by Ava Marsh
Alex leans back. Evaluating me. ‘Is there someone else? Someone special you don’t want to leave behind?’
I examine his face. ‘You mean a boyfriend?’
‘Or another client. You must have met some you like – and who likes you.’
Despite myself, I think of Ben; though I haven’t heard from him in weeks.
‘As far as clients are concerned, we’re consumables. Like this wine.’ I hold up my half-empty glass for emphasis. ‘You don’t date them. It never works out. And it’s a waste of money.’
‘Never?’
‘Not if you’ve got any sense,’ I say a little too bitterly, remembering that girl Anna knew, who married a client and was six months pregnant with his baby when she discovered he was back screwing other escorts.
‘So you’ve never been tempted,’ probes Alex. ‘Not even once?’
Christ, where is he going with this? Is he jealous or just winding me up?
‘Not even once.’
‘But you must fancy some of them, right?’
‘I fancy lots of people, Alex, but that doesn’t mean I want a relationship with all of them.’
He smiles. ‘And if you get to screw them on a regular basis and get paid for it, I guess that’s really having your cake and eating it.’
‘Exactly.’
Alex watches me, eyes narrowed in thought, while I drink the rest of my wine. Then leans over and grabs my hand and I find myself remembering that gun. Has he got it on him right now? Why the fuck does he have one, anyway?
‘You’ve never told me what it is you do,’ I say, holding his gaze.
He looks at me without speaking. ‘Does it matter?’
I shrug. Withdraw my hand.
‘If I’m not bothered about your profession, I can’t imagine why you’d worry about mine.’
‘Touché,’ I say, dropping the subject. Somehow I know I’m not going to get anything like a straight answer.
‘You see, every time you open your mouth you reveal yourself, Stella. It’s one of your best features. And one of your greatest faults.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Just think it over, will you? Take a few days. And …’ He pauses.
‘And what?’
‘And do me a favour, please. Keep a low profile.’
I frown. ‘Would you care to explain?’
‘Stay out of trouble, mind your own business.’
I feel myself tense. ‘Mind my own business?’
Alex shakes his head. ‘Never mind. Consider my offer. Let me know by the end of the week.’
He stands, retrieves his wallet and chucks a £20 note on the table.
‘Isn’t there something you’ve forgotten?’ I say, as he pulls on his jacket.
Alex cocks an eyebrow. Reaches inside his breast pocket and hands me the white envelope.
I push it back at him. ‘No,’ I hiss, a little too vehemently. ‘That’s not what I meant. If I said yes to your little proposal. How much are you planning to compensate me for that?’
He frowns down at the floor, then raises his eyes to mine. There’s something there. Something genuine.
‘Whatever it takes, Stella. Whatever it takes.’
25
Saturday, 21 March
Rachel doesn’t ask any questions when I ring and suggest I catch the next train down to Sussex. Doesn’t even mention the suddenness of my visit when she picks me up from the station. Just gives me a look that tells me she’s seen right through my cheerful expression to the miserable core of me.
‘Come on.’ She holds open the passenger door and nods at me to get in. ‘Tim’s got supper on and I’m starving.’
I glance in the car. Therese is asleep, strapped into the baby seat in the back, her head slumped to one side and a dummy trailing from her mouth. She looks huge compared to when I last saw her.
‘She only stopped crying a minute ago,’ Rachel says as I climb into the front. ‘I reckon she’s got another tooth coming through.’
‘Where’s Theo?’
‘With Tim. They’ve been off to get him a new pair of shoes. Now he won’t take them off. I foresee tears at bedtime.’
I pull on my seat belt then turn to Rachel. She looks tired, the skin beneath her eyes almost violet in tone. But she gazes back at me as if she’s thinking the same thing.
‘How’s London?’ she asks, in lieu of enquiring what I’m actually doing here.
‘Busy. I just needed to escape. Thanks for putting me up.’
The truth is I need air. Space. Time to reflect. The walls of my flat felt like they were closing in around me. Street noise sounded louder, more intrusive; even the ubiquitous shriek of sirens kept making me jump.
Alex’s offer has unnerved me nearly as much as Amanda’s death. Threatened to topple what little security I thought I had. Yet I seem unable to dismiss it out of hand.
‘Any time,’ Rachel smiles, squeezing my hand. ‘You know that goes without saying.’
The drive back to the house takes half an hour. We stop off at the out-of-town supermarket to pick up some salad to go with Tim’s lasagne. A tub of stuffed giant green olives and a loaf of fresh ciabatta. I insist on paying, throwing in a couple of bottles of decent red wine, mindful of how tight things have been since Rachel gave up work.
‘What a sight for sore eyes.’ Tim practically snatches the bottles from my hands as I step through the door.
‘Me, or the wine?’
Tim pretends to weigh it up. ‘Both.’ He laughs and kisses me on the cheek, while Theo hangs back in the doorway, eyeing me suspiciously.
‘You remember Grace, don’t you?’ Rachel nudges.
Theo gives a solemn nod. Then steps one foot forward, ostentatiously. I duly look down. They’re red leather, two straps with velcro fastenings and a small boat logo on the toes.
‘Hey, nice shoes, kiddo.’
Theo beams. ‘They’re new.’
‘So I see. Jolly smart.’
I reach into my handbag and pull out the comics I picked up at Victoria station. His eyes brighten as I hand them over and he skips into the lounge. I turn to Therese, now humped on to Rachel’s hip, and give her the giant wax crayons. She grabs them, turning the packet over and over in her fat little fingers, examining it intently.
‘Say “thank you”,’ says Rachel, nuzzling her face into her daughter’s.
‘Tank oo,’ gurgles Therese, her eyes never leaving the crayons.
Tim feeds the kids first and Rachel puts them to bed, reappearing twenty minutes later looking more exhausted than they were. I hand her a glass of wine.
‘I think Therese might have finally gone to sleep.’ She holds up crossed fingers and takes a mouthful. Her shoulders slump with relief. ‘God, I needed that.’
Tim places the bread in the oven to warm, then tips the salad leaves into a bowl and adds a few chopped tomatoes.
‘Did you decide about Rowland Marshalls?’ I ask Rachel as she joins me at the kitchen table.
She swirls the wine around, watching the streaks of alcohol slither back down the inside of the glass.
‘Not yet. They’ve given me till April to make up my mind.’ She takes another long mouthful. ‘Meanwhile, I’m considering setting up on my own.’
‘Great idea. There’s nothing like being self-employed.’
Rachel shoots me a frown and I laugh. ‘Truly. You have far more control over your own life.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ she says, ‘I’ve had an idea.’
I raise an eyebrow. She’s giving me one of her meaningful looks.
‘What’s that?’
Rachel sits back in her chair, twirling the stem of her glass between her thumb and forefinger. I sense her weighing her next words carefully.
‘Actually I was wondering if you fancied working with me?’ She fixes my gaze with hers. ‘You know, forming a partnership.’
I stare back at her. Behind me I can hear Tim busying himself with plates and cutlery.
‘But I don’t
know anything about employment law.’
‘Well, I was thinking more of offering a broad range of services to local firms. Not simply legal advice, things like occupational psychology too.’ She watches my face for my reaction.
‘I was a forensic psychologist, Rachel, dealing with convicts and criminals. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the workplace.’
She presses her lips together and pushes on. ‘I’m aware of that, Grace. But you’ve already got your basic psychology degree and plenty of experience, so it’s only a question of doing a masters in the occupational bit. I’ve looked into it. It doesn’t seem that different from what you were doing before – only dealing with a different set of people.’
Out of the corner of my eye I see Tim shoot her a warning glance. I feel my jaw begin to tighten and I lower my gaze to the table.
‘Grace, it’s only an idea, something that crossed my mind, that’s all. A suggestion.’
I swallow my response. Try to force myself to appear less angry than I feel.
‘Just say you’ll think about it, OK?’
I take a slug of Bordeaux and look out into the darkness beyond the patio doors. The silence weighs heavy in the room.
‘Anyway,’ cuts in Tim, his voice a little too breezy, ‘I’ve got some news. I’ve been promoted. Regional manager.’
I swing round, avoiding Rachel’s eye, and give him a grateful smile.
‘Congratulations,’ I say, getting out of my seat and hugging him hard. ‘You should have said something earlier. I’d have bought champagne.’
26
Sunday, 22 March
We take the kids to Colsham Bay on Sunday. The rain has retreated for the first day of spring, bringing a throng of day-trippers to the little resort, crowding the pubs and cafés along the seafront. Theo insists on going to the amusement arcade over by the pier. We spend nearly ten quid on the penny falls, emerging with a motley collection of plastic key rings and a hideous miniature plaster cast of a kitten.
Tim queues for fish and chips and we eat them sitting on the low wall between the beach and the harbour, ignoring the loitering gangs of seagulls. I nibble my food, savouring the pungent flavour of vinegar and salt. Why do chips always taste so much better by the sea?
Three bow-legged Jack Russells approach, towing an older woman bundled in a huge brown coat. Seconds later they spot a nearby spaniel and launch into such a volley of barking that Therese bursts into tears in her buggy.
‘Bad dogs!’ she screams, as Rachel tries to comfort her.
Tim grabs the plaster kitten out of his pocket and dangles it in front of her face. Therese snatches it from his hand, her sobs drying up instantly.
‘If only everything were so easily sorted,’ Rachel sighs as she gazes at her daughter.
I smile as I watch an older couple admiring the dinghies and fishing boats moored in the harbour. Beyond them, families huddle in the shelter of the breakwaters, kids charging around on the sand. I pick at my fish with the wooden fork, trying to quash a rising sense of discomfort. It’s all so innocent. So bloody picture-perfect. I feel suddenly twitchy and restless.
Only twenty-four hours out of London and I’m almost longing for its roughness and anonymity, the grunginess of life lived amongst so many.
An image of Kristen looms in my mind, standing in the wreckage of her life, her dead lover’s face gazing up at her from the photographs scattered across the floor. Is she at the flat now, I wonder. Picking up the pieces? I feel a swell of guilt – I should have offered to go back, to help clean the place up.
Then I remember her sister. And Anna’s warning. Don’t get involved.
‘So,’ says Rachel, as Tim takes the kids off to the little carousel by the pier. ‘Why are you here?’
I crunch a piece of batter. ‘That doesn’t sound very welcoming.’
Rachel turns to look at me. ‘You know what I mean. What’s up?’
For a moment I’m tempted to tell her. About Amanda. About the police station. About the party and seeing Hardy on TV. About the nagging sense that there’s something I’m missing.
But how can I? Rachel doesn’t know anything about the parties and I have no intention of filling her in. Escorting is one thing; full-on orgies would be a step too far for a woman who’s been happily partnered up since university. As for Amanda’s death, I might as well inform my friend that I’m expecting to be murdered any day now; she worries too much as it is.
‘OK, I get it.’ Rachel balls her chip wrapper and tosses it neatly into a nearby bin. ‘You don’t want to tell me – or can’t. And you’re right, I’m probably better off not knowing.’
‘It’s not …’ I begin, but can’t see any way through the maze. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Not a bloke then? You’ve not met someone?’
I shake my head.
Rachel sighs. Nudges at a pile of sand with the toe of her boot. ‘I don’t like how things have become between us. You cagey, me disapproving. It’s as if we got stuck somewhere along the way.’
‘It’s a difficult situation. I understand that – and your point of view.’
She squints at me. ‘Do you, Grace? I sometimes wonder if you feel we’ve all abandoned you somehow.’
‘Why would I think that?’
Rachel shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I just get the sense you don’t realize how much people still care about you. Despite …’ She stops. Leans forward, both hands in her coat pockets. ‘It’s as if … well, maybe it’s more like you’ve abandoned yourself in some way.’
I don’t say anything. A gust of wind blows sand in my eye. It stings but I don’t want to wipe it away because I know Rachel will think I’m upset.
She turns to me. ‘I understand what you’ve been doing, and why you’ve been doing it, better than you give me credit for. I’m no psychologist, granted. I don’t have your insight into things, but I can see why you felt the need to get away and bury yourself in all that. But I think it’s time, Grace, time to put it all behind you. Everything, I mean – not simply your work.’
I make myself return her gaze. I see a few strands of grey, standing up from the bulk of her brown hair.
‘You can’t keep running from the past,’ she says, with such gentleness I have to swallow. ‘You can’t allow what he did to ruin the rest of your life.’
She doesn’t say his name. Thank God.
‘Listen to me,’ Rachel leans in, her tone fiercer. ‘What happened, happened, Grace. You have to let it go.’ She grabs my hand. ‘Most of all, my love, you’ve got to stop punishing yourself.’
She’s squeezing my fingers urgently, punctuating the flow of her words. ‘I don’t doubt for a minute that you’re great at what you do now. I can even accept that you might enjoy it. But I think you need to find something more positive to do with your life. You were good at your job before, despite what happened – you know you were.’
I shake my head again, turning my head so she can’t see my eyes gleaming.
‘I meant what I said,’ Rachel continues. ‘About setting up together. You don’t have to leave London, your flat. I could get offices somewhere like Brighton and you could commute. You could even do a lot of work from home.’
I clear my throat. ‘You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?’
She nods. ‘I honestly believe it could work, Grace.’ She squeezes my hand even harder. ‘Please say you’ll consider it. Properly, I mean.’
I think about it. And Alex’s offer. Two different escape routes. Two very different outcomes.
‘I already have,’ I sigh, pulling my hand away. ‘And the answer is no.’ To both, I decide, right at that moment.
Rachel’s expression is first shocked, then offended.
‘Why?’
I grit my teeth and fight to keep the exasperation from my voice. ‘Think about it, Rachel, think hard. It’s out there. People know what happened. They know what I did. You reckon that sort of thing doesn’t stick?’
‘Grac
e, listen, you made one mistake. All right, it was a big mistake, but that doesn’t define your whole—’
‘It wasn’t one mistake, though, was it? It was a whole catalogue of mistakes. Somebody died, Rachel. You can’t just walk away from something like that. You live with it. Every fucking day of your life, you live with it.’
I’m almost shouting now. A couple over by the breakwater turn and stare.
‘But it wasn’t your fault, Grace. Whatever you believe.’
I lose the battle. Tears well and threaten to tip down my face. ‘Fuck off, Rachel. You’ve no idea what’s going on in my life, and your interfering is just making it worse.’
My best friend looks shaken. Slapped. Her voice trembles as she gets to her feet.
‘No, Grace, I’m not the one who’s making it worse. And I can’t stand it any more. I can’t sit by and watch you destroy yourself any longer.’ She glares at me. ‘You imagine I can’t see the state you’re in? And no, I don’t want to know what kind of crap you’ve got yourself mixed up in this time. But I’m trying to throw you a lifeline, and it kills me that you fling it right back in my face.’
She frowns and looks away. When she turns back I read what’s coming before the words even leave her mouth.
‘I’ve had it, Grace. Finito. If you want to wallow in shit for the rest of your life, I no longer want any part of it.’
Rachel gets up, pulls her coat around her. She gives me a lingering look, her lips trembling with emotion, then turns and walks away, fast, her hair blowing out behind her as she heads towards the pier.
I stare after her, paralysed by a rush of panic. Should I catch her up? Apologize? Tell her she’s right and I’ll give the job idea some genuine thought?
But I just sit there. Shivering. Weighed down by something I can’t name.
Moments later Rachel disappears behind the bandstand.
I let her go.
27
Wednesday, 25 March
He picks me up near Waterloo bridge, in a government-issue black saloon. I climb in the back behind the driver and we pull off into the traffic, heading past the mainline train station and out towards Newington.