl had pocketed twenty grand, the politician – who professed publicly to being a devout Christian and family man – had been uncovered as a hypocrite and Max had been the toast of the newspaper. Everyone was happy – apart from the politician, of course, though he had managed to keep his job and his wife.

  Sure, Bridget no doubt thought of herself as intellectually superior to almost everyone. But those who, like Bridget, had had everything given to them on a plate rarely possessed the cunning of those who had had to work for results.

  Max’s text was general enough for Bridget not to worry that it would catch her out – it was vague and ambiguous.

  Max relished the task of trapping Bridget because it stopped her being consumed by thoughts of Luke. He had texted again. ‘Max, you OK? Would love to see you xx’

  Poor Luke. If he had experienced half of what she had felt on their date, he must be bewildered as to why she was ignoring him. More than bewildered: utterly devastated. But it had to be this way. It would be disloyal to tell him Lucy was behind her decision to stop seeing him. He might blame Lucy, and Max would not risk coming between them. As her sister had said, family is everything. It was better for everyone if nothing was allowed to happen. He would soon forget.

  Max was determined Lucy would never know how much Luke meant to her and resolved never to talk to Lucy about him. But she had had to confide in someone for fear of going mad, so she had called her mother a few days ago.

  Marj had been quiet on the other end of the line. Max wished she could see her mother’s face, to read her thoughts.

  ‘I know I have to step back, Mum. It’s just, well, I really liked him. But it’s complicated.’ Max had chided herself – her words made her sound childish, like a schoolgirl with a crush. She hoped her mum couldn’t hear the hurt in her voice.

  ‘What do you mean, complicated?’

  Max didn’t want to make her worry. The last thing Marj needed was to be burdened with the knowledge that one of her daughters had fallen for her other daughter’s half-brother.

  ‘Oh I’ll tell you another time, Mum.’ Max hoped she sounded more positive than she felt.

  ‘Darling, what is meant for you will not go by you,’ Marj told Max, sensing her daughter didn’t want to tell her more.

  Max smiled. Her mum’s clichés normally helped. But not this time.

  And now, as she remembered that conversation, Max was so relieved that she hadn’t told her mother any more: she’d still be reeling from Max’s news when she was hit with the shock of today’s newspaper article ‘uncovering’ Lucy’s murky past.

  Murky, my arse, thought Max as she rubbed Clarins Beauty Flash Balm on her face in the hope of masking another late night.

  Their childhood had been idyllic compared to half the girls Lucy had boarded with. Being sent away so their parents could do exactly as they pleased, or even move to another country, had left many of them miserable, with eating disorders and insecurities that followed them like a dark cloud for life. Max and Lucy had been loved by their mother and father – for that’s what Dad was to both of them. Their mother would have stood for no less, but Fergal did it because he was a strong, decent man. God knew what his reaction to the article had been. He had hardly been mentioned – the only comments were that he was a carpenter, not one with a successful business, and that he was a ‘hard-drinking Irishman’, which was a stretch of the truth given he enjoyed a few pints with workmates once or twice a week at his local and dinner out over a bottle of wine with Mum on Saturdays. Compared to most of the Irishmen she knew, that pretty much qualif
ied as teetotal.

  He was every inch the Alpha Male, seeing his role as providing for and protecting his family. He would be furious to think his girls had been hurt by the article. True to his Irish roots back in Armagh, on the country’s borders, family was everything. And he was strong, so heaven help the reporter who was to blame for the story should he ever bump into Fergal Summers.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when her specially purchased phone buzzed.

  Max experienced the thrill of victory. The text was from Bridget. It simply said, ‘OK.’ It was enough, if not to prove her guilt, to point strongly towards it. Max hoped it would also be enough to make Hartley see how wrong he had been.

  LUCY: I WILL SURVIVE

  Lucy rifled through her wardrobe like a woman possessed. She couldn’t wait to get out, to laugh, to drink and forget, she hoped, about Hartley and that damned newspaper story.

  Everything is bloody knee-length and below, she thought as she dismissed each one of her pristine outfits. Pastel-pink Matthew Williamson knit dress – too girly; chocolate-brown Stella McCartney wrap dress – too sophisticated. That was her problem, Lucy told herself – she was too damn sensible. Never drunk, always ladylike, conscientious, dependable. And where had it got her? No boyfriend and half of London thinking she was some manipulative gold-digger. It was time for Lucy to have some fun and she would start with looking through Max’s wardrobe for an outfit.

  She ran to Max’s room in her dressing gown – her sister was out at some premiere or other – and opened her wardrobe. Lucy laughed out loud: it was as messy as hers was neat. Skimpy tops that had slipped off hangers lay on the floor; hangers were smothered in three or four dresses each, no doubt hung in a drunken stupor. It was always Max who came to Lucy for clothes, normally with a frantic brief to make her look smart enough to gatecrash a posh party. More than once, Max had returned a vintage Westwood blouse or cashmere blazer with a red-wine stain or cigarette burn, but she had always had the good grace to have it repaired straight away.

  But tonight the roles were reversed because Lucy wanted to be a party girl. That said, Max’s D&G bra masquerading as a top was taking it a little far. She could never wear a skirt that short, she thought as she browsed through her sister’s wardrobe.

  ‘Aha,’ Lucy said triumphantly as she spotted the dress she had often admired on Max. A Moschino metallic-silver number. Foxy. Yes, it was time for Lucy to dress the way she felt. And she felt she wanted to take a risk for once – to be young, free, wild. Hell, she would start by opening a bottle of wine. It was only 5.30 p.m. and she wasn’t meeting Amy for an hour, but after the day she’d had she deserved it. Lucy still hadn’t heard from her mum, despite leaving another message. She resolved to call her again in the morning. Perhaps she could take a couple of days off work and drive home to see her. She desperately hoped Marj was OK. She was made of strong stuff, but that day’s story wasn’t just a surprise, the majority of it was made up – or at least spun out of control to paint Marj, Lucy and Max as something they were not.

  Back in her room, Lucy switched on her iPod and smiled as Nina Simone’s ‘Feeling Good’ blared out of the speakers. She might not be feeling so good, but mind over matter was a powerful thing, she told herself. No point wallowing in self-pity. Those who thought less of her after the day’s story were not true friends. Lucy, Max and Marj knew the truth and that was all that mattered. Lucy had toyed with the idea of ringing the newspaper and giving the editor a piece of her mind. But experience at the magazine had taught her that putting forward your side of the story made you look a little fame-hungry, and that’s one thing Lucy was not. She wanted nothing more than to fade back into anonymity. In any case, ignoring the attention placed upon her could only make the story go away all the sooner.

  Poor Max had called her in a state of high excitement that afternoon. Like a child with too many things to say in one breath, she had told Lucy that she had proof Bridget was behind the whole photographer affair.

  ‘OK, so it’s not concrete, but it’s pretty damning and Hartley –’

  ‘Stop.’ Lucy cut Max off. She had thought about nothing else but proving herself to Hartley. She had thought about it so much that she had realized there was absolutely no point. ‘Max, if I have to prove my innocence like this, I’m better off without him.’

  ‘What? No, Luce, you don’t understand. It’s the only –’

  ‘No,’ Lucy interrupted her sister again. ‘It’s not the only way. If he loved me and if he knew me half as well as I thought he did, there would be no need for this. But, Max?’

  ‘Yes,’ came her deflated, faint response.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much it means, having you on my side. No matter how bad things are, having you batting for me always makes it better.’

  Lucy could sense Max soften.

  ‘No worries, Luce. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, Max. Swear you won’t do anything with that text.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Max?’

  ‘Yes, hand on heart, I promise. I kind of see what you mean – he should have trusted you all along.’

  It was a relief Max had seen her point of view, she thought as she lathered a layer of cocoa butter over her skin, followed by a dusting of Benefit body glimmer. Slipping the dress over her head, she closed her eyes until it settled on her body. She felt nervous. She had never had the raw confidence Max exuded, the wild streak of abandon. And here she was looking like… what? Standing in front of her oak-framed, full-length mirror, she took herself in. She looked like a young woman with a lust for life. Lucy laughed. That’s just how it should be. The dress was hardly indecent – it was conservative by Max’s standards, if not Lucy’s. The neckline was high, skimming her collarbones and cutting across them in a straight line. The sleeves were full-length and flared at her wrists with dramatic effect every time she swished her arms. The stretchy silver fabric was neither skin tight nor loose but traced Lucy’s toned body, showing off her flat tummy and full womanly breasts. It covered her bottom with a good few inches to spare. Quite respectable really. As she turned round and looked back into the mirror Lucy let out a yelp… there was no back whatsoever. One big plunging back-line, so low you could almost see the top of her bum. But, somehow, an exposed back was sexy; it wasn’t like putting your breasts out there for the world to see.

  Lucy slipped on a pair of Wolford matt-black-satin tights and strappy silver Gina heels. Normally £400, she had bought them after they were reduced by 70 per cent. A missing ankle strap had deemed them faulty, but Lucy had matched the material at a nearby fabric shop and had them looking perfect within hours.

  She took a sip of the cold Pinot Grigio she had poured. It tasted good. Deciding on a wilder look than normal, she backcombed her hair a little at the roots for volume, then applied a liquid black eyeliner and grey shadow over her eye sockets. She highlighted her cheekbones with a dusting of Versace pink shimmer and dabbed a thick layer of clear MAC gloss on her lips.

  Very sixties glam, she told herself as she turned from the mirror and drained her glass. She would enjoy herself tonight if it killed her. Sure, if she stopped for a moment to think of Hartley, she would probably break down in tears. The hurt was almost unbearable. But she had to be strong. The more she thought about what had happened, the more she started to feel hurt by Hartley. He couldn’t really have known her if he was prepared to think she would betray him, even if all the signs pointed to her. Lucy wanted someone who unquestioningly believed in her. But then, did he have any choice but to doubt her? Stop it, she told herself. Amy has booked a fabulous restaurant. You are going to wine, dine, laugh, slur, dance and stumble home this evening. You are going to forget about Hartley and have fun, goddamn it.

  Punching Amy’s number into her phone, Lucy chose a black shawl from her wardrobe to guard against the evening chill.

  ‘Aims, hi. I’m leaving now. I’ll pick you up in a cab in twenty?’

  Lucy grabbed her black-leather Prada baguette and l
eft the flat.

  ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DOORSTEP

  Max had been sitting outside the pop star Jay Conner’s Hampstead house for two hours. At least she was warm; she was in Greg’s van with blacked-out windows. Greg, a photographer with baggy jeans and shifty eyes, worked for the same paper. He moaned less than most of the snappers, but their conversation had dried up a good hour ago and Max studied the Daily Express. Not that there was much to study apart from a couple of thin showbiz stories and the obligatory front page about Princess Diana. What was it with the paper’s obsession with her more than a decade after her death? Max browsed the sport pages. A poor knowledge of the big-hitting Premiership football players’ names, their salaries and their positions let down many a female showbiz reporter. Football and celebrity were inextricably entwined, after all, Max thought as she nursed a polystyrene cup of lukewarm coffee from a café at the end of the road.

  Max’s boss had had a tip that Jay – whose second single had followed the first to the top of the charts last week – was in the grip of a serious addiction to the old Columbian marching powder and his dealer called by his house religiously on Thursday afternoons. As many stars who had found fame at a young age would testify, they had no idea how to handle the massive transformation. Jay’s case was the perfect example. He had found himself on the guest list to every celeb party in London, with no shortage of hangers-on queuing to buy him drinks, offer a line or two and laugh at his jokes. Club owners would ask him to choose a girl he fancied and they’d bring her over – oh, and they could use the back room if they wanted. Having Jay in their club brought publicity money couldn’t buy. Nothing was too much trouble when it came to making sure Jay became a regular. Just months before, he’d been stacking shelves at his local Tesco supermarket in Leeds. How the hell could anyone stay grounded in such a situation at that age? He was handsome in a messy-haired student kind of way – tall and slim with a mop of wavy brown hair girls would kill for. But he was in danger of becoming a two-hit wonder if he continued down this route.