‘What about debts from the past?’ I enquire.
‘There was never that much debt, considering,’ Jim says thoughtfully. ‘Nothing to speak of now. Er, Geniver, if you don’t mind my asking, what’s all this about?’
‘Nothing.’ I get off the phone, feeling confused. If Art has never had terrible debts, then Hen must have been wrong about Manage Debt Online. And yet she seemed so sure. Of course, it’s entirely possible Jim is lying – he works for Art rather than me, after all. But nothing I’ve ever seen makes me suspect Art has ever had large debts. He took a huge risk setting up Loxley Benson and the company’s fate was certainly touch-and-go at first – but all that was fourteen years ago. Beth wasn’t conceived for another six years after that – and Loxley Benson was doing really well by then.
The £20,000 is transferred to Bernard O’Donnell’s account. It’s a lot of money, but not that much in terms of our annual income. I remember Lucy O’Donnell saying they were struggling, and how I’d thought she was lying to get money out of me. I know this payment to Bernard is partly an attempt to assuage my guilt but it’s surely better than doing nothing. After all, if I’d taken Lucy seriously when she came to see me, she might still be alive. The money I’m giving her husband is my apology.
I don’t tell Bernard how much I’ve transferred until it’s done, then I walk back to where he and Lorcan are waiting in the Audi and hand Bernard the print-out.
‘I hope this is useful,’ I say.
Bernard looks down at the paper. His weather-beaten face crumples with shock. He looks up at me, his mouth gaping open.
‘I can’t believe this,’ he stammers. ‘I thought you were just going to cover my travel costs. You didn’t have to do it, Mrs Loxley. Lucy and me, we always managed okay . . .’
‘She told me you had two kids still at home,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to help a little, especially now . . . now they’ve lost their mother . . .’
He nods. ‘Thank you,’ he says, his eyes filling with tears.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, looking away. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
We drop Bernard back at Lorcan’s so he can pick up his hire car. He’s planning to spend the next few hours following Art again, while Lorcan and I check out the Wardingham Arms. I’m aware this is a dangerous tactic. It’s risky for Bernard, and if Art has any idea he is being watched he will surely try to cover his tracks, leaving me further away from finding Beth than ever. But Bernard is determined – and confident he can act without detection.
I wish him luck, then we exchange numbers and agree to talk again this afternoon.
As we drive off, Lorcan asks me what’s wrong . . . what happened when I went home earlier. I don’t tell him about Morgan – I just say I’m upset about Art deceiving me. And yet Morgan’s accusations continue to prey on my mind.
The traffic is bad getting out of London, but once we’re on the motorway, the sun comes out and the roads clear. Lorcan and I talk about everything other than Art and Rodriguez. We talk about books and films: what we like, what we’ve read and seen. And we talk about all the other things in our lives. Our work, our childhoods, our children . . . I tell Lorcan more about my dreams of Beth. He listens attentively as I go into all the little details my unconscious has imagined – her thick, dark hair . . . the birth mark on her left shoulder . . . the open, joyful expression on her face as I dreamed her blowing out the candles on her last birthday cake.
Lorcan tells me more about Cal, how he regrets spending so much time away from him . . . how he doesn’t feel he knows him or understands him at the moment. He tells me that he’d really love to do more live theatre, but keeping Cal at his private school makes that impossible.
I talk about my writing, about the books I got published and the idea I was working on when Beth’s death slammed my brain shut.
‘My last book was called Rain Heart,’ I explain. ‘About a woman discovering her husband is having an affair with his business partner’s wife.’
‘Based on something that really happened?’ Lorcan raises his eyebrows.
I shake my head, remembering Charlotte West asking the same question. I gaze out of the car window, wondering if I’ve been hopelessly naive. What other reason than an affair can there be for Art spending the afternoon in a hotel so far from work?
‘Do you think Art’s having an affair now?’ I ask.
Lorcan shrugs. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ It’s still hard to believe Art would be unfaithful, but then until a week ago it would have been unthinkable to imagine him faking our baby’s death.
Now, anything seems possible.
The journey passes quickly and, soon after midday, we pull up outside the Wardingham Arms. The car park is at the front of the hotel, just as Bernard O’Donnell described.
As we walk inside, my chest tightens. We’re close to the truth now. I can feel it. The inn is old and, despite the sunshine outside, the lobby feels dark and cool. A couple of chairs are set around a coffee table made of the same dark wood as the panelled walls. An elderly man wearing a cravat and sporting a comb-over looks up from the reception desk on the far wall. He smiles a slightly stiff, formal welcome.
‘May I help you?’ he says.
‘A friend of ours recommended you. Art Loxley.’
The landlord nods. ‘Ah, Mr Loxley. One of our regulars. That’s nice to hear.’
My stomach cartwheels. So it really is true.
The landlord opens his book. ‘You’re in luck, we’re pretty quiet at the moment.’
‘He really liked the room you gave him last time, on Monday I think?’ I press my fingers hard against the reception desk, trying to keep my voice breezy and casual. ‘Is there any chance we could have that one?’
The landlord frowns. ‘Mmm, well, yes, I suppose as it’s free . . .’
A few minutes later we’re inside room seven – full of the same dark wood furniture as downstairs, including a huge bed with a large, plum-coloured quilt that drapes to the floor. I sit down on the edge of the bed and finger the quilt. Art has been in this very room. But with whom? There’s Hen, of course, but Hen and Art live just ten minutes’ drive from each other in North London, so it seems unlikely they would conduct secret trysts all the way out here. My mind settles on Sandrine. She’s stylish, vivacious and smart and, for all I know, she and Art have been going on “business trips” together for months, if not years.
Lorcan wanders to the window. ‘This place isn’t huge, someone must have noticed if Art met anyone here.’
I stare at the cream-coloured lamp beside the bed, imagining Sandrine’s slender fingers reaching for the light, then Art pulling her towards him, his eyes full of desire. The thought sickens me.
‘Gen?’
I hadn’t even heard Lorcan speaking. I look up.
‘Do you think it’s worth searching the room to see if Art left anything behind? I know it’s a long shot, but . . .’ He tails off without pointing out what is obvious to both of us: we have absolutely nothing else to go on.
I suddenly feel terribly depressed. After the frenetic activity of the past twenty-four hours, we seem to have hit a dead end. So what if Art was here? It doesn’t bring me any closer to Beth.
I agree to search the room anyway. What else are we going to do? I follow Lorcan’s lead, turning out drawers and searching the nooks and crannies of the wardrobe, desk area and bathroom. I leave the bed to Lorcan. I can’t bring myself to pore over the sheets, even though I’m well aware that the linen will have been changed since Art’s visit.
An hour passes. We find nothing and learn nothing. I go downstairs and chat to the landlord. I ask him if the hotel ever hosts functions, which leads me neatly to a mention of Art’s birthday party. I refer to Art’s “girlfriend” as I talk, but the landlord doesn’t pick up on this at all. As far as I can make out, Art checks in alone.
Back upstairs, the window in the room won’t open and the air becomes heavy and stuffy. I swit
ch on my phone for the first time since this morning and find yet more texts and messages. I make myself deal with the latest communications – there’s a fresh text from Hen, saying she’s worried about me and asking me to call her and two new voicemails from Art – both of which are rambling and frantic. ‘Please, Gen, call me. This is madness. That film of yours must be a fake. Please, Gen, I’m so worried about you. Call me. I love you more than anything in the world. Please believe me.’ And on and on . . .
I switch off the phone again and look round to find Lorcan gazing thoughtfully at me. ‘Let’s take a break,’ he says.
I stand up. Outside the sun is streaming across the treetops.
‘We could go for a drive?’ he suggests. ‘See if we see anything that might explain what Art’s doing here . . . you know, anything connected with the area.’
I nod and we set off. Lorcan drives slowly along the country roads. There’s another inn – the Princess Alice – just a couple of hundred yards away from the Wardingham Arms. Otherwise, there’s nothing for almost a mile in every direction, save for a couple of farmhouses set back from the road.
We drive on, into a small village where we get out and wander about. We go to a café and order sandwiches. I check my phone again. More messages from Art. This time I don’t listen to them. I call Bernard, as arranged. He reports that Art has spent the whole day so far in the office.
I come off the phone and rest my head in my hands.
‘What do we do now?’ I moan. ‘We’re not getting anywhere and Art knows I think he’s lying to me, so if he’s got tracks to cover up, he’ll be covering them up right now.’
I close my eyes, despair weighing down on me.
‘We should go back to the inn and talk to the staff there again,’ Lorcan says.
‘What’s the point?’ I sigh. ‘I don’t think the landlord was lying to us. Art comes on a regular basis. He stays in his room. Period. We don’t even know what we’re looking for.’
Lorcan looks up from his sandwich.
‘So what are you saying?’ he says. ‘D’you want to give up?’
I fold my arms and look out of the café window. Outside the sky is clouding over. The air – so light and sunny before – now seems grey and oppressive. A few drops of rain spatter the pavement. I feel irritated. I almost itch with it.
‘Of course I don’t bloody want to give up. What’s your problem, only interested when there’s some drama to get caught up in?’
‘Hey, I’m doing my best to help you here.’ Lorcan shoves his plate across the table and sits back in his chair.
There’s a tense silence.
‘I never asked for your help,’ I snap. I know I’m being rude, but I can’t stop myself. ‘You offered. Anyway, you said you had nothing better to do.’
Lorcan looks up. He half smiles. ‘Doesn’t sound very chivalrous when you put it like that.’
I shrug, his smile disarming me. ‘I’m not looking for chivalry.’ The rain is falling harder now, drizzling down the window beside us. For some reason I find this soothing. I reach over and put my hand on Lorcan’s arm. ‘I’m sorry I snapped. I couldn’t do this without you. It’s just . . .’ My voice wobbles under the swell of my emotions. ‘This whole thing . . . I feel like I’m going insane.’
Lorcan nods but he doesn’t speak. The silence builds between us. My mind goes back to Hen’s suggestion that Lorcan could have faked the CCTV footage, and to Morgan’s earlier accusation.
Like a wolf who’s picked out a sacrificial lamb.
‘So why are you helping me?’ I keep my voice carefully cool and calm.
Lorcan looks up. We look at each other for a long moment.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says at last.
‘What for?’ I hold my breath.
The rain lashes harder against the window. It makes the street outside blurry. I wait, watching him . . .
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’ Lorcan says slowly. ‘Two things, actually. The first is that I called the girl I’ve been seeing in Ireland . . . I did it last night, after you’d gone to sleep. I told her we were over.’
‘Oh.’ I can feel my face reddening.
He reaches for my hand. His voice is low and intense. ‘Okay, listen to me. I finished with Hayley because once I met you I realized that she was never the right person. Not that I ever thought she was . . .’ He tails off.
My heart hammers in my chest. What’s he saying? That leaving her is something to do with me?
‘Christ, I’m shite at this.’ Lorcan lets go of my hand. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. ‘I wanted to tell you that before I went on to tell you the other thing.’
‘What other thing?’ I say, my heart racing.
‘You know the information you’ve been told about me?’ Lorcan says. ‘The information about what happened at Loxley Benson . . .’
‘You mean sleeping with that client’s wife?’
He nods. His face is tight with tension.
‘Look, it was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter now.’
‘No, it’s important,’ Lorcan says. ‘I want you to know the truth.’
‘The truth about what?’
‘That night,’ he says. ‘That night fourteen years ago.’
I wait, watching him.
‘I slept with a lot of women in my early twenties but then . . . so do most men, if they get the chance, wouldn’t you say?’ Lorcan says. ‘I’m not trying to justify everything I did. There were quite a few older women, married women who . . . anyway, that doesn’t matter now.’ He breathes out, a heavy sigh. ‘When I met you, the night of the party, I was angry at the way my . . . my history at Loxley Benson was all anyone saw when they looked at me.’
‘What d’you mean?’ I say. ‘Nobody mentioned that, except Kyle and Art, and I made them tell me.’
‘No.’ Lorcan shakes his head slowly. ‘Back when it happened, Art told everyone and they haven’t forgotten. It was a public disgrace. He made a scapegoat of me just so he could keep that client.’
‘But—’ I want to tell him it was his own fault for sleeping with someone else’s wife. ‘But Art said you threatened Loxley Benson’s survival. You couldn’t seriously expect him to stand by and do nothing. Anyway, you told me you were ready to leave before it happened.’
‘No, it’s not like you think,’ he says. ‘It’s not like Art said.’ He lets out another deep sigh. ‘I’m trying to explain . . . why I came back the next day after we had the take-out. The truth is I left that Swiss Army knife behind on purpose. I wanted to annoy Art by turning up out of the blue and seeing you . . . I wanted to get back at him.’
‘Get back at him?’ I don’t understand what he’s saying. ‘Get back at Art for firing you when you wanted to leave anyway? When Loxley Benson would have gone under if that client had taken his business away?’
Lorcan lowers his voice. ‘I did want to leave and Loxley Benson would have gone under. That’s all true. But you’re missing the point. You see . . .’ He pauses, fixing me with his intense gaze. The sights and sounds of the café fade to nothing. ‘It wasn’t me that slept with the client’s wife.’
‘What?’ My head spins.
‘It was Art,’ Lorcan says.
‘Art?’ I draw in my breath sharply. ‘Art slept with the client’s wife.’
‘Yes.’
I sit back, trying to absorb this information. It all happened before I met Art, of course. I knew he’d had other girlfriends. There were a few short-term relationships during his teens, then a girl called Emma at university. Art has never said that much about any of them. He’s certainly never told me he slept with anyone who was married. I look up at Lorcan, tense with suspicion.
‘So what happened?’
Lorcan leans forward, lowering his voice further. ‘The four of us were out. The client, his wife, Art and me. She was coming on to both of us whenever her husband went to the bar or the bathroom. I know it sounds bad, bu
t Art and I were both single. All four of us were drunk. It just happened.’
‘How?’
‘You want the details?’ Lorcan’s eyes widen. ‘Okay. We all ended up back at the client’s house. The husband fell asleep on the sofa. The wife was all over us. I think she was after some sort of threesome, but I wasn’t interested. She was too drunk and too needy . . . plus, no way was I ending up in bed with a man.’ He gives a wry, weary laugh. ‘So . . . I went home. Art stayed. He left after they shagged, but the husband found Art’s watch in the bed later on the next day, when his wife was out.’
My hand flies to my mouth. I’m remembering the first date Art and I ever went on. I’d teased him because he seemed such a focused guy and yet he’d had to keep asking me what the time was. I’d only been joking, but Art was really insistent that he normally had a watch. That he’d lost his just a few weeks earlier and wasn’t used to being without it. I remember asking him how he’d lost it and him saying, with a blush, that he’d left it somewhere he should never have gone in the first place. That’s why I bought him a new watch for his birthday the following March.
‘What happened next?’ I say.
‘The client called his wife . . . accused her . . . told her to come home. On the way she told Art and Art gave me money to take the rap.’
‘Art paid you to say it was you? So he could pretend to fire you and make the client believe he’d dealt with you and keep the business?’
‘Of course he did. It was ruthless and controlling and very, very Art. He had to grovel to the client, but it worked. I left, and Loxley Benson kept the client and the rest is history.’
I realize I’m chewing on my nail and take my finger out of my mouth. I can so clearly recall Art telling me about Lorcan’s betrayal. He’d sounded totally convincing. And yet, it was a lie. Another lie. I feel sick at the thought of my past with Art – a past built on deceptions and cover-ups. I thought I could trust him. I thought we were on solid ground. And he has taken all that away from me.
There is nothing left that I can be sure of.
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