Players

by Karen Swan

  ‘No,’ Tor said, frightened to death by yet another development. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of cloak and dagger thing.

  ‘It means it wasn’t Harry who stole the manuscript from me,’ Cress managed. ‘It means it’s not over yet.’

  Tor’s heart galloped and she perched on one of the crates for support.

  ‘You’ve seen this painting before?’ Cress asked. ‘The Death of Orion?’

  ‘Yes, at the auction. At Bonham’s.’

  Cress’s eyes narrowed. ‘So who else was there?’

  ‘I . . . uh . . .’ Tor stalled.

  ‘You’ve got to think, Tor. Whoever’s sent this to threaten Harry is the same person who sent me the note last week.’

  ‘OK. Well, there was Anna Brightling, and um, Laetitia Latham . . .’

  ‘Who else?’

  Tor had suddenly paled. She looked away from Cress.

  Cress watched her closely, her own mind racing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Uh, nothing. I . . . uh . . .’ Tor tried to gather her wits. She didn’t want to say it.

  Cress studied her friend through narrowed eyes, then marched over to the laptop on the desk, punching the keys. She knew her too well.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tor asked, quickly, full-blown panic written all over her face. ‘What are you typing?’

  ‘There was a quotation on the cover note that came with the Scion manuscript. The one that told me to make sure Hillier wasn’t forgotten.’

  Tor shook her head, trying to remember it. ‘Uh . . . I don’t know which . . .’

  ‘“Bright with names that men remember; loud with names that men forget . . .” D’you remember?’

  Tor nodded. She’d read it only yesterday.

  Cress read the screen, then sat back. ‘It’s Swinburne.’ She looked at Tor meaningfully. ‘From the poem, ‘Eton: An Ode’.

  ‘Eton?’ Tor repeated dumbly.

  ‘That night at the Roof Gardens, he said it, Tor. He said it when we asked how he and Harry knew each other. Hunter thought he was being clever, trying to show off. But I don’t think he was. I think he was trying to let me know who he was.’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Tor lied, her heart hammering her chest, trying to get out. She didn’t want to hear this. He couldn’t be part of it. He couldn’t!

  ‘You told me just an hour ago he bought you a painting from the same auction.’ Cress tipped her head sympathetically. ‘You know full well that it’s James, Tor.’

  Chapter Fifty-three

  . . . Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.

  Mark collapsed down on to his chest and rolled over, grateful for the ordeal to be at an end. He stared up at the heavily corniced ceiling, exhausted.

  So this was ageing. Not so long ago he could have done those press-ups, well, not quite single-handedly, but certainly with rather more bounce, and maybe a hand-spring at the end for flourish.

  He put his hands behind his head and willed himself into the stomach crunches, scrutinizing it each time he curled up – it was still flat, just with a slight covering now, and a lot more chest hair. OK, so he wouldn’t be asked to do a shoot for Abercrombie & Fitch any time soon, but he could live with that. He was thirty-nine. Not nineteen.

  Nineteen. Nineteen. His mind began to wander back to that far distant land. Back when beer cost ‘a pound a pint’ at the student bar and the day didn’t start till 2 p.m. and the girls had tits under their armpits.

  The image of Greta in his shirt flashed before him again. Like it always did. Cress had been sleeping in the spare room for nearly six months now, and Mark had developed a time-sensitive fantasy that brought him off quickly and efficiently in the shower each morning – it was always of Greta in those daisy pants and his shirt.

  Of course, he threw in some variety by changing it around occasionally – sometimes she was in just the pants; others, just the shirt. But increasingly, he was finding that wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted to touch her, taste her, make her laugh, make her come.

  She was different to Cress in every way. Kind, sweet, funny (OK, scratch that, Cress was funny too); from what he’d seen of her in her bikini this week, her stomach was firm but not rock hard, with a better six-pack than his. Best of all though, she wanted him, and him alone.

  She laughed at his jokes, cooked his favourite suppers, mothered his children; wore his shirts to bed, for Chrissakes. She was more of a wife to him than Cress. Especially when you considered that he wasn’t sleeping with her either.

  Abandoning the crunches, he stood up, his groin aching more than his abs. He couldn’t believe that he was here, in this mess, lusting after the nanny like a teenager. A tiny voice somewhere in the back of his brain warned him that he was becoming everything he’d said he never would – middle-aged, sex starved, desperate – but it wasn’t anywhere near as loud as the voice in his head advising him to get Greta out of her bikini.

  Was it his fault his wife had completely withdrawn from him? That she found greater satisfaction hunting down authors who wanted to remain lost and studying her accountants’ spreadsheets than she did in bed with him? It was clear she couldn’t bear him to touch her. He’d seen her flinch the last time he’d taken off her bra. Actually flinch, like he was molesting her.

  He couldn’t live in this emotional and physical vacuum any longer. Something had to give.

  He turned as the key slotted into the lock and the door opened. The children bundled through, heading straight for the kitchen and the freezer filled with lollipops.

  Greta followed through the door a second later, staggering beneath the weight of the wet towels and beach bags. She stopped as she saw him standing there and instinctively recognized the sea-change in him.

  She had known this moment was coming. Day by day, inch by inch, they had been drawing closer to each other. Right in front of Cress, right under her nose, and she hadn’t noticed a thing.

  Dropping the bags, she slowly moved towards him, her eyes never leaving his. She pulled her hair out of the pony-tail and it tumbled on to her shoulders; those tiny shoulders that could barely keep his shirt on.

  She was so close now. His heart was pounding faster than it had during one hundred press-ups.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Greta,’ Cress barked, barging in. ‘Why have you come up here with the kids? I told you to keep them out of the way today. I need to get ready,’ she scowled.

  She stopped and looked at Mark, who looked flushed and slightly wild.

  ‘You look hot and bothered. Have you been exercising? Well, jump in the shower then. We’ve got to leave in an hour and I don’t want you making me late. This is a big day for me.’

  Tor climbed out of the bath and tried the Emperor Suite again, but the call was just diverted back to the operator.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Summershill. No calls are being put through to Miss Abingdon’s suite today.’

  She tapped her nails on the desk, lost in thought. There was just over an hour to go till the car arrived. Even if she could get herself ready in that time, she knew she wouldn’t get anywhere close to getting into the suite. Amelia was either in full-blown labour or – on the off-chance that it hadn’t kicked off yet – getting ready for the biggest night of her life. Best Actress nominees didn’t just appear; they had to be made.

  She would have to wait to see James.

  She wrapped the bath towel around herself and started doing her hair, combing it, sectioning it, curling it, her freshly manicured red nails moving rhythmically and expertly.

  There was a knock at the door and Hen came in, fresh from a preview meeting at the museum, a glass of champagne in each hand.

  ‘Santé,’ she smiled, handing one to Tor. ‘I thought we could have a little tipple now, just to set you on your way.’

  Tor giggled. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Cheers!’

  They clinked glasses and took a sip each.

  ‘Did it go well?’ Tor asked, finishing
off the last sections.

  ‘How could it not? The curator has done an incredible job. It’s brought so many wonderful memories flooding back. I feel so privileged to have shared in it.’

  ‘It’s an amazing history,’ Tor exclaimed. ‘You’re so lucky to have worked with him, first-hand. All those incredible dresses.’

  ‘Talking of which – let me see what you’re wearing,’ Hen said excitedly.

  ‘Ooooh, wait till you see it, Hen. It’s just divine. Cress treated me,’ Tor said, jumping up off the bed and walking across the room. ‘But honestly, it cost the same as a small car and I don’t know when I’ll ever wear it again . . .’

  Her voice trailed away and she spun round.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she whispered.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’ Hen said, looking concerned.

  ‘The dress! It’s not here.’

  ‘Of course it is! Check the wardrobe. The maids will have hung it up for you.’

  Tor shook her head but opened the wardrobe doors anyway.

  ‘No, no. I know it’s not!’ She turned around and looked at Hen, wan with shock. ‘It’s hanging on the banisters at home. I didn’t want to crease it so I put it in a separate dress bag. But then Cress rang, ordering me across town, and I panicked because I thought we were going to miss the flight and . . . since getting here it’s all been so crazy I didn’t even notice . . .’ Tor looked at Hen and wanted to cry. ‘What am I going to do? The car’s coming in twenty minutes. There’s no way I can get anything now!’ Her voice rose with hysteria.

  Hen thought fast. She stood up and put her glass down on the dressing-table. ‘Right, now don’t cry, Tor, we can fix this. No, don’t cry – you’ll mess up your make-up. Just stay here. Stay calm, OK? I’ll be right back.’

  Tor stared as she shut the door behind her. This was all Cress’s bloody fault. If she hadn’t been so busy bloody blackmailing Harry and sending her off to lock-ups at the last minute, she’d have her lovely Valentino and the party would have begun.

  She sank down on to the bed and tried not to cry, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to block out all the stresses she’d had since getting here: bolstering Cress, walking away from James, taking delivery of Harry’s paintings, all the subterfuge and threats. And now, her lovely bit of frippery, the wisp of petal pink silk that was going to take her to the party of her life, was stuck hanging from a stair banister in Battersea.

  She drained her glass – and then Hen’s – in desolation, staring absently at her red-painted toenails, which always so delighted Oscar. The door opened and Hen staggered in, hidden behind a tower of polythene-covered dresses.

  ‘Oh my godfathers, Hen!’ Tor exclaimed. ‘Where on earth did you . . . Oh no, Hen, you can’t!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t wear one of these. They’re for the museum. They’re priceless. What if I mark one of them? Or spill wine?’

  Hen tutted. ‘They are dresses, made to be worn, Tor. And they are mine. I decide what happens to them. Now choose one quickly. We haven’t much time left.’

  She dropped the dresses in a heap on the bed, sliding out like a rainbow in their clear hanging bags – mauve, tangerine, lime, blossom pink, ivory – showing off 1950s pleated chiffons and paste jewels.

  Tor clapped her hands together and gave Hen a big hug. She moved over to the bed, dipping through the collection, led almost as much by feel as by sight, letting her fingers trip over the different weights. Every single piece was couture and gossamer-light, lined with charmeuse silk and organdie.

  She immediately stopped at a crisp organza dress bedecked with an ivy print. With tiny puff sleeves, the blouse of the dress wrapped over and cinched into a tiny waist before kicking out into a full-circled skirt which actually had – oh heaven! – a net underskirt. Tor had always dreamed of dresses like this as a child.

  ‘I thought you’d like that,’ Hen smiled. ‘I wore that to my twenty-first birthday party, the night I met my first husband.’

  ‘Oh, Hen. I can’t wear it then.’ Tor put the dress back on the pile. ‘It’s far too precious.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Hen stopped her. ‘I wouldn’t have brought it over if I didn’t want you to wear it.’ She held the dress out for Tor.

  ‘Try it on. Try them all on. Have some fun. I’ll give you some space to finish getting changed. Come and knock on my door before you go, if you get a minute.’

  Tor held the dress up to the light, swaying it from side to side to make the skirts swish, like Julie Andrews with the Von Trapp curtains, then put it back down on the bed. She let her towel drop and stepped into an ice-blue satin full-length gown. It was formal but it puffed out over her tummy – there were too many photographers around for taking a chance on that, she decided. A black wool crêpe dress was sensational and would have made Roland Mouret weep at the artistry, but it was black. A bit . . . blah. She could do better. She picked her way through everything, knowing that it was the dress with the meringue-peaks and sophisticated ivy print that was going to work.

  If destiny was a dress, she knew she’d found hers. She stepped into the skirt, breathing in as she did up the zip. There was a small corset inside that whittled her waist away to little more than a handspan, and she looked into the mirror, already knowing what she’d see. It fitted her perfectly – the short sleeves flattering her arms, the bodice shaping her into a siren, her legs looking gloriously slender peeking out from under the full skirt. The colour was just a dream against her hair and she pirouetted across the carpet with delight.

  She went into the bathroom and adjusted her make-up. The dress demanded a more elegant face. Rummaging around her make-up bag, she went heavier on the kohl and mascara, and finished with a rare sweep of red lipstick. Thankfully, she had packed some red peep-toes – just in case – and as she moved across the carpet, she felt like a young Grace Kelly.

  She stood in front of the mirror for a moment, seeing both her loveliness and loneliness reflected back at her. If only Hugh was with her now . . .

  Her phone rang and as she checked her watch – 2 p.m. – she knew the car was waiting for her downstairs. Phew! Chic snatched from the jaws of defeat. It was time to go.

  Cress and Mark were already waiting for her in the stretch limo when she got in.

  ‘Oh Cress, you’re a vision! Isn’t she, Mark?’ Tor asked, as she slid along the seat.

  Mark nodded. ‘She certainly is,’ he said, without looking at her.

  Cress smiled. She’d twisted her hair back into a chignon and her make-up artist had done a good job of disguising the exhaustion she was carrying. The dress was a great colour on her, though there was no disguising the fact that she’d lost a ton of weight since buying it. Her shoulders were bony and shiny, her collarbone prominent.

  ‘I completely love your dress,’ Cress gasped, as Tor fussed with her skirt, trying to prevent it from creasing. ‘But – what happened to the Valentino?’

  Tor rolled her eyes. ‘Forgotten in the rush following a certain last-minute phone call.’

  ‘Eeek,’ Cress said quietly. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s that? What happened?’ Mark asked, trying to tune in to the women’s girly conversation.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Tor dismissed. ‘It’s all turned out well.’

  ‘Did you manage to get through to Amelia’s room?’ Cress asked lightly, casting a glance at Mark, who’d taken out his BlackBerry and was checking emails.

  ‘No,’ Tor shook her head. ‘She’s in labour. Sucky timing.’

  Cress shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s a good thing. It’ll keep some people otherwise engaged. I’ll feel a lot more relaxed once the eyes of the world are upon something else.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ She still couldn’t believe that James was behind this – that he would somehow sabotage Harry and Cress at the ceremony this afternoon.

  Cress brought her shades down and settled back for a doze. Tor looked out of the window and wished she’d brought a book. Everyone at the hotel had said the traffic into the theatre was a
nightmare, even though it was so close.

  And they were right. Forty minutes later they were still snaking along Sunset Boulevard.

  Cress stirred.

  ‘D’you know when Harry’s arriving?’ Tor asked casually, peering over Mark’s shoulder and doing his Sudoku for him.

  ‘Um, after us. His car’s picking him up at half past. They let the non-nominees go through first, nice and quickly, so that we don’t crowd the carpet and make it look messy.’

  The car had stopped moving, and although Tor couldn’t see out of the front windscreen – it was about thirty feet away and hidden behind a blackout screen – she knew they were close. The pedestrians and shoppers on the pavements had thickened into crowds and onlookers, and already, still several blocks away from the Kodak theatre, the noise was thunderous.

  The pop-glare of the cameras was bright even behind the tinted windows and Cress readjusted her shades.

  The screen dividing the passengers from the driver slid down.

  ‘We should be there in four minutes, Mrs Pelling.’

  ‘Mark, it’s nearly time to get out,’ Cress said. ‘You’d better put that away.’

  Reluctantly he put away his beloved gadget and loosened his collar with a finger, trying to keep cool. What he’d do to be sitting in front of a Reuter’s screen right now. This was not his definition of fun.

  ‘Which beach has Greta taken the children to this afternoon?’ Tor asked, distractedly.

  Cress shifted uneasily. ‘Actually, she hasn’t. They’re with a nanny from the hotel.’

  Tor’s eyebrows shot up, her jaw dropped.

  ‘It’s OK! It’s all under control!’ Cress said, putting her hands up. ‘There was a discrepancy with some of the names on our list. I had to ask Greta to go ahead and sort it out.’ She shrugged. ‘I had no choice, Tor. But don’t worry, they’ll be fine.’

  ‘Oh my God, Cress!’ Tor said, trying not to come out in a cold sweat on the dress. ‘A complete stranger is looking after my kids? Are you kidding? Quick! Give me your mobile. I’ve got to call Hen. Hurry. Give it to me!’