‘What’s yours?’
‘I think I have, maybe, a fear of boredom.’
That was when we moved towards each other, the combined velocity giving the impact an unexpected violence. Then we were kissing hard, tumbling sideways onto the bed, fingers reaching for zips and buttons. Naked, she was smooth and milk-pale, hot to the touch and in constant motion; spine arching, legs hooking, mouth searching. She was so unlike Clare it helped me keep Clare from my thoughts, which was convenient.
‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ she giggled afterwards, with lighthearted relish, as if we were skipping school or scrumping apples. Not that she’d have known the concept of the last: she ordered everything on her phone, even another woman’s man, and everything came to her in the delivery slot she’d selected.
‘Don’t you worry someone will walk in?’ I said.
‘No. We’re the sole agent.’
‘But yours can’t be the only set of keys. What if Richard or someone came for some impromptu viewing? You’d lose your job.’
‘Then I’d get another.’
‘Good luck with references. “I cannot in all conscience recommend Melia I-Don’t-Know-Her-Surname as a property negotiator because she was found in a high-end apartment abusing the client–agent trust by sleeping with the partner of a company director . . .”’
Melia’s lips curled. ‘Sounds bad when you put it like that.’
I was beginning to understand that she was a person with a strong sense of having nothing to lose – and she assumed no one else did either. It was easy to see why she and Kit were together.
‘It’s Quinn,’ she added.
‘What?’
‘My surname.’
‘So we can’t come here again, Ms Quinn?’
‘Probably not, it’ll be let soon, maybe by the morning. I showed a couple just now and they’re keen. But there are other places. I just need to pick ones without doormen and schedule a viewing for the end of the day. Then I take the clients down afterwards, wave goodbye, and come back up.’
‘What about security cameras?’
Her eyes widened, roguish, conspiratorial. ‘Who’s watching? And if they were, you’re just another client looking at a flat.’
To demonstrate our anonymity, or perhaps her own recklessness, she slipped from the bed and stood at the window, completely nude. When I protested, she wrapped herself in the gauzy drape, winding twice, three times, until she became an opaque Melia-shaped dummy at the edge of the window. I tried not to imagine the feeling of confinement wrapped like that.
‘Come back, Melia, come back! You’re like Cleopatra,’ I said, as she unfurled. ‘That was how she was presented to Caesar. Not in a curtain, though, in a carpet.’
Melia returned to the bed. ‘Was he pleased?’
I gripped her against me, ran my hands over her back and bottom. ‘Very, I would have thought.’
After we’d dressed and smoothed the bedding, I went to the window myself, nose almost to the glass. It was impossible not to feel a kind of holiday high. Sex with a woman twenty years younger than me in a bedroom in the sky. Lights from the planes climbing from the City as if staged for our adventurous urges and not those of the passengers within; the illuminated riverboat mapping its course silently below. It must have been the service that arrived at St Mary’s just before nine thirty.
As Melia consulted a photo on her phone to reorder the throws and cushions precisely as we’d found them, I took one last look out and knew, with total certainty, that whatever it was we’d started this evening, and no matter how strenuous the deception or debilitating the guilt (and I did feel guilt, whatever anyone might think of me), I would not be able to stop.
‘What?’ Melia said, beside me again, ready to depart.
‘I can’t believe you like me,’ I said, truthfully.
She smiled. ‘I told you. You know things. You’re funny.’
I was moderately knowledgeable and amusing, I conceded, not to mention euphoric enough to push from my mind the more obvious explanation of this miraculous pairing: she also thought I was rich.
10
27 December 2019
‘Well, you’re certainly not the first man to find himself in this position,’ Merchison says, and I assume he means tempted into infidelity generally as opposed to by Melia Roper specifically. I wonder if in his dealings with her he’ll infer that it was I who tempted her, she who was ‘not the first’ to be tricked and misled. A little police mind game to divide us, loosen our memories.
I’m saved from answering by the sight of DC Parry marching into view, a cardboard tray of Costa takeout coffees in hand. Though I’m not a Costa fan, at this stage in the game I’ll take the psychoactive boost in whatever form it comes. But at the corner of the building he pulls up to speak to someone out of sight and, to my horror, that figure reveals herself to be a uniformed officer. Is she there in support of the two detectives, poised to step forward the moment she gets the nod? On TV, they just hit a button on their phone and bark, ‘Request back up NOW!’ and two minutes later it’s there, officers fanned out, all escape routes covered.
She glances in our direction before dipping out of sight and I breathe a little easier.
Parry rejoins us. ‘I guessed black, no sugar,’ he tells me, delivering the tall cup with a thump. His ungloved hands have the greyness of cold.
‘That’s fine. Thank you.’ Coffee is expensive, should I offer to pay for mine? Then again, they’re preventing me from earning money here. Unlike Kit, I don’t get paid if I fail to turn up.
He remains standing. ‘Shall we move inside, warm up a bit? They’ve opened up.’
I appeal to Merchison, who is already on his feet and sipping at an espresso-sized cup: ‘How much longer do you think we’ll be? I really need to get to work.’ In actual fact, I can see Regan’s response to my text on the phone screen: WTF? Take as long as you need!
‘Just a little longer,’ Merchison says, ‘if that’s okay with you?’
Again, I read between the lines: It’s either here or we take you in. Charge you. Charge me with what? They clearly already knew about the affair, so that can’t be what he was hoping to extract from me in Parry’s absence, and whatever briefing Parry might have received while gone, he’s not announcing it any time soon.
‘Of course.’ I follow them into the vast public hall and across the acres of marble to a table far from the central bar and obscured by a broad supporting pillar. My cheeks are stiff with cold, aching as they thaw in the heated interior.
‘So we’ve just been getting up to speed on the current status between Jamie here and Mrs Roper.’ Merchison updates Parry, who grimaces as he listens. I sense he doesn’t care for the sex subplot, at least not the details of it.
I’m thinking, meantime, of Clare. The deceived partner. This is not just about you, Jamie. ‘Can I just ask, have you spoken to my partner, Clare Armstrong?’ It strikes me that Melia must surely have let her colleagues know her situation; she can’t possibly have gone into work this morning. I picture her sitting in pyjamas on her yellow sofa, pale and tearful, with one of those family liaison people who nod gently and know the right lines to say – ‘It’s important to stay positive. We mustn’t catastrophize.’
‘Not yet.’ DC Merchison is scribbling her name, asking for the correct spelling. ‘Do we need to?’
‘No, I just wondered.’ Idiot. I wish I could take the pen and score a line through his note. If they do decide to phone her, or pay a visit, they will surely tell her about Melia and me; they’re not in the business of diplomacy. I can only pray that her shock will be obscured by the greater horror of a friend having vanished.
‘Maybe you should call her,’ Merchison urges me, with a glance towards Parry. ‘Tell her where you are.’
This is obviously a test. They want to hear what I say about Kit.
Fine. I fish my phone from my pocket and select Clare’s name, trying not to show my relief when I connect straight to
voicemail. I’m starting to feel that time has lost its reliability, a minute expanded, a half hour compressed.
I speak in a low, cautious tone: ‘Clare, it’s me. Something’s going on with Kit. Apparently he’s gone missing. I’m with the police at the moment and wanted to let you know they might phone you.’
To confirm my alibi.
‘Maybe you already know this from Richard,’ I add, ‘or Melia herself. If you’ve seen her, I hope she’s holding up okay.’
As I end the call, Merchison observes, ‘I take it she doesn’t know what you’ve been up to then?’
Rattled both by the sound of Clare’s recorded voice and the implication in his that he’s identified a new form of leverage, I let my politeness slip. ‘No. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ He jots a line or two on his pad before sitting back and smirking at me, giving off a one-lad-to-another vibe that feels pretty authentic, and I can only guess at his own success with women. His innate understanding that in our new culture of scrupulous equality most men and women still want to enjoy the original game of opposite sexes. It doesn’t just recede because we say it should. ‘No guarantees, I’m afraid,’ he says, with faux regret, and flattens his hair with both hands.
My gaze dips to his notepad, momentarily unprotected, and I attempt some upside-down reading. Probs with CA, I decipher. CA doesn’t know about MR?
Why the question mark? He hasn’t taken my word for it? I speak more firmly: ‘Look, Clare’s not relevant to whatever’s happened to Kit.’
Parry, who’s been listening to this exchange, must have an asbestos throat because he’s already tipping back his coffee to drain the last drops. ‘Until we know exactly what happened to him on Monday night, we have to assume everything’s relevant,’ he says, close enough for me to catch the scent of americano on his breath.
The table is smaller than the one outside, more of a bistro table for two, and I have a sudden image of Kit at our Christmas drinks (inaugural Christmas drinks, he kept saying in that significant way of his, like he’d just invented the word, like it was some kind of legacy, a gift from him to us); appearing at our tiny table in the bar with a round of drinks, empties swept to the edge. His voice was thick with mockery as he raised a glass in my direction: ‘To Jamie, who thinks his generation’s the only one that knows how to drink . . .’
Was there . . . was there some sense of farewell in that thespian flourish? What was it he said to us that time about suicide? If I wanted to end it all, I’d fuck off and do it privately . . .
Even as I resolve not to repeat his words to these detectives, I’m visited by a sense of loss so profound I find it hard to breathe.
11
March 2019
Fortunately for me, Clare was out at a client dinner the night of that first liaison, giving me time to scrub the smells of adultery from my skin and feign sleep by the time she returned. In the kitchen the next morning, I took my customary position at the coffee machine, blue-lit buttons aglow as the beans ground, while she sat at the table eating mango chunks with a cake fork and checking her email. She seemed exactly as she always was until she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh!’
I handed her a cappuccino and stood slightly out of her eyeline with my own coffee. ‘Bad news?’
‘It’s from Vicky.’
‘Vicky?’
‘Your career coach.’ She regarded me with dismay. ‘She says you missed your consultation last night.’
Feeling my face redden, I eased into the seat next to her. ‘God, I completely forgot about that.’
‘Jamie. You need to put this stuff in your phone calendar so you get reminders. You can’t just keep it in your head.’
‘I thought it was tonight,’ I said, proving her point.
‘It’s only the second one, isn’t it? What must she think? If you can’t even make the sessions, how can you expect to carve out a new career?’
The language was grating – Maybe ‘carving out’ and being on time are different skill sets, I thought – but I was not about to start an argument with the pressure of another woman’s fingers still burning on my skin.
‘I’ll apologize and reschedule,’ I assured her. ‘Why is she emailing you, anyway?’
‘I guess because I set it all up.’ She returns to the message. ‘She says she won’t charge for the no-show. That’s very decent of her.’
‘Great. I’ll thank her. And, Clare? I’d prefer to communicate with her directly from now on. What with my being forty-eight years old and all, I think I can handle it without an intermediary.’
‘Of course.’ And she looked across the table at me meaningfully, like a pet that expects its owner to understand its needs without needing to ask.
Or maybe I was the pet.
Later that day, I waited for Melia’s confirmation of our next meeting – 7.30 Weds – before composing an email to Ms Jenkinson suspending our course indefinitely owing to work pressures. I will be in touch as soon as my diary clears again . . . Her response was prompt and professional: an agreement to await my preferred dates as and when I became available (I must point out that the fees have been paid in full and are nonrefundable). I followed up with my thanks and then told Clare I’d rescheduled for the following Wednesday at seven thirty.
Potentially, I had six further iterations of the same cover story.
Of course, the downside was that Clare was now alert to the need for closer supervision, on my case the moment I returned from my second meeting with Melia, a glass of wine ready for our self-consciously informal debrief.
‘How did it go with Vicky?’
‘Great. She’s very inspiring. We did exercises to identify desires.’
Don’t think about sex with Melia. The animal pleasure. The commitment, as if it’s our last act on earth.
‘Has she given you homework?’
‘I have this whole thing to download with possible new career directions.’
‘What are you thinking at the moment?’
‘Maybe a comms job in education. Or even teacher training.’
‘I suggested that ages ago!’
‘I know you did, and now I’m thinking about it properly.’
‘Retraining is definitely the key,’ Clare enthused. ‘Unlike the baby boomers, we’ll be working till we’re at least seventy.’
I dismissed the flare of objection I felt that she should include herself in this cohort; with her private wealth, she’d have no need to work a day longer than she chose.
‘When’s your next session?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure yet – Vicky’ll confirm in the next few days. Look, I’m knackered. I’m just going to have a quick shower and then you can tell me about your day. How did the viewing go at the Woolwich riverside complex?’
Clare nodded. ‘Really good, it’s just a question of deciding on the unit. Nice couple, early thirties. They’ve been scrimping for years, doing all these side-hustle jobs. Unlike our young friends, who want what they want when they want it.’
She began crooning the song in breathy Marilyn-style vocals, but, Melia still on my mind, I didn’t stick around to hear the next line.
*
Of course, Clare was not the only chess piece on the board I needed to consider if our liaisons were to continue undetected: there was also Kit. Easy enough to tell him the same story of career coaching sessions; more difficult was the fact that the flats Melia and I used were in the Greenwich area, mostly on the peninsula, and therefore on our route home. Though the water rats had a WhatsApp group to let one another know which boat we’d be getting, I was still caught out twice over the course of the affair. The first time, Kit joined me on the later boat without warning and I claimed to be meeting Vicky in North Greenwich instead of Shad Thames, an unlikelihood not challenged.
The second time, Steve was on the same boat and there was no way I could hope to say I was getting off at his stop and not be accompanied at least part of the way. (‘I’ll ju
st leave you here, Steve. This is the building where I meet Kit’s girlfriend for a spot of fornication.’) I had no choice but to text Melia a cancellation, turning my head from him to hide my frustration. I remember the boat’s windows were veined with dried rain from heavy showers earlier in the day and in a better mood, I’d have thought their tracks beautiful. Instead, I wanted to smash the glass with the heel of my hand. Turning up at home with some tale of Vicky having being double-booked with a VIP client, I then had the collateral unpleasantness of Clare holding my hand while I tackled a teacher training application I’d never wished to make and had no intention of submitting. Some extremists punish faithlessness with death, but, believe me, this ran it a close second.
*
‘Do you feel guilty?’ I asked Melia, as we lay entwined after sex. It was the fourth meeting, if I remember. A townhouse on the peninsula, an ultramodern version of my own home, though a meaner slice, a cheaper construction (the rental rate? £4,000 a month). The bedroom we commandeered was at the rear of the property, where the light wouldn’t be noticed by neighbours, the bed a preposterous cushioned velvet thing, its inelegant proportions reflected to infinity in two facing walls of mirrors.
‘About Kit? No way.’ In the low light, her irises were burnt umber, her black mascara smudged.
‘Have you ever thought about ending it? I mean, if he makes you so unhappy you’re doing this. If you think he’s not good to you.’
Was there a splash of hope in the glance she gave me before lifting a slender arm and flicking her fingers as if to bat off a wasp? ‘I don’t think he’s good for me, is that the same thing? And where would I even live if we did break up? My credit rating is a disaster, I wouldn’t be able to raise a deposit.’
‘You could get something through work?’
‘Nothing comes up even close to what I’m paying now – and I can’t afford that. And I’ve got no intention of living in one of those awful flat shares with no heating and mould on the walls, so don’t try hooking me up with your friend at work. She obviously has no pride.’
The Other Passenger Page 7