by Ava Marsh
It was surprisingly easy to get hold of Edward Hardy. A few seconds on Google furnished me with his website, an email address, a phone number for his office. A quick call to leave a message with his secretary.
‘Just says it’s Stella,’ I tell her, when she asks for my name.
He sits here now beside me in raincoat and formal suit, clearly come straight from the Commons. For a moment or two neither of us speak, just stare at the back of his driver’s head. I feel inhibited by his presence. Wonder if Hardy does too.
‘So,’ he says, finally breaking the silence. ‘How can I help you today?’ His eyes flick briefly to mine. I want to face him, but it’s awkward in a car. I’m conscious of the driver’s gaze reflecting back at me in the rear-view mirror.
‘I wanted to ask you something.’
Hardy’s eyebrows contract into a frown. He waits for me to go on.
‘About Amanda Mansfield.’
‘Amanda Mansfield?’ His tone tries to suggest he doesn’t know who I mean, but the contraction in his jaw tells me otherwise.
‘Elisa,’ I say simply. ‘The girl from the party.’
‘Ah.’ He inhales, then leans forward in his seat. ‘Drop us on the corner, Jake. By the postbox.’
The car pulls over at the junction. I climb out after Hardy, who walks round to the driver’s window and says something I don’t pick up. The car slides back into the road and turns right.
‘Let’s walk,’ says Hardy. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’
I follow him down a side street into an ordinary residential area, flanked by nondescript blocks of redbrick flats. We keep going until we come to a rather pretty garden, a few scraps of lawn, a pond in the centre, surrounded by emerging foliage. A series of rural-style cottages in the background. I pause to read the sign on the cast-iron gate: Red Cross Garden, Southwark.
‘Can we sit?’ I nod at a nearby bench, hoping the recent shower hasn’t left it too wet.
Hardy strides over, checks the surface of the wood and lowers himself on to it. I settle on his near side, my back turned towards the entrance. For a second the clouds part and I feel the warmth of the sun on my face.
‘So what do you want to know?’ he asks. ‘About Amanda Mansfield?’
‘You mean, apart from the fact that she’s dead? Or to be more precise, murdered.’ I say the word slowly and see Hardy flush.
‘Yes, I’m aware of that. I was very sorry to hear it.’
Didn’t Alex say much the same? The party line, I think, examining Hardy’s face. His eyes avoid mine, flicking around the gardens. There’s no one here, apart from an old man over in the far corner, bending and poking at something with a walking stick.
‘A nasty business,’ Hardy adds suddenly. ‘But I’m sure the police are on top of it. I don’t see any need for you to worry.’
‘I’m not worried. Not exactly. It’s more that I’m confused.’ I give him a tentative little smile.
‘Confused?’
‘Well, it’s just that nothing about her death makes sense,’ I say.
‘How so?’
I run through the reasons I gave DI Green. Hardy remains silent while I explain about the hotel, the condoms, the lapse in Amanda’s usual procedure.
‘It does sound odd,’ he concedes when I’ve finished. ‘But this is clearly something for the police.’
‘I’ve already spoken to them. And her girlfriend has told them all this too.’
I watch his reaction as I mention Kristen, but his face shows no hint of surprise – despite the fact that none of the papers mentioned that Amanda was a lesbian.
‘The thing is, I’m not sure they are taking it seriously,’ I say. ‘They seem convinced Amanda’s killer was a client. So I was wondering if you … I don’t know, whether you could make some inquiries? Pull a few strings?’
Hardy shifts on his seat and regards me for a long moment without speaking. ‘Frankly, I have nothing to do with the police. It’s way outside my remit.’
‘But you could find out who to speak to, couldn’t you?’
Hardy sighs. ‘Stella …’
‘You knew her,’ I add. ‘You met her … don’t you think it’s the least you can do? She’s dead. And Kristen is beside herself. She could lose the flat, everything.’
I fix him with an earnest expression.
‘Is that all?’ He glances at his watch.
I nod.
‘I’ll look into it,’ he says, his voice terse. ‘But I have to go. I’ve got a departmental meeting in half an hour.’
I reach over and grasp his hand in mine. He gazes at it in surprise before withdrawing it. ‘Thanks,’ I say, making myself appear suitably grateful. ‘I really appreciate it.’
He stands, straightens his coat. Looks down at me.
‘I’ll stay on here for a bit,’ I add. ‘You go ahead.’
Hardy gives me the briefest of smiles and walks away. I see him pull out his phone as he heads back up the street, presumably calling his driver. I glance over at the old man. He’s shuffling along towards the cottages, with a lopsided gait that suggests a recent stroke.
I’ve done it, I think, with a sense of finality. I’ve stepped over the brink. Now it’s simply a matter of waiting for whatever will happen next.
Either way, I figure Alex has his answer.
28
Friday, 27 March
I rarely do overnights. It’s not the dearth of sleep that bothers me. Or even the endless sex.
It’s the pretence that’s such hard work. Having to bite my tongue, or force myself to talk when I’d rather be silent. Never revealing the boredom or antipathy lying beneath my smile, behind that little gasp of pleasure. I can keep it up for one hour, even three or four – but the façade wears very thin on a twelve-hour shift.
But when Ben calls, I don’t hesitate. I’ve spent the last two days in a London swathed in fog, jumping at shadows. My flat no longer feels like a sanctuary, and the thought of escaping for the night is beyond tempting. Not to mention I’m surprised and pleased to hear from him again.
Maybe a little too pleased.
We meet at the Japanese I suggested in Soho. It’s one of my favourite haunts – authentic, understated, filled with natives. The kind of place you suspect has a private room for the yakuza hidden away downstairs.
Ben is waiting at a tiny table in the back corner. He stands to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Amazing restaurant,’ he says. ‘Good choice.’
‘It’s great, isn’t it? The next best thing to actually being in Tokyo. Not that I’ve ever been.’
‘It was pretty tough getting a reservation. I rang twice before they got a cancellation. Otherwise it would have been the Nando’s up the road.’
I glance round as I sit. The small dining room is crammed and it looks like we’re the only non-Japanese in here. ‘That’s the problem with this place. It’s always busy.’
‘I’m assuming you’ve been here before?’
I smile. ‘Do you really want to know?’
He takes the hint. ‘No.’
A diminutive waitress with skin like bone china hands us each a menu.
‘So, how are you?’ Ben asks, examining my features for clues. I make myself hold his gaze. I’d nearly forgotten how attractive he is. The way hair curls around his forehead. That wry smile. I’m oddly disarmed by his presence.
‘Wonderful. Thank you.’ I wonder how he’d react if I told him the truth. Probably run a mile. Clients can only bear so much reality. ‘How about you?’
He shrugs. ‘What can I say? Work … you know.’
‘Wife?’
The word pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. I want to slap myself around the head. Why do I do this with him? Act the fucking part, Grace.
Ben raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, yes, as it happens. But let’s at least order some drinks if we’re going to discuss that.’
‘No need. To talk about it, I mean.’ I examine my menu, feeling my face flush.
Nei
ther of us speaks for a minute or two. I’m just thinking the whole appointment has gone south again when he looks up. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
‘Yes?’
He holds up the menu. ‘I’m not very familiar with Japanese food. Or Japanese, come to that.’
I glance down at mine. It’s written first in Kanji characters, the ensuing English offering few clues as to what’s on offer.
‘Are you’re saying you’d like me to order?’
‘Please.’
I stick to Japanese-lite. Edamame and maki sushi. Six pieces of tuna sashimi – the beginner’s raw fish. Vegetable and prawn tempura and some agedashi tofu. A jug of good sake.
‘So why do you ask?’ he says, once the waitress has retreated. He’s sitting back in his seat, regarding me with something close to amusement.
‘Ask what?’
‘About my domestic situation.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, flustered. ‘I didn’t. I was just being flippant. Sorry, it’s none of my business.’
Ben laughs. ‘That’s what I like about you, Stella. The real you just can’t help breaking through.’
I smile awkwardly, remembering that Alex said something similar. The waitress returns with the sake. Pours us both a glass then sets the rest on the table.
Ben takes a sip, nods approvingly. ‘Anyway, since you did ask, I am married. Nominally.’
‘Ah,’ I say, savouring the dry flavour of the rice wine. ‘The nominal marriage. Sounds like the title to a literary novel.’
‘Nominal as in we’re just going through the motions.’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
He grins. ‘There you go again.’
This time my smile is genuine. Suddenly I’m not making an effort. Given the alternative of another night alone chewing over Amanda’s death and my bust-up with Rachel, I’m genuinely glad to be here.
Two waitresses appear, serving all our food at once. There’s barely space left on the table. ‘I never could get the hang of these,’ says Ben, gripping his chop sticks. I show him how to pincer them between thumb and fingers. He imitates my scissoring action – badly – dropping a piece of the tuna into the soy sauce and struggling to retrieve it.
I look over and mouth ‘fork’ to the waitress. She dips her head and retrieves one from the kitchen.
‘So,’ says Ben, finally able to eat. ‘How about you?’
‘How about me what?’
‘Married?’
‘Not any more.’
Ben looks like he wants to pursue this further but decides against it. He spears an edamame pod with his fork and pops the whole thing into his mouth. I let him chew it for a full minute before I start to smirk. I pick up another with my fingers and squeeze out the succulent soy beans.
Ben groans and swallows with visible effort, chasing it down with a gulp of sake. ‘Christ, I wondered why they were so … gristly.’
We steer the conversation into safer waters. He talks about his job. His megalomaniac boss, and the time he persuaded Ben to apply for a position with a rival firm.
‘What on earth for?’
‘He wanted me to report back. You know, on how they pitched to clients.’
‘What, you mean he wanted you to actually join the company? While you were still employed by him? How the hell could you do that?’
‘They let a lot of their employees work from home, at least for part of the week. He reckoned I could come and work for him on the days I was supposed to be homeworking.’
‘You’re kidding? That’s ridiculous.’
He lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘True story.’
‘So what on earth did you do?’
‘I applied for the job and I got it. And never went back to my old boss. Left the bastard completely in the lurch.’
I put my hand over my mouth as I chew and laugh at the same time. ‘Priceless.’
He spears a lump of the tofu. Downs it in one. ‘Your turn.’
I give him a questioning look.
‘Come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t had some laughs in this job.’
‘It’s confidential,’ I say. ‘How would you feel if I gossiped to my other clients about your astonishingly small dick?’
His face falls for an instant, then he grins.
But I do tell him Anna’s burqa story, suitably disguised – in case he’s ever seen her. Though I find that’s something I don’t even want to consider.
‘Anything else?’ The waitress materializes and relieves us of our embarrassment of dishes.
I look at Ben. He looks back.
‘Let’s skip dessert,’ I say, watching his mouth widen into a smile.
It’s different this time.
We undress each other slowly, intently, letting every movement, every action count. Leaching each moment of sensation, like sucking the juice out of the flesh of an orange.
He goes down on me, his tongue exploring, teasing me into orgasm. I drop my head to return the favour but Ben pulls me up into a kiss. Long and sensuous and I taste myself on his breath, the rich musk of my excitement.
‘Stella,’ he breathes, pulling back to fix his gaze on mine. It’s all he says and I don’t reply. This isn’t the time for words.
When we fuck, it’s urgent, but slow and measured, if such a thing is possible. Like a surgeon performing lifesaving surgery, every movement executed with fierce concentration, an absolute focus of attention. And weighted with something I’d almost forgotten existed.
Tenderness, I realize as I come with yowl of pleasure, biting back tears that rise, unbidden, like flood water from an underground aquifer.
Something feels as if it’s come loose inside me.
‘So, tell me,’ Ben says afterwards, arm curled around and head nestled against mine. ‘What’s your secret fantasy? The thing you most long to do.’
‘If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a secret.’ My standard response.
He grins. Waits.
Out of nowhere, I get the urge to answer seriously. I turn on my side. Run a hand through the mess we’ve made of my hair.
‘Live on an island. It’s a mile from the mainland, so I can go back in a boat to get food and stuff. I have a small white cottage with a few rooms. Cosy, but sparsely furnished, because I wouldn’t need much, but lots of books. And pictures on the walls. Line prints, landscapes. That sort of thing.’
He props his head up on his elbow and looks at me. ‘Interesting. But that wasn’t quite the sort of fantasy I had in mind.’
‘I know.’
‘OK. What kind of island?’
‘Somewhere wild. And uninhabited,’ I say. ‘Apart from me.’ I pull the duvet closer. The room still feels cold. I wonder if something’s gone wrong with the heating.
‘So what’s yours?’
He sniffs. ‘This pretty much covers it, I reckon.’
‘Honestly?’
He nods.
‘Blimey. You do lack imagination.’
‘Well, thankfully you don’t,’ he grins. A filthy, lascivious grin. Then exhales, slowly, not quite a sigh. ‘All right, tell me what you really think about sex – you being the expert and all.’
‘What I really think about sex in general? Or what I think about during sex? Haven’t we come full circle?’
‘In general.’
I stare into space, mulling it over. ‘I guess I believe sex is primal, however much we might pretend otherwise. No one is immune to its power.’
Ben laughs. ‘Except perhaps my wife. We haven’t had sex in over a year.’
I confine my curiosity to a raised eyebrow. ‘Well, it’s different for women.’
‘How so? You just said no one was immune.’
‘I know. I mean, with men, sex is something hardwired, automatic; show most guys a picture of an attractive girl with nice tits, and they’ll get a hard-on. They can’t help it.’ I pause, choosing the right words. ‘With women, it’s much more subtle. It’s all about context. To arouse a wom
an you have to engage her mind, her imagination.’
‘Her heart?’
‘Not necessarily.’
His lips twitch. He lets his head flop back on to the pillow. ‘Well, it seems I’ve failed to engage Helen on any level.’
‘Helen?’
‘My wife.’
‘Your nominal wife,’ I remind him.
He turns to look at me. ‘So you’re saying you don’t enjoy any of this then? You fuck men but you’re not engaged. You could have fooled me just now.’
I feel a flicker of embarrassment. Followed by irritation. ‘Don’t make assumptions, Ben. You know nothing about my imagination or how it works. For all you know, this is exactly the sort of thing I fantasize about.’
‘Being paid for sex? You find that erotic?’
‘Why not?’
He lets his gaze linger on my face. ‘You’re quite an enigma.’
An image of Alex at the party, using the same word. Jesus, why do men always talk in clichés?
‘Enigmatic,’ I muse. ‘I must add that to my website.’
Something slumps in Ben’s face. His mouth twitches before he speaks. ‘Well … OK. How long are you planning to carry on with this?’
‘This?’ I glance at the clock. Nearly midnight. ‘Approximately eight more hours. If you’re up to it.’
He scowls. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do. I’m just choosing to misunderstand.’ I quell another wave of frustration. Why does everyone keep asking me this?
‘Eight hours.’ Ben withdraws a little. Tucks both arms under his head. ‘What shall we talk about then? Life, death. The universe?’
‘As you please.’
He thinks for a moment, frowning slightly. ‘Do you believe in God? An afterlife?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘All right, so what do you imagine there’ll be? After we’re gone?’
‘Nothing, I hope. Silence. Peace.’
He looks thoughtful. I let my eyes drift across the line of his jaw. Study the steep curve of his chin, the hollow under his bottom lip. Have to suppress the urge to reach out and touch it. ‘So, what do you think there will be?’
He lifts his hand and scratches his cheek. It’s a while before he answers. ‘I think it will be like waking from a dream, and realizing that what you were dreaming wasn’t real. And feeling it slip away, the life you led while you were asleep, just fall away, like a mistake.’