by Roberta Kray
‘So why? What’s the point?’
The whisky’s all finished. I light a cigarette and look at her. She’s sitting like a statue, motionless, waiting.
‘It’s all about love, sweetheart.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Simone
How did he manage to talk me into this? If I had any sense I’d be high-tailing it in the opposite direction by now, going in search of Katie and a shoulder to cry on. Instead I’m driving back towards the place I least want to be – and the people I least want to see again.
But maybe Johnny’s right, maybe this isn’t something I should run away from. Demons should be faced. Isn’t that what they say? But then the people who say it have probably never met my in-laws.
We’ve managed to kill all of the morning and most of the afternoon by tramping aimlessly through the streets. Outside is where he’s most comfortable, no matter how cold or wet. So, like a couple of reluctant tourists, we’ve done Covent Garden, Oxford Street and Bloomsbury. I wanted to have a scout around the British Museum but Johnny seems to have an aversion to antiquities. Actually, apart from whisky, women and tobacco, he seems to have an aversion to most things.
Now it’s already growing dark again. The rain’s hammering down against the windscreen, a rain that’s been falling perpetually since last night. My feet are soaked, all my clothes faintly damp, but I’m not bothered. I’ve more on my mind than smelling of roses.
‘What if I say something I shouldn’t? What if I let something slip?’
Johnny glances at me. ‘Best keep your mouth shut then,’ he says, with his usual diplomacy.
The one advantage to driving is that I don’t have to look at him. In fact, this is what I’ve been specifically trying to avoid for most of the day. This is the man, after all, who I suddenly decided to kiss, who’s seen me half-naked, who’s had his hands around my breasts. I’m not exactly in a comfort zone.
‘So where do you think Marc might be staying?’
He shrugs. ‘You know him better than me.’
It’s clear Johnny doesn’t really want to talk but I can’t stand the silence. I need some sound, some basic communication, just to keep the nerves at bay.
Perhaps he senses my anxiety because after a moment he says, ‘Somewhere close to home, I bet.’
‘You think a hotel, a bed and breakfast?’
He starts to roll a cigarette, his fingers moving deftly. ‘I did but I’m not so sure now. I don’t think he’d chance it. If he stayed in his room, especially for a whole week, he’d draw attention to himself, and if he left it he’d run the risk of being seen. He could bump into someone you knew.’
‘So maybe he’s out of town.’
Licking the paper, he stares straight ahead out of the window. ‘Yeah, but how did he get there? I was only gone an hour and Jim, Dee and Carl were all there when I got back – so were the cars, yours and hers. The only other way he could have got that far was to use public transport or a cab – and that doesn’t seem likely – or if he hired a car . . . but again, that’s a risk. Most places won’t take cash these days, only credit cards, and that leaves a trail.’
For someone who’s been out of circulation for eighteen years, Johnny seems to have a solid grasp on current business practices. ‘So you’ve looked into it then – hiring cars?’
He gives me one of his wry smiles. ‘It’s important, don’t you think, to keep abreast of current developments?’
And maybe it’s my imagination, or my paranoia, but I get the feeling he just placed an unnecessary emphasis on the word abreast. Thankfully, it’s dark so he doesn’t have the pleasure of seeing the flush rising into my cheeks. ‘Perhaps the club, then,’ I say too quickly.
Of course he chooses this moment to light his cigarette, the flame flaring briefly but just long enough to read the expression on my face. Keeping my eyes on the road, I refuse to look back at him. I know he’s wearing a grin that any Cheshire cat would be proud of.
He takes a drag and shakes his head. ‘What, down in a cold damp basement, sleeping on the floor, on some battered sofa, roughing it? No decent washing facilities, no TV, no home comforts? I don’t see that as Marc’s style, do you? He’s hardly Mr Camper.’
‘He’s roughed it before. He’s been inside.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ Johnny replies. ‘He’s hardly likely to voluntarily repeat the experience. I may be wrong but I’ve got this gut instinct that he won’t have strayed too far. If it all went tits up he’d want to be able to get back in a hurry.’
I try not to wince at the phrase. ‘So where?’
‘There must be someone he can trust. A relative, a friend?’
I rack my brains but can’t think of anyone. ‘He’s not exactly big on friends. After . . . well, after the last time he went down, it cut something of a swathe through that particular front.’
‘Cut a swathe, eh?’ he mimics, grinning.
We’re coming up to red traffic lights. Quickly checking the rear view mirror, and finding no one close, I slam my foot abruptly on the brake. He shoots forward with the force I was intending and then slams back against his seat.
‘What the . . .’
I turn to glare at him. ‘Please don’t laugh at me.’
Johnny frowns but his mouth slowly breaks into a smile. ‘Christ,’ he says, rubbing his neck, ‘remind me never to cross you over anything really serious.’
The lights move on to green and we shift forward. I swing a left, keeping my eyes on the road. The traffic’s getting busier now, the commuters spilling out from their offices. I’m stuck behind a row of tank-like 4×4s. As our speed gradually decreases, I drum my fingers on the wheel.
‘You still mad at me?’ he asks.
‘What do you think?’ I don’t even give him space to reply. ‘Oh, don’t bother answering that. I know what you think -that I’m some stuck-up prissy bitch who doesn’t know her arse from her elbow.’
He laughs. Then he winds down the window and throws his cigarette out. The rain sprays inside, showering his face and hair. ‘I didn’t mean to take the piss,’ he says, with about as much sincerity as he’s capable of. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m on edge too.’
Except he isn’t. He’s loving every minute of it. He can’t wait to get back, to start working on that devious revenge plan of his. Still, it isn’t going to help my anxiety levels if this escalates into a row so I nod and let it pass.
Johnny switches the subject back to Marc. ‘Look, the day he went missing, is there anything you can think of, anything different, odd?’
‘I didn’t even speak to him. He was still asleep when I left.’ I’ve been over it time and time again. The only unusual fact about that morning was that we’d made love the night before, a pretty rare occurrence over recent weeks. But that’s a fact I’m not prepared to share with Johnny – there’s such a thing as too much information. ‘I came downstairs. Jim was in the kitchen, drunk. You remember?’
He nods. ‘No surprise there.’
‘Then I gave you a lift into town. I parked, you went off to see your parole officer, I went inside and . . .’ Suddenly, I stop. Something has occurred to me. I peer through the windscreen, between the wipers, while a memory slowly unravels.
‘Simone?’
I glance at him, frowning. ‘I’m not sure. It might be nothing but . . . well, Kerry Anne – she’s the girl who works in the shop – she was in a right strop. It wasn’t like her; she’s more the placid type, easy-going. That’s why it was so weird. She said it wasn’t anything to do with me but it was. I’m sure it was.’ I can visualize her face, her cross little mouth and angry eyes. ‘And she asked about you.’
Johnny’s brows shoot up. ‘Asked what?’
‘Who you were, your name.’
‘Idle curiosity?’
I shake my head. ‘No, it was more than that. She was really interested. She’d been watching you. It was like . . .’ I struggle to find the right description. ‘It was like she wa
s almost accusing me of something.’
We hit the next set of lights and grind to a halt again.
Johnny grins. ‘Maybe she was jealous, seeing you with such a good-looking guy. Maybe all she wanted was my number.’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘You reckon?’
‘Thanks.’ He pretends to be offended. ‘You really know how to boost a man’s ego.’
‘Sorry, I never realized it needed encouragement.’
He grins again. ‘So is she pretty, this Kerry Anne?’
‘She’s certainly young.’
‘Got a boyfriend?’
I glance at him. ‘Why? Are you thinking of applying for the post?’
‘Do you think I should?’
But this time I don’t reply. Gradually the trivial exchange has been sparking off an entirely different, and thoroughly unwelcome, chain of thought. I’ve got that sick feeling in my stomach again. Christ, I hope I’m wrong. I hope I’m just jumping to some manic, sleep-deprived conclusion.
Johnny’s quick to pick up on the change of atmosphere. He stops the banter and asks, ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Marc and Kerry Anne,’ I murmur. I don’t need to elaborate. It’s not a complicated equation – he can do the maths as well as I can. Shit, all those times I saw them together, chatting, flirting, and not once did I ever imagine . . .
As the lights change, I jam my foot on the accelerator and lurch forward, but I have to brake again almost as quickly. The traffic’s too dense to argue with. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Hey, take it easy.’ He reaches out and touches my arm.
I’m not sure what he’s more worried about – my erratic driving or my state of mind. Although I guess either might be a threat to his immediate survival. I shake his hand off. It’s not restraint I need – it’s space to think. I’ve got a stream of images sliding through my head, a running sequence of the past few months: Marc coming to the shop, Marc flirting with Kerry Anne, all her questions, her smiles, her endless queries about the state of our marriage, all those glances that I took for some kind of puppy love.
Now suddenly, dismally, all the pieces are falling into place.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
The last thing I need is his pity. I snap, ‘What are you sorry for?’
Wisely, he doesn’t attempt to answer.
The traffic’s finally moving again and I’m able to slip into a side road. It’s a longer route but, with the rush-hour congestion, probably a faster one. I wish I could stop thinking but I can’t. I keep seeing her, hearing her, reliving every time we’ve stood together in that shop with her asking me about Marc, looking away, blushing. God, just how blind have I been?
Travelling up the hill, I crunch the gears and swear again.
But it’s not just her I’m mad at. It’s Marc I’m saving my real rage for. As if it isn’t bad enough, knowing that he’s set me up, used me – and Jesus, I’m barely getting used to that idea – I now have to face the probability that he’s being having an affair as well. And not just any bloody affair but one with my coy nineteen-year-old assistant.
Johnny, sensibly, has continued to keep his mouth shut. It’s only when we rejoin the main road that he speaks again. ‘Why are you going this way?’
‘I’m going to the shop.’
He jerks forward, alarmed. ‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Shit! You can’t. You know you can’t. If you go in there and . . .’
And what? Confront her?’
‘You’ll blow it all to fuck,’ he says. ‘You know you will.’
I let him sweat while I try to find a parking space. We do a couple of turns around the block. There’s nothing legal so eventually I just pull in across the road and cut the engine. It’s five twenty and the lights in the shop are still on.
‘Don’t,’ he says.
But I’ve already undone my seatbelt.
‘Please.’ He puts his hand on my arm again.
I know it’s not me he cares about, only his own sacred revenge. I say, ‘I’m not going to blow it. I promise. I just have to be sure.’ I get out of the car and then lean back in. ‘I’ll only be ten minutes. Why don’t you call Dee, tell her we’re almost home.’
‘What, give her time to start crying again?’
I give him a tight smile. ‘Sure, why not? We may as well have the full performance.’
Dodging the traffic, I jaywalk across the road. I pause outside the shop to examine the rows of winter pansies, the hyacinth bulbs, the green shoots of the narcissi in their pots. It feels like a thousand years since I was here last. This was somewhere I felt safe once. How did it all go so horribly wrong?
I take a few deep breaths and arrange a smile before I step inside. Kerry Anne glances up and almost jumps out of her skin. Her eyes widen in surprise and alarm. I can almost see the blood drain out of her rosy cheeks.
‘Simone!’
One look at that guilty little face is enough. I’d like to slap it very hard but it’s a pleasure I’ll have to forgo. ‘Hi, how are you doing?’
‘W-what are you doing here?’ She stumbles over her words. ‘I mean . . . I mean, I thought you were away.’
‘I was,’ I reply simply. I dump my coat on the counter and glance around. ‘So, how’s it been – busy?’
She’s terrified that I might know, that I’ve found out about the two of them. Her throat’s making tiny gulping motions while she tries to smile and speak at the same time. ‘Not bad. Okay,’ she murmurs faintly.
I wonder how long they’ve been at it and what Marc originally told her – probably that clichéd old line about his wife not understanding him. Not that she’d have needed much persuading; she’d have run naked round the daffodils if Marc had asked her to.
‘Coffee?’ I say brightly, going through to the back. Best to leave her for a minute before I act on the impulse to pull that newly blonde hair out by its roots.
I put the kettle on and pick up two mugs off the drainer. I’m pretty sure I know where he is now – all snug and comfortable in Kerry Anne’s flat. She’ll be cooking his meals, ironing his shirts and catering to all his other needs too. Of course neither he nor Dee will have mentioned anything about the ransom or the diamonds.
But now I come to think of it, he’ll probably have told her that I was having an affair – which would explain her exaggerated interest in Johnny last week and why she spent the morning looking daggers at me. Yes, that would be just like him. Anything for the sympathy vote.
I take the coffee through and pass a mug to her. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, all concern. ‘You look kind of pale.’
As if playing an invisible piano, her fingers dance nervously over the counter. ‘No,’ she squeaks, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’
‘Long day, huh?’
She makes a valiant attempt at a smile. ‘So, did you, er . . . did you have a nice time?’
She’ll be straight on the phone to Marc as soon as I’ve gone, giving him every detail, so I suppose I’d better make the effort to appear anxious. I rearrange my features into an approximation of worry. ‘It wasn’t so much a holiday,’ I reply evasively, ‘more of a . . . well, just a break really, a chance to think things over.’
Kerry Anne nods her head so hard I think it may fall off.
Poor little cow! To be honest, I’m starting to feel sorry for her. She’s got no idea of the bigger picture, of the game the Buckleys are actually playing. She’ll be under strict instruction not to divulge Marc’s whereabouts or, more importantly, even to admit having seen him. She thinks she’s protecting him from his unfaithful wicked wife, but I know that as soon as this is over Marc will dump her.
Still, that doesn’t excuse the fact that she’s slept with him. And so long as I’m here, I may as well turn the screws. I might never get another opportunity.
‘Can I ask you something, Kerry Anne – do you believe in fresh starts?’ I pause, thoughtfully. ‘You know, that terrible, really awful th
ings can happen, but that you can maybe put them right again?’
She hesitates. She thinks I’m talking about my marriage but I’ve kept it ambivalent enough that when she repeats it to Marc, he won’t get suspicious. He’ll have a minor heart attack, of course, when he hears I’ve been in the shop – and boy, I’d love to be a fly on the wall at that point – but then he’ll be smugly confident that I was actually referring to the kidnap.
‘I’m not sure,’ she replies, her eyes growing wide again.
‘It’s not always easy to recognize what’s right or wrong, is it?’ I sip my coffee and gaze pensively into space. ‘Everything gets so complicated, so confused. I mean, sometimes you don’t know what you’ve got until you’ve almost lost it.’
She stares despondently down at the counter.
I suppose I should take consolation from her discomfort – at least she’s got some semblance of a conscience. But, on the other hand, that hasn’t stopped her from doing what she’s done. And God knows for how long.
I put the knife in and twist it. ‘So, do you think me and Marc make a good couple?’
She visibly flinches. ‘Of course,’ she mumbles.
‘Really,’ I say, over-brightly. ‘Why’s that?’
Now she looks like I feel – as if she wants to throw up. She makes a vague shrugging motion with her shoulders. ‘Well, you know, you’re . . . you’re . . .’
And I’m just beginning to enjoy yourself when the door swings open and Johnny strolls in.
Frustrated, I glare at him. ‘What do you want?’
‘There’s a meter bitch on the prowl,’ he replies, with his usual surfeit of charm. ‘Are you ready to go, sweetheart, or do you want a ticket?’
‘I’m not finished here, yet.’
Kerry Anne glances from him to me, her eyes growing hard. But there’s a flash of relief in them too. ‘It’s okay,’ she says quickly, ‘I can finish up here. I can lock up.’
Great. So she’s not only got my husband, it appears she has my job as well.