‘Artemis …’ My mother stepped forward, limply reaching for her best friend’s arm, but she pulled away, the regret shaking through her body.
‘If you don’t believe me, what hope do I have?’ Her voice faded away as she turned, the wind chasing her from the house, biting at her bare feet, her white nightgown tangling around her legs.
My mother’s voice chasing after her, begging her to return, was an infuriated howl, lost on the wind.
How many times I had reimagined the scene that night, in the years that followed: how Artemis must have felt, the skin on her soles slapping against the grit and pebbles as she made her way along the black mountain path, her fate already sealed; imagining it as if her pain was my own.
CHAPTER 23
Anna
‘Anna, this is my husband.’
‘I’m Jeff, good to see you.’
My hand moved inside his, and I managed a smile as May carried on talking.
‘Jeff is TradeSmart’s accountant—’
‘That’s why they call me the money man.’ He wiggled his eyebrows and there was a cackle of appreciation from his wife.
‘Oh really? That’s so interesting.’ I made to continue the conversation, but Jeff was momentarily distracted by a face behind my head. I turned and caught the profile of an ageing British actor I recognised from a recent interiors spread we had run, which featured his Hollywood Hills pad in return for a mention of its being for sale; he was leaning in to shake hands with the winner of last year’s Man Booker Prize.
May noticed my eyes following the pair and smiled at me over her glass.
‘He has a place on Skiathos, comes over every year. You have to have your little black book ready at Clive’s soirées, as you’ll find out.’
Smiling calmly to demonstrate how unfazed I was in the company of celebrities, I turned my attention back to her husband, but it was impossible to get a word in edgeways.
‘Jeff knows a lot of people in the media, don’t you, darling?’
But Jeff was distracted, shoving his leather briefcase into the arms of a passing waiter with a condescending wink, ‘Be a sport and pop this in the cloakroom, would you?’
Returning her attention to me, May continued. ‘What sort of journalism are you in? You really should speak to my husband … Although, you know what they say, never trust a journalist!’
She laughed sharply, her hand expertly lifting another glass from a passing tray, depositing the empty one on a table behind them, her heel faltering for a moment, steadying herself against a chair.
‘Jeff is extremely important, knows everyone.’
Jeff rolled his eyes, mock self-deprecatingly. ‘Hardly, dear.’
David, who had just moved in to join us, cleared his throat lightly, discreetly beckoning a waiter from across the pool who was carrying a tray of crab-stuffed mushrooms. Jorgos stood a little behind Jeff, his face tilted away from us. At the other side of the pool, I could just make out the tip of Clive’s panama.
‘Oh, come on, darling.’ May leaned forward, Jeff stepping in to prop her up from one side. ‘Don’t be so bashful. It’s not like you to resist the chance to spend time with such a lovely young woman.’
May returned her attention to me, a single bead of sweat following the line of her hair.
‘My husband runs the foundation for Clive, set up the whole thing. I suppose you know all about the business …’
I swallowed, avoiding her gaze.
‘Not much, really. I mean, what David’s told me. It all sounds very interesting, I’d love to know more …’
David intervened, holding out a plate of food.
‘May, why don’t you have some of this? My father flew in the best caterers in Athens. I’m just going to borrow Anna for a minute, if you don’t mind. So lovely seeing you both.’
David squeezed my hand as we strolled towards the back of the garden, stopping at the far end by the love-seat amidst the orange trees. Just in front of us, the ground tapered off as if we had reached the end of the world.
‘I’m sorry about May,’ he said, leading me to sit beside him on a bench.
‘She’s hilarious.’
‘She’s a bloody liability.’
I laughed. ‘I liked her, actually.’
‘I’m so happy you’re here.’
I nodded, my chest bursting with everything that was happening, excitement and anticipation swirling uncertainly beneath a river of champagne in my gut.
He stopped suddenly, his face glowing with drink and sun and feelings he could not contain. ‘Dad loves you too, I can tell.’
I felt my body tighten, the smile falling from my lips.
‘Having you here, I think it’s helped.’
‘Helped what?’
He paused, thinking for a moment. ‘Things have been strained in the past months. The business. Jeff, he’s … he and my dad haven’t been seeing eye to eye. Having you here has … it’s been a distraction.’
‘How so?’
I kept my voice light.
David paused. ‘I don’t know, you’re just—’
‘Not me, I mean, you said your dad and Jeff haven’t been getting on.’
‘Oh, God, work stuff … You don’t need to hear about that. What you need is another drink, and …’
He leaned in to kiss me, pressing a bottle of champagne into my hand. As he pulled my leg towards him, I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. Gently pushing him away, I moved my hand to my stomach.
‘I’m sorry, I’m …’
David looked briefly dejected before composing himself.
‘Poor you, you’re still unwell?’
The pain was like a knife, slashing at me out of nowhere, and I gasped, trying to suppress the sound. ‘I’m so sorry, I just need to lie down.’
I woke to a noise outside the room.
A dark blanket had fallen over the house by now, the roar of the party having faded to a low hum.
Sitting up, aware of the strap of my bra digging into my skin, I felt David’s body slumped on the bed beside me. He must have come in after I passed out, the painkiller I had taken to soothe the pain in my stomach causing me to fall almost instantly to sleep.
Silently, I stood, letting my dress fall from my shoulders, taking off my jewellery, the clasp of the necklace pressing into the skin under my fingernail.
Dressing quickly in the nightie I had left folded on a chair, I pulled gently at the curtains in front of the terrace doors, slowly pushing the handle, desperate for a crack of air to alleviate the swell of pressure, the stale smell of alcohol and sweat secreting from David’s pores as he slept.
The caterers, long packed up for the night, had been replaced by a white satin bar erected by the pool, lined with bottles of spirits; the moon a sliver of chalk rubbing against the distant sea; the remaining guests scattered carelessly across the grounds.
In the distance, where the pool gave way to well-tended gardens, I saw a flash of colour and two figures. Slowly they came into focus: Jeff, his shock of white hair shining under the moonlight, and Clive. From here, I could not hear their voices. For a moment I considered cracking the window open further to improve my chances of hearing what they were saying, and then I stopped.
Instead, flicking my eyes to David, I turned and headed, barefoot, towards the door.
The hallway was dark, the only light scattered through a spray of leaves silhouetted against the window. In the sultry glow of moonlight, David’s mother’s paintings loomed from the walls.
Feeling my way along the corridor, I let my hand rest for a moment on the door-handle of Clive’s study. Pressing down, my clammy palm left a misty mark on the brass as the handle resisted until, with a final push, the door gave way. A barely audible click marked the shift from here to there, from safety into the unknown.
Nudging the door carefully open, I found Clive’s office just as I had imagined it the day I had overheard him on the phone to Jeff, although it was now cloaked in shadow. Shelves of boo
ks covered two of the walls, the one to my left lined with framed photographs.
Glancing quickly over my shoulder, I took a step closer, into the room. The main picture showed Clive and Jeff, perhaps ten or so years previously. In the background was Jorgos, his ponytail thicker then. Between Jeff and Clive, smiling broadly, there stood another man, his eyes avoiding contact with the lens; his gap-toothed grin shining against black pockmarked skin. There was something about the picture that had my attention.
Pulling out my phone, I took a photo of the image, the glare of the glass catching in the corner.
I moved along the pictures until another caught my eye, at the far end, an image caught in shadow; a smaller print this time, faded. It was a man, a woman and a child standing against the backdrop of this house. It looked plainer, humbler, before it had been rebuilt, but I recognised the setting. The garden was less formed then, the orange tree nothing but a promise, the now perfectly tended lawn a heap of dirt, the sky behind them grey with dust.
I had to move in closer to see the faces. The light beating against their bodies, David’s eyes peeped out under a bowl cut, his arm curled possessively around his mother’s thigh, her face obscured by her hand as it guarded against the sun. To her side was Clive, towering above them both.
A cool breeze rippled over my skin as I focused on the woman’s face. How old must David have been, eight or nine? The photo must have been taken not long before she had died. I found myself studying her silhouette for signs of decay, of the illness that would soon envelop her.
A flash of light swept across the room and I turned, my arms fixed in front of me, only to find it was just a headlight passing along the drive, another guest falling away.
Still, my nerves refused to settle as I scanned the room, unsure of myself now. Quickly, I moved towards Clive’s desk.
It was dark wood with a leather top, drawers lining one side. Breathing in, I pulled open the first drawer, expecting some resistance; inside was an ivory letter opener and a wooden tray with compartments for staples, paperclips and several sizes of envelopes.
My disappointment tinged with relief, I pushed it closed and moved to the second drawer. This time, when I pulled the brass handle, the drawer refused to budge. I tried the third drawer, which slipped open, revealing a pile of unused printing paper.
Pausing for a moment, I tried the middle drawer again, bending so that my eye was level with the lock, feeling the metal jam against wood as I tried again.
I stood for a moment, casting my eyes around the top of the desk, anywhere that Clive might keep a key, already knowing it was a ridiculous prospect to expect anyone to keep a key in such obvious proximity. Then I remembered the paperclips, recalling how I had taught myself to fashion them as lock-pickers during one of the interminable summer holidays I had endured as a child.
Pulling open the top drawer, I went to take one out when my fingers grazed an envelope, slightly crumpled, standing on its side in the drawer.
Picking it up, I knew just by the weight of it what was inside. My fingers trembling, I pulled out the key, small and solid, bending down again and feeling the key slide into the hole; the lock shifted reluctantly as I turned my hand.
Inside, the drawer was bare but for an A4 cardboard folder. Pulling out the contents – a thin wad of paper divided into two files – I flicked through the papers, my hands clumsy with nerves. The first bundle, a list of TradeSmart shareholders, was the thicker of the two, the pages held together by a single staple.
Working my way through the neatly printed pages, careful not to leave a crease, I scanned the addresses – Venezuela, Japan, the US, Azerbaijan – searching for anything that might jump out, oblivious to what I was actually looking for.
The second file was a single sheet of paper, the words Private and Confidential written across the front, in marker pen. My chest thudded as I read the paper, a receipt, handwritten with the date in the corner, a fax number scrawled across the top, and a logo stamped at the top in faded ink ‘THE MAJESTIC’.
Leaning back against the desk, I read the child-like scrawl:
Due to the high concentration of mercaptan sulphur and the highly noxious smell of your product, we ‘The Majestic’ agree to your suggestion, under the advice of a chemist, to dispose of the product in a properly prepared site away from the city.
We, The Majestic, agree to take all responsibility for the proper disposal and promise to do a good job.
The price for our service is a total of US$950.
We thank you for your bus …
Before I could finish the last sentence, a now familiar wave of nausea hit my stomach. Instinctively, my hand fell to my stomach. At the same time I heard a noise. Freezing, I waited a moment but it was nothing, a branch slapping against the window. Then it came again.
‘Hello?’
The voice at first seemed to come from behind me, but when I turned there was no one there.
My body seized with alarm, I hurtled into action, my hands shaking as I pushed the papers back into their envelope. Dropping it silently into the drawer, I pushed the drawer closed only to find the key was no longer there.
My eyes blurring in panic, I scanned the floor for the key, which glinted at me from the carpet.
As I finally turned the lock, darting backwards, I saw a shadow pass the door.
‘Anna?’
When he spoke again, I knew his voice at once.
CHAPTER 24
Anna
I recognised Jeff’s presence even before I saw his shadow hovering in front of the crack of the office door.
How could I have been so stupid as to leave it open? In desperation I lunged back towards the open door, stepping out into the hall, my skin brushing against his, fire burning in my cheeks.
He turned, following me with his eyes, a smile curling on his lips.
‘I thought it might be you, on the prowl …’
He was drunk; I felt his breath on me, thick and stale, as he took a step closer, forcing my back against the wall.
‘I was just going to the loo.’
My voice sounded forced, too loud.
‘David was asleep, I didn’t want to disturb him …’
‘Of course you didn’t …’
His eyes rolled over my face, down my neck.
Drawing a sharp breath, the sickness heaving in my chest, I opened my mouth to speak, but it was Jorgos’ voice I heard.
‘Jeff?’
At first, I was not sure if Jeff heard him as he kept his eyes on mine, breathing into my face for a moment more before finally turning.
‘Jorgo.’ There was a tightness in his voice. ‘Where have you been all night? I was just looking for you.’
Raking his eyes over my nightdress once more, Jeff turned and walked unsteadily away from me. I felt both men’s eyes on my back as I turned towards the bedroom, my heart racing.
It was much later when I woke again, my mouth dry in the heat of the night, the house still dark as I made my way out of the bedroom towards the staircase in search of a drink.
Approaching the kitchen, drawn forward by the hum of the fridge, I almost didn’t notice the briefcase wedged in the gap between the door and the frame of the cloakroom, so that it would not close.
I knew it immediately: the briefcase Jeff had thrust into the arms of the young waiter. Dark brown leather. The clips of the lock not quite fastened, it transpired, as I prised it open in the darkness of the hallway.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 25
Anna
An extra line. At first so faint as to almost be invisible; then so obvious it was as though it had never not been there.
‘Hey, I’m just heading out, do you need anything?’
David’s voice hummed through the door of the bathroom, the day after we arrived back in London. I could see the shadow of his feet from where I was sitting on the bathroom floor, the back of my head pressed up against the wall.
‘No, I’m fine. I was just going
to do some unpacking.’
My eyes didn’t leave the plastic stick, which was still pressed between my fingers; I was terrified that if I so much as glanced away then what was happening might become real.
‘OK, I’m just heading into the office, got some stuff to catch up on. I’ll be home for dinner.’
‘I’ll make something,’ I managed, the normality of the words at odds with the enormity of what was happening.
Harry was out of town. I had received a one-line response to my message the night after I broke into Clive’s study.
Away for a few days, let’s speak when I’m back.
I thought of Meg, pushing the tears away with my finger, the rest of my face still. Why did I not ring her then and there? Was it stubbornness or something else?
‘Mum, it’s me.’
The phone was warm against my cheek from having been held in my hand for so long. I knew I had made a mistake the moment I heard her voice, remote and businesslike.
‘Marianne? It’s a terrible line. Can you hear me?’
I nodded regretfully.
‘That’s better. Your father and I were wondering how you were,’ she lied. ‘It’s been a while since you were last in touch.’
‘Is Dad there?’
My lower back was gently throbbing.
‘He’s popped out.’
I pictured him in his study, closing the door against the sound of my mother’s voice.
‘Is everything OK? You sound …’
‘I’m just out, it’s a bad line.’
I pressed my hand against the wall, pushing myself to my feet.
‘How was Greece?’
I could hear what she was doing, rounding the call to a close.
Silently, I begged her to ask another question, one that mattered this time. After a moment, I answered.
‘Actually, I’m really sorry, can I call you back later?’
She paused a moment too long.
‘I’m going to pop out to meet your father in a bit, but we’ll speak soon. Don’t leave it so long next time!’
The Most Difficult Thing Page 13