Take My Breath Away

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Fergus sounded pleased with himself. ‘Ali has always been a great believer in the integrity of the creative process. You’ll love working for him. Love it. Two o’clock tomorrow, then?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Scrolling down her customised daily legal update on the internet, Roxanne found her mind wandering. Over the past seven years she had tried to squeeze Grant Dennis out of her mind like water out of flannel. At first, numbed by the horror of all that had happened, she had made herself dizzy and weak from lack of eating. Later, as she grew stronger, the memories jostled back into her consciousness. She would wake screaming, the T-shirt she slept in damp with sweat, after his face loomed up in her nightmares. His handsome, mocking face, distorted by hatred and fear.

  ‘Busy?’ Ben asked. She hadn’t even heard him walking into the room. ‘Glad to see you keeping up to date.’

  She nodded, said nothing. He tugged at the hairs sprouting from his right earlobe, as if they had provoked him to retribution. ‘You’ve made an excellent start. I’m delighted. Relieved, as well, frankly. I can say this, now that you’ve bedded in, so to speak. We obviously took a big chance on you.’

  ‘I want to make the most of it.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’ He smiled, leaned a little closer to her. ‘If you ever need help, you will sing out, won’t you, Roxanne?’

  ‘Of course,’ she promised.

  As he closed the door behind him, she returned to her computer. A thought that had stowed away in the back of her mind came to the surface. Might he be the rich boyfriend whom Chloe had dumped? If so, she didn’t care. The time to worry about Ethics Man was when he thrust a love contract under her nose for signature. Not before.

  She was wearing the clothes she’d worked in yesterday, apart from a fresh pair of borrowed pants, but although she felt grubby, she didn’t care. She couldn’t stop thinking about Chloe, wondering if tonight they would go home together again. They had dodged the subject on the way in from Greenwich. Roxanne wasn’t sure what she wanted, couldn’t guess whether Chloe was simply experimenting with her before taking up with yet another unsuitable boyfriend. For her part, Roxanne wasn’t ready for another heavy relationship. Between them, Grant and Hilary had done this to her: she couldn’t imagine ever sharing her life with someone else forever. Of either sex. She wasn’t even sure whether her time with Hilary had made her aware of her real self and her most deeply rooted desires, or whether she’d merely taken a woman for her lover to help extinguish the memory of Grant Dennis.

  The moment she caught sight of Chloe, she realised something was wrong. The other woman looked up as the door opened and then cast a quick glance at her screen. Her face was scarlet, her lips compressed. Roxanne flinched. She had never seen Chloe so angry before.

  ‘What is it?’

  Chloe pointed at the screen. ‘I’ve been surfing the net. Doing a little more research. Better late than never, eh?’

  Roxanne’s mouth dried. She guessed what was coming next. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me everything last night. Or this morning.’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Roxanne leaned over Chloe. She wouldn’t lie down and allow herself to be trampled over. ‘I never pretended to be a saint.’

  ‘Amazing what you can find on the web. Especially when you want to look up a cause célèbre. There’s a good deal of material about Cassandra Lee, you know.’

  ‘I’ve never checked.’

  ‘You should. If you have the stomach for it.’

  Roxanne took a step back and folded her arms. ‘I didn’t lie to you.’

  In a muffled voice, Chloe said, ‘So you were just economical with the actualité, were you?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Tears were starting to drip down Chloe’s cheeks. She wiped them away with a furious swipe of the hand. ‘I don’t know how you can stand there and look so calm. After what happened.’

  ‘I’m not proud of it,’ Roxanne said quietly.

  Chloe’s gaze had been drawn back to the screen. She was like someone with toothache, unable to resist the urge to probe the tender place. When she spoke again, she didn’t seem to be talking to Roxanne, but rather to herself. She muttered, as if in wonder at her folly, ‘And to think that last night…’

  ‘Yes?’ Roxanne’s own temper was rising. ‘Last night? What are you saying, Chloe? That if you’d known the whole story about Grant Dennis, you wouldn’t have touched me with the proverbial?’

  The tears were flowing freely now. ‘Oh God knows what I’m saying.’

  Roxanne moved towards her, but Chloe put up a hand, as if warding away an evil spirit. ‘Just leave me alone, will you?’

  ‘Chloe…’

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Her voice was choked with emotion. ‘Fucking well leave me alone! It’s true – I would never have let you touch me if I’d known – if I’d known what you’re capable of.’

  There was no reasoning with her. Roxanne went back to her room. She could hear Chloe through the wall, sobbing her heart out. She couldn’t face the pious maunderings of the Thrust dignity at work policy, so she tried to immerse herself in other files, but the trick didn’t come off. She found herself re-reading the same paragraph three, four, five, half a dozen times. A single phrase glared at her from the text. Breach of trust.

  At five o’clock, she heard Chloe’s door slam. Easy to guess that she was meant to hear it. The door banged with such force that the partition dividing the rooms shook. She had to do something. Grabbing her bag, she raced down the corridor; never mind logging out of the computer system or tidying up the documents on her desk. Too late: the lift doors had closed and Chloe was gone. Roxanne did not want to wait for the lift’s return. Better to keep moving. She made for the staircase, crashing down the steps two at a time, as if the fire alarm was shrieking.

  This wasn’t like her. It wasn’t cool to chase someone, the way Hilary had chased her. Besides, there was the risk of rejection, the risk of being hurt. For once, none of that seemed to matter. Strange. She had not known Chloe long and the two of them didn’t have much in common. Yet somehow Chloe had slipped under her skin. If she’d set out to seduce her, she couldn’t have done a better job.

  On the first floor landing, Roxanne paused. Had Chloe set out to seduce her? No, she couldn’t salve her pride so easily. Perhaps Chloe wasn’t only angry because Roxanne hadn’t told the whole story about Grant Dennis. Maybe, in part, she was lashing out because she was embarrassed and ashamed about what had happened between them.

  Chloe could destroy her, if she wanted to. All it would take was a word to Ben. Even if she did not want to be vindictive, she was emotional, someone who did things without thinking them through. It was dangerous to follow her, but Roxanne couldn’t help herself. This was her old failing.

  Roxanne hurried through the revolving doors and looked up and down the Strand. Chloe was twenty metres away. She turned her head and saw Roxanne. Averting her gaze, she stumbled past a couple of passers-by in the direction of Charing Cross.

  ‘Chloe!’

  Roxanne raced after her. Chloe quickened her pace, but soon Roxanne caught her up. They were side by side in the middle of the rush hour crowd. Roxanne was puffing hard at the sudden exertion, wishing she’d paid more attention to the yoga tape. She grabbed Chloe’s arm, yanking it harder than she had intended to attract her gaze.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ Chloe muttered. She pulled away. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Just give me a chance to explain.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Roxanne.’

  Was it imagination, or did she detect a softening in Chloe’s tone? No hint in her stony expression of a willingness to relent. Try again.

  ‘If we can only have a conversation. Five minutes, that’s all I ask. You know the case for the prosecution. What about listening to a plea in mitigation?’

  Chloe pushed her hand through her hair. ‘Oh,
I don’t know.’

  ‘Five minutes, not a second more.’

  Chloe gazed skywards for a moment. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Shall we go to a bar? A cafe?’

  ‘Not likely,’ Chloe said, her face a mask. ‘Let’s sit out in St James’s Park. The world may pass by, but no one will bother to eavesdrop. And we don’t want this to be overheard. Do we?’

  Soon they were sitting next to each other in the park. The grass was parched and wouldn’t stain their clothes, but Roxanne didn’t care either way. Only that morning she had woken up with this woman’s warm body next to hers. Already it seemed a lifetime away.

  ‘So,’ Chloe said. ‘You’re going to tell me your side of the story?’

  ‘If you’re willing to listen.’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘I didn’t lie to you about the lead-up. If anything, I understated how vile it was. I felt like some weedy heiress in one of those nineteeth century novels where the wicked uncle pens her up in the remote stately home. Except that I wasn’t consumptive, I just had anorexia.’

  ‘Tell me about the fifteenth of December,’ Chloe murmured.

  Roxanne winced. Her friend’s research had been thorough. ‘He took me out for dinner. When I wouldn’t eat, he got cross and I fainted with the lack of food. There was a palaver in the restaurant. Grant hated being shown up in front of other people. He couldn’t bear the thought that people might be pointing the finger at the man with the skinny girl who wasn’t taking care of herself. He was furious, said I’d embarrassed him in public and I’d have to be punished.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  No matter how she’d tried to blot it out, that night had haunted her for the past seven years. She could recall every moment. ‘We were in the car park, outside the restaurant. I’d had a couple of drinks, but my strength had gone. I had to lean on him for support. When he opened the boot of his BMW, picked me up and put me inside, there was nothing I could do. Not even scream.’

  Chloe clutched at her throat. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘I thought I was going to lose my mind. The darkness was impenetrable. It was the most terrifying hour of my life.’

  Words couldn’t describe it. However many times she relived that journey, she could never capture the smothering horror of it all. The way she retched whenever she thought of the sauce-coated duckling she had left untouched in the swanky restaurant. The taste of vomit on her tongue. And all the time, the question which didn’t have a certain answer: will he free me before I pass out again – or am I going to die here, alone and afraid in this black airless tomb?

  Grant had driven as if he meant to crash the car. He’d always had a lust for speed, but now the car careered along as if tonight he meant to break every last rule. The brakes howled as he spun round corners and in the back Roxanne’s head had banged against the trunk lid, bringing tears to her eyes. The boot smelled of motor oil and her legs were wedged against a set of tools whose sharp edges dug into her flesh. She was sure he hadn’t taken the straight route home. He meant to squeeze the rage out of his system by taking her on a journey to hell.

  ‘Torture,’ Chloe whispered.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s what it was. When he thought I’d had enough, he headed for home and let me out, but even then he wasn’t finished with me. It was late and he’d had a lot to drink. I didn’t want him to touch me, I was on the verge of passing out, but he handcuffed me to the railings on the stairs. He was into bondage, always had been. Then he had sex with me, made me mimic the poses from those magazines sent by his pal, the Dutch porn king.’

  She paused for breath recalling the steel cuffs which cut into her wrists, the sweaty smell of the man forcing his way into her, the stink of whisky on his breath. The memory of her prayer to a God in whom she did not believe. Please end it.

  ‘It wasn’t so much the pain as the humiliation. There was nothing I could do. The man I’d been crazy about had turned into an animal. I remember closing my eyes while he was on top of me and wondering if I should kill myself after it was over. An overdose, perhaps, or putting a plastic bag over my head’

  Chloe reached out and started stroking Roxanne’s hand. Gentle, rhythmic movements. Her fingers were long and cool. Roxanne didn’t move.

  ‘When he was finished, I wept long and hard. He unlocked the handcuffs and dried my tears, then he took me upstairs. Once he’d shown me who was boss, he could afford to be kind and gentle. He fetched a fresh bottle of Glenfiddich, poured himself a generous measure and smoked a couple of cigarettes. I didn’t say a word, I was too full of self-loathing. Even then, I made my decision. I wasn’t going to destroy myself, or let him destroy me. After a while he fell asleep. I can still picture him, lying there on the black sheets. He looked good naked and he knew it.’

  Roxanne closed her eyes. She was back in the bedroom. It was warm and stuffy with the windows shut and she could see his reflection in the mirrors on the walls and ceiling. Grant liked watching himself perform. For a moment she struggled to remember how she had once lusted after him. But all that belonged to the past. It was over.

  ‘I had to make sure he would never hurt me again.’

  ‘But the method you chose…’

  ‘I wanted to pay him back. I wanted him to – to experience agony. The way I had.’

  She’d found his matches and as he slept, she’d picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich. With infinite care, she’d poured its contents over him. He’d groaned and shifted position on the bed, but he had not woken up. Dead to the world.

  ‘You turned him into a torch.’ Chloe swallowed hard. ‘You doused him in whisky, lit a match and set fire to him.’

  ‘He didn’t notice me. If I thought about it at all, I supposed the house would burn down too and that would end it for both of us. Our funeral pyre.’

  ‘The room had a balcony overlooking the garden and he managed to get through the door in a sheet of flame. Outside it was pouring with rain, perhaps he thought that might give him a chance. So he threw himself off the balcony.’ Chloe’s voice was hoarse. She was making a visible effort to repeat word for word what she had learned. ‘Everyone assumes he was aiming to land on the grass, but if so, he miscalculated. He landed on the York stone patio. A cruel sort of blessing. His head smashed to a squishy mess before he could burn to death.’

  ‘Don’t ask me what I did next. I can never get the sequence straight in my head. At some point, I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I wanted to wash every part of me that he’d touched. Cleanse myself. Afterwards, I sat down and wondered what to do. I suppose that in a muddled way, I must have thought at first that I might get away with it. Then it began to dawn on me that it wasn’t so easy. Forensics are so complicated. I decided to run away. Not such a smart idea.’

  ‘You may not have been mad, but you certainly needed your head examining. Of course, you couldn’t escape. From what I read, you’d never even passed a driving test.’

  Roxanne nodded. ‘I took his car and some money, but five miles away a police car flagged me down. I put my foot down, but they soon caught up with me. Defective tail light, of all things. As soon as they started asking me questions, I broke down and wept. Within ten minutes, they knew everything.’

  Chloe was staring at Roxanne, couldn’t seem to take her eyes off her. Fascinated, yet repelled. Roxanne’s flesh itched. She felt like a specimen on the dissecting table.

  ‘Even then, there might have been a way out.’ Roxanne’s voice was dreamy as she cast her mind back. ‘That’s the thing about murder cases. You can say whatever you like about the dead and not be sued for slander. I could have come up with a cock-and-bull story. Only one problem.’

  ‘The video.’ Chloe’s voice was trembling.

  ‘You read about that too? Yes, the video.’ Roxanne shook her head. ‘I didn’t know Grant as well as I thought I did. He’d concealed a video camera set up in the bedroom so that he could tape our greatest hits. All he managed was to create the evidence of a c
old-blooded murder. Right up to the end, he screwed me.’ She shook her head. ‘Or should I say, he screwed Cassandra Lee.’

  Chloe was still looking at her, as if in a trance. ‘So you took your punishment.’

  ‘I hate what I did,’ Roxanne said. ‘The judge was right. No matter what I had been through, it was an act of wickedness. I didn’t have to kill him, let alone – incinerate him. There was a price to pay and, God knows, I’ve been paying it every day since Grant died.’

  Chloe cradled her head in her hands. ‘Your timing was lousy. The Home Secretary was launching a campaign about personal morality the same week that the papers were stuffed with articles about what you had done. A young gold-digger had leeched on to a rich businessman whose only crime was that he liked a pretty face. People said you were evil.’

  ‘I was crazy in those days, I’ve never denied it.’

  Chloe pulled a face. ‘Mad, not bad?’

  Roxanne shrugged. ‘Plenty of discussion about that, both before the trial and in court. When it came to possible defences, I was spoilt for choice. Self-defence, provocation, diminished responsibility. You name it. Trouble was, what I did to him was too dreadful to be a proportionate response to his behaviour, that was counsel’s opinion. There wasn’t much evidence of provocation, only my word. People in the restaurant said that Grant had been solicitous. Witnesses said what a caring guy he was. The police even dug up an ex-girlfriend, someone I’d supplanted, to say he never harmed a hair on her head.’

  ‘I read about it. She said he was besotted with you from day one.’

  ‘Oh yes, it was a fine revenge. Everyone decided I was a prize bitch. I was sick. I still wasn’t eating. Diminished responsibility was the best card I had, but I refused to play it. I’d done wrong and known it was wrong. In court I came across as a sullen cow. I couldn’t take in that all this was happening to me. The judge and jury took against me and the prosecution barrister did his job perfectly. He was a good cross-examiner, I realised that even as I let him goad me into screaming at him. The judge rebuked me, my counsel put his head in his hands. I’d proved to everyone that I had a wicked temper. When I’d calmed down and realised it was too late to save myself, I contented myself with admiring his advocacy. I wondered what it must be like to be in total command of a brief, to have the facts at your fingertips, every argument marshalled to perfection. He convinced me of my own wickedness and I threatened to sack my barrister if he didn’t let me change my plea to guilty to murder.’