Hidden

by Derick Parsons

  With her eyes on the candle in the middle of the table she opened her mouth to refuse but instead found herself saying, ‘Okay. I think I’d like that.’

  Michael didn’t exactly do cartwheels across the restaurant but he smiled and she could feel his pleasure coming in waves across the table. ‘Great,’ he said softly, touching her hand, ‘I’ll pay the bill. As a trade-off, and in the interests of women’s lib, you can drive us back to my place; I gave the chauffeur the night off.’

  She looked at him with a glimmer of amusement, ‘If I drive that brandy might have to go unsampled.’

  He grinned, ‘Or you could drink your fill and stay the night. I’d hate you to be arrested for drunk driving.’

  He paid the bill and they left, shivering a little as they emerged into the chill of the night air. They hurried to Kate’s car and got inside, with Michael folding his long frame into the low-slung sports car only with difficulty. It was almost ten o’clock, meaning that the traffic was light, and they reached his apartment in less than ten minutes, neither suspecting for an instant that they were being followed by a small, innocuous, and rather shabby saloon. Michael led the way up the stairs to his third-floor apartment and opened the door. He stepped aside with a courteous bow and Kate entered, a touch of apprehension fluttering in her stomach. Or was it anticipation? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps a little of both.

  Michael closed the door and moved straight across to the drinks cabinet in the left hand corner of the big sitting-room. ‘As I promised,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘Probably the finest brandy you’ll ever taste.’ He walked across the room with two huge balloon glasses containing generous measures of the amber liquid, ‘Nineteen-thirty Cognac; mellow with age but still potent.’ He grinned, dispelling the air of pompousness that had been growing about him like a cloud, ‘A bit like me, really. Cheers!’

  Kate clinked glasses with him and took a sip; potent was the right word, no question. The brandy slid down very easily but then lit a fire in her stomach. Cognac was not her favorite drink but tonight it was certainly welcome, warming away the night chill and easing away the stresses of the day. And her inhibitions? That remained to be seen. She looked around for a seat but then stopped as Michael took the glass from her hand. He placed the glasses on the coffee table and then caught her in a tight embrace. Before she quite knew what was happening he was kissing her, holding her tight with his left arm while his right hand roamed up and down her body. She twisted her head away, ‘Michael, stop it! Let me go!’

  He didn’t release her but he did pull his head back a little, his voice low and thick with passion as he said, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Are you joking? You jump on me as soon as I walk in here and start mauling me like an animal and you want to know what’s wrong? Let go of me!’

  He didn’t; if anything he held her tighter than ever and leaned forward to nuzzle her neck, saying urgently, ‘Come on, Kate, stop acting coy! Last time you jumped into bed with me practically on first sight, and now you’re suddenly the last virgin in Dublin?’

  He ran his hand up her side and squeezed her left breast and tried to kiss her again. Old, unwelcome memories flooded Kate’s mind and she started to panic, twisting her face away and shouting, ‘Get your fucking hands off me! Let me go!’

  With a convulsive wrench she broke free of him and started for the door.

  ‘Hey,’ he called, startled but still partly amused and unaware of the strength of her reaction, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He reached out and playfully grabbed the back of her blouse to pull her back. The frail blouse ripped with a shockingly loud noise and Kate screamed, as loudly as she could. Instantly he released her and backed away, raising his hands apologetically, ‘Okay, okay! I’ve let you go! I’m not touching you! Go if you want!’

  She grabbed her bag and ran to the door but it was locked and the handle twisted uselessly in her hand. She whirled fiercely, her huge brown eyes brimming with tears, and anger too. ‘Open this bloody door right now!’

  He approached her slowly, his hands still pacifically raised and his expression contrite, ‘Okay, relax, I’m opening it. Jesus, I’m sorry, Kate, I never meant anything like this to happen! It was an accident, okay? Just take it easy. I was only kissing you, for God’s sake! What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Open the bloody door!’

  ‘I am, relax!’ He fished the key from his pocket, ‘I just misread the signals, okay? I thought this was what you came here for?’

  Kate moved aside slightly and he unlocked the door. She grabbed the handle and flung it open before rushing through as if afraid he might try to stop her. She ran down the stairs, hardly listening as he called after her, ‘I’m sorry, Kate, I never meant this to happen!’

  She didn’t stop running until she was safely in her car. With the doors locked. Then she gave way to tears. She sobbed loudly and unashamedly for several minutes before making a convulsive effort to control herself. She took several deep breaths, repeating over and again in her mind, Stop it! Stop it! Nothing happened, you fool, why are you crying?

  Across the road a photographer in a parked car had looked up interestedly when she burst out of the apartment block, her clothes awry. But his interest had turned to predatory focus when he saw Michael looking down at Kate from his apartment window above. He lifted his camera and took several shots, trying to get them both in the frame, before dropping it again to write down her car registration number. Then, with a grin, he took out his mobile phone to ring his bitch of an editor, knowing how much she hated Riordan, and how much she would want this little scoop. For the first and probably last time in his career he was going to be able to say the magic words hold the front page without it being a joke. What a bit of luck, him recognizing Riordan as they left that restaurant, and following them on the off chance of picking up a juicy bit of gossip! And, best of all, there wasn’t another journo in sight!

  Eventually Kate calmed down enough to start the car and drive home, hardly watching where she was going and still not knowing why she had become so upset. After all, she had gone there to sleep with him, hadn’t she? Certainly he had rushed things, had been too aggressive, but she had overreacted a bit too. She had wanted to be there, had intended to spend the night. And he wasn’t to know that she couldn’t bear to be handled roughly, couldn’t stand anything that smacked of force. He knew nothing of her past, nothing about Straub. And in fairness he had let her go as soon as he realized that she was serious, that she wasn’t playing hard to get or something.

  She finally reached her flat and walked tiredly, and a little nervously, down the steps and through the front door. After checking for intruders, which no doubt she would now do every night for the rest of her life, she carefully locked up; an older habit, and yet another legacy of Straub. Too tired to think anymore she took the phone off the hook and crawled into bed, tired and confused, and almost instantly fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next day was clear and bright and filled with cold wintery sunshine, and Kate awoke feeling as fresh as the weather. As soon as her eyes opened she threw back the covers and got out of bed, feeling invigorated and ready for anything, the confusion of the night before forgotten. She made her way into the shower, reviewing the events of the previous night with a clearer mind and a better sense of perspective. And her conclusion was that it had all been no big deal, a storm in a teacup. He would no doubt ring and grovel, whereupon she would decide whether or not to accept his apology. As to anything else; well, she had already pretty much decided that she wanted nothing more to do with him; for all his looks, wealth and charm, the bottom line was that she didn’t like him much. And the initial attraction had well and truly disappeared by now.

  She towelled herself dry and got dressed, humming a little to herself. Then she put the phone back on the hook and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She made herself coffee, and toast with her last crust of bread, and sat down at her little pine
table, knowing that soon the phone would ring. And happy in that knowledge.

  What are you so happy about, Bennett?

  A part of her knew the answer without thinking; here was another man she had been attracted to who had been found wanting, that she could ditch without a qualm. And he was no Peter, so she had no need to agonise over it either. Perhaps, and in spite of her refusal to dig too deeply into her own mind, she was developing a little insight into her own psyche after all. The phone interrupted her and she answered it with a quite cheery, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Kate, it’s me,’ said Michael heavily, ‘Listen, please don’t hang up. I know what I did last night was unforgivable so I’m not asking for forgiveness; I just want the chance to apologise. I guess I got a little carried away. And just look what it’s led to. I thought you were just being coy, that you wanted… Maybe the drinks I had before dinner fogged up my brain a little too. Anyway, I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know. Are you okay?’

  Kate sighed, ‘Of course I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me, you just upset me. I don’t like to be pushed; I don’t like to be forced. And when you started kissing me like that you caught me off guard. And you don’t seem to understand the meaning of the word no.’

  ‘I know,’ he agreed instantly, ‘I behaved like a bloody fool and I’m sorry. I was a bit drunk and... Well, I know how corny it sounds but I just couldn’t resist you.’

  Kate uttered a short laugh; partly amused and partly irritated, ‘Oh, my God! Corny isn’t the word I’d use about that crap, Michael! Come off it! A little flattery to sweeten the apology is one thing, but don’t you think you’re going a bit too far?’

  He laughed softly, ‘I forgot you were a pyschologist. And I am a politician, after all. But it’s true, corny or not. You are beautiful, and sexy as hell.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said dryly, ‘Kate Bennett, femme fatale, irresistible to all men. Please.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to believe me. But I doubt if you’re ever short of male attention either. But I assumed too much, took you for granted, and I’m truly sorry. Can we still be friends?’

  She hesitated for a perceptible length of time, ‘Friends, perhaps, but nothing more. I had a bad experience a couple of years back and I can’t stand to be...forced. I didn’t like what I saw in you last night, and I don’t want to see you again.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said quickly, ‘I know better now than to try and push you. You’re your own woman and you make up your own mind, in your own time.’

  She felt a touch of irritation –methinks the gentleman doth protest too much- and said, a shade caustically, ‘More flattery? Spare me! Listen, I have to go.’

  ‘Okay. But don’t just drop me out of your life altogether, please. If you’re right about this Meagher fellow you might be in danger, or at the very least you might need help in bringing him to justice. Don’t be afraid to ask. I don’t mean to boast but I can help you in just about any circumstances that arise. And I’ll do anything you want me to, to try and make up for all this. I’m sure you can believe that, at least.’

  She did. ‘Thank you. Now goodbye.’

  ‘Wait! Don’t hang up!’

  ‘What?’ she asked impatiently.

  ‘There’s more,’ he said reluctantly, ‘From your demeanour I can only assume you haven’t seen this morning’s newspaper?’

  ‘No, I’m only just up. Why, what’s in it?’

  He sighed heavily, ‘You aren’t going to like this, but I’m afraid you are in it. We are in it. On the front page, actually.’

  ‘What?’ she asked, puzzled, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Kate, but there’s an article about us in today’s Sunday News. A reporter must have been lurking around outside my flat last night and saw you leaving. There’s a photo of you running down the steps, your clothes awry. I’ve been trying to ring you all morning, to warn you. Listen, go out and get a copy of the News and read the article, and then ring me back.’

  ‘The phone has been off the hook, and I think I left my mobile in the car,’ she said absent-mindedly, frozen with horror at the thought of being in any newspaper, much less a rag like the News. Out there for all the world to read? To sneer at and to judge or to laugh at? Her stomach sank at the thought, and she found herself suddenly afraid to read the article.

  ‘So that’s why no one rang to warn you. And no reporters rang to question you either. I’m afraid they’re going to hound you till you speak to them because like it or not I’m a public figure. Though right now I wish I wasn’t. Listen, you’ll have to make some sort of comment or they’ll never leave you alone. Do you want my Press Officer to prepare a release in your name?’

  Completely numb by now Kate said blankly, ‘I think I’d better read the article first. See what it says.’

  There was a long silence and then he said, ‘You’re going to hate it, trust me. But please don’t hold it against me, even though it’s my political profile that made them print it. And, well, I once had a bit of a fling with the editor of the News, and she took it pretty badly when I finished with her. Ever since then she’s passed up no opportunity to make me look bad.’

  ‘Look, I have to go,’ she said in near desperation, wondering how bad the article could be like to unman him like this, ‘I’ll talk to you later!’

  She put the phone down and walked straight out of the flat, not bothering to lock up or even to grab a coat. She walked down to the corner shop with her purse in her hand, sick with dread, and picked up a copy of the paper from the rack outside. Looking at it she went deathly pale as her feeling of dread became a desire to vomit; the entire front page was a photo of her leaving Michael’s apartment block, her coat open and her ripped blouse very much in evidence. Her lacy white bra was clearly visible too. And in the background above her head, clearly outlined in the well-lit window, stood Michael, staring down after her. The headline was even worse, reading; “Minster’s rough TRADE? Girlfriend or INDUSTRY?”

  In a daze Kate paid for her copy and hurried for home, trying to read the article as she walked and trying not to think that every passerby was staring at her. But the words kept blurring and swimming in front of her eyes as the thought screamed in her mind, I’m on the front page of the fucking newspaper! And a rag like the News, at that! In an article that’s making me out to be some kind of whore! Oh fuck,what will Peter think when he sees THAT?

  She finally reached her flat and hurried inside, feeling as if she were living in a waking nightmare, where nothing was quite real. As she entered the phone was ringing and out of habit she picked it up. It was a reporter from the Irish Mirror, asking her to comment on the story, and on her relationship with the Minister. She shook her head in dull wonderment; how the hell had he found out her name and phone number? Had he also discovered her address? Was she going to be hounded in her own home? In shock, she put the phone back down without answering and went on into the kitchen, her eyes feverishly scanning the black type. Inside there was a smaller photo of herself and Michael leaving the restaurant earlier that evening, though mercifully there was no mention of her name or occupation, or the fact that she taught at Trinity. In fact the whole slant of the article seemed designed to indicate that she was some sort of whore, though that was probably only so the writer could make his little puns about “Trade” and “Industry”. Very fucking clever. Which thought in turn made her briefly wonder just how much longer she would be working at the college; perhaps it was just as well she didn’t much care about her job there.

  She read on, though really there was no substance to the story, just the bare fact of a mystery woman being seen running out of the apartment block in tears, with her blouse torn. Though it seemed her identity hadn’t remained a mystery for long; wait till the News got that little titbit. She wondered briefly who could have identified her to the Mirror but then abandoned her speculation as pointless; any one of a hundred people could have seen the article and rung up to tell them her name. Fighting to restrain
tears of humiliation and anger she returned to the paper but the remainder of the article consisted mostly of speculation as to how her blouse had gotten torn, and whether or not Michael Riordan had assaulted her. And, of course, whether she was his lover or a more casual pick-up.

  Kate threw the paper away from her as though it were a venomous snake and closed her burning eyes, tears of anger and mortification spilling over and running down her cheeks; what would Peter say when he saw this? Not that anything she did was his business anymore, but still. Jesus, what a fucking mess.

  Over the next couple of hours the phone hardly stopped ringing at all, with friends, family and even students ringing her up to ask if the article was about her. In fact, Peter was about the only person who didn’t ring. Certainly a or so dozen reporters rang, both on her home phone and her mobile, though she couldn’t imagine how they all got her number so quickly. After phoning Michael and rather shortly -and tensely- clearing it with him, she told one and all that her only connection with the Minster was that she was helping to treat his daughter, and had met with him once or twice to discuss background information on Grainne’s case. And that was all; there was nothing personal between them. The previous evening she had snagged her clothes on the door handle as she left the building, tearing her blouse and hurting her shoulder, which accounted for the tears, but there was of course no truth to the rumour that she had been attacked, by Riordan or by anyone else.

  Most of the callers seemed to be satisfied with this explanation, -or pretended to be- and one or two of the more decent types among the reporters promised to print that in their papers the next day, though whether or not they could be believed only time would tell; good news, after all, makes poor copy for the scandal sheets.