The touchdown was bumpy and they seemed to taxi very quickly along the runway. Maxine closed her eyes and waited for the plane to come to a halt. Home was all she could think of now. A hot bath and bed. Sleep. Tomorrow she would try to sort out all the confusing thoughts in her head.
She began to nod off to sleep in the back of the taxi on the way to her apartment. When she got out, the cold, damp air woke her up again. She paid the driver and took the lift to the first floor. She had the door unlocked before she realised that there was someone in her flat.
Jason was sprawled on her couch, his feet up on the coffee table.
“Welcome back, Maxine. I was hoping you’d decide to come home tonight.”
Maxine dropped her cases on the floor and slowly closed the door behind her. She glared at the man draped over her couch and for a very intense second she hated Jason Laide enough to murder him. Hated herself for being in this position.
He read her thoughts, like he always did. He grinned.
“C’mon, Max! Smile. It’s not every girl gets a welcome home like this.”
“True,” Maxine agreed and went to the kitchen to put on the kettle. “Coffee?” she called out.
“Fuck off with your coffee!” Jason answered.
She heard a glass tinkling and liquid splashing as he poured himself a drink. It would be whiskey. Neat. He would drink half the bottle and then want to have sex. He would not be able. As usual. His dick was as limp as his brain. Then he would try to blame her, to force her into the most demeaning acts in order to revive his flagging libido. He would threaten. Blackmail. “The video, Maxine. What would the Press think of your performance? What would your glamorous friends think? How many modelling assignments do you think you’d get after they see it?”
Maxine’s hand shook as she spooned instant coffee into her mug. She could hear him filling his glass again. The first drink had disappeared down his slimy throat even more quickly than usual. She poured hot water into her mug and brought it into the lounge. Jason already looked drunk. Little beads of sweat stood out at his hairline and his nose had a purplish tinge. Her stomach churned and she knew that she could not, would not, do whatever he wanted tonight. The sight of his flabby white body with the network of purple veins and fuzz of ginger hair was more than she could endure. Fifteen years old she had been when first she had seen Jason Laide in his hideous nakedness. Nine years of fear and revulsion crowded in on top of her. What could be worse than this? What could be worse than touching that greasy flesh, than kissing this sweating heap of ugliness, then exposing herself to the particular brand of cruelty that Jason Laide considered to be masculinity?
“Sit!” he ordered, nodding to the empty space on the couch beside him.
Maxine cradled her mug of coffee in both hands as if she could draw strength from it. She remained standing. Jason sat up straight, the animal in him alert to danger, the bully in him aware of a threat to his power.
“I’m tired, Jason. I’ve just come back from a gruelling day’s work. I want to sleep.”
“And so you can. When I say so.”
“I want to sleep now!” Maxine said and the fingers curled around her warm drink shook with a mixture of fear, despair and anger.
Jason took in a sharp breath. His nostrils and his lips whitened as his veneer of civilisation slipped. He became an animal in silk shirt and gold chains, a sadistic primate. Maxine wanted to throw the hot coffee at him, to see it dribble down his evil face, to hurt him. She held tightly onto her drink. He would enjoy that, see it as foreplay, the only type he could respond to.
Walking over to an armchair she sat down opposite him, far enough away not to hear his snorting breath. She put her mug on the table beside her, out of harm’s way.
“I’m tired, Jason. Tired of working and tired of your games. It’s time we had a talk. Reached an agreement.”
He burst out laughing. The sound echoed around the apartment, bouncing off walls and wooden floors. She waited for the mocking sound to stop and for the anger to start. She did not have long to wait.
“You piece of filth! You slut!” he shouted at her. “Do you think just because you drape yourself in designer gowns that you are less a whore? I know what you are, Max. Don’t ever forget that. And I can tell the whole world if I want to. I can show the whole world!”
All the thoughts which had been swirling around her head in Paris, all the confusion and despair, seemed to find focus now. Maxine could no longer stay under the control of Jason Laide. If exposing herself as a child porn actress was the price of her sanity, she had at last reached a stage in her life when she was willing to pay that price. She smiled at him, hiding her fear, not giving him the thrill of control.
“Do whatever you must, Jason. I don’t owe you anything any more. I’ve done your bidding for long enough. I’ve paid you back. Now get out of my apartment!”
His mouth hung open and his icy blue eyes glittered. A string of saliva seeped unnoticed from his lips. He became a solid mass of seething hatred.
Maxine could no longer hide her fear. She lifted up her chin and tried to outstare him, to defy him. He was gone beyond manipulation. She had never seen him so vicious. He lunged across the room at her and before she could protect herself, had his hands around her throat.
“I could ruin you, bitch!” he hissed into her face, spraying her with flecks of spittle. “You’re my discovery. My property. Mine to use as I see fit. Slut!”
His hands were tightening, his thick fingers spanning the entire circumference of her slim neck. Maxine’s eyes filled with tears.
Then as suddenly as he had pounced, Jason let go. He walked back to the whiskey bottle and poured another glassful. He drained the glass in one gulp and came back to stand in front of her. Her hands went instinctively to her throat again.
His voice was gentle when he spoke. Wheedling. “I’m willing to forget about this, Max, on condition that you get the Fords’ fifty acres in Ballyhaven for me. Deal?”
Terrified, cowed, fearing for her life, convinced now of this man’s mental instability as well as of his innate evil, Maxine nodded agreement. Jason pushed her roughly ahead of him into the bedroom.
Chapter 8
When Ella woke next morning, she felt energy flood through her. She stretched, enjoying the novel sensation of rested and revived muscles. There had been no nightmares last night. Maybe that was due to the new sleeping pills Peter Sheehan had prescribed or maybe Karen Trevor had got tired of her hauntings. Perhaps she had at last decided to float off to wherever it was that restless souls found peace.
Ella sang as she showered. Her singing had not improved since last she had sung. Over a year ago. She was still tone deaf but the joy in the inharmonious sound lifted her spirits. Andrew’s too.
“Did I hear you singing?” he asked when she came into the kitchen.
She nodded and smiled, glad to share this little sign of hope with him. “I slept well. I feel much stronger today. Happier than I have for a long time. Happier than I have been since . . .”
“Since the accident?”
Ella nodded.
They stood looking uncertainly at one another, he wondering if he should embrace her, she wondering if she wanted him to. Neither moved.
Ella’s feeling of wellbeing began to dissipate in the bewilderment and confusion of Andrew’s stare. What did he expect from her? Instant recovery from her near-death experience? Smiles and laughs and mind-blowing sex under the shadow of Karen Trevor’s persistent presence? How was it that she knew this man’s favourite colour, the food, music and reading he liked, his history, his hopes and yet she felt she did not know him at all? She read the same questions about her in his troubled eyes and knew that he was no nearer an answer.
The toaster popped and they both went towards it. They laughed awkwardly, each realising that they were married to a stranger, that the path back to their easy relationship of a year ago was twisted and fraught with obstacles. The only common ground they shared was
work. Safe, solid ground. He stepped on it now.
“What will I say to the Coxes about Ballyhaven? Should we let it go or hold out for another few years?”
Relieved that emotional issues were firmly back in their hiding place, Ella got her toast and began to butter it. The Cox brothers’ interest in the fifty acres in Ballyhaven was puzzling.
“You’re sure Oliver Griffin told you the truth?” she asked. “Did you go to the Planning Office yourself?”
Ella knew by the swift strokes Andrew was using to plaster butter onto his toast that her question had annoyed him. It had to be asked though. There was something peculiar about the Coxes’ interest in a green site so far out of town. And with no hint, apparently, of any development or rezoning in the area. Besides, she never had, and never would, trust Oliver Griffin.
“Yes,” Andrew replied curtly. “I went there myself and looked at the projections. No mention at all of Ballyhaven in the five-year plan.”
Ella poured her coffee and brought it to the breakfast counter, but it grew cold as the germ of an idea took hold in her head.
“I miss the sea,” she said.
Andrew smiled. That statement used to mean only one thing. “Are you telling me it’s holiday time again?”
Ella shook her head. “No. I don’t mean the blue, tepid waters of some Mediterranean resort. I mean the powerful, grey, rolling Atlantic. I mean seaweed and rocks and pools and towering cliffs. I mean salty spray on my lips and cold, clean, ozone-laden air in my lungs.”
“You mean home.”
Ella nodded. Home. Cuanowen. That little coastal village on the western seaboard. The place she had grown up in and left behind so many years ago.
“Why don’t we sell the fifty acres? Even with planning, we could not hope to get much more than the Coxes are offering now. Then we could buy a cottage in Cuanowen. Right on the beach. No mortgage. We could look on it as a retreat and an investment at the same time.”
Andrew drained his coffee and put his mug into the dishwasher. So much for his half-formed hope that Ella was about to regain her sanity. She was just looking for a new place to hide, a new escape from reality.
“You’ve never gone back to Cuanowen since your parents died five years ago. How come you miss it now?”
Ella shrugged. She didn’t know. But she certainly had a strong urge, a longing, to be there this minute, to feel the wind in her face and the gritty sand beneath her feet. To be back in a time and place where there was no Karen Trevor. No accident. No disapproving, disappointed Andrew.
Shocked into action by her train of thought, Ella stood and began to pack her handbag for the day ahead.
“Think about it,” she said.
Andrew nodded and gave a little wave as he went out the door. He forgot the conversation very quickly. He had a lot more than a seaside cottage to think about.
* * *
Maxine tore the sheets from her bed and threw them into the washing machine. They stank of Jason Laide. Turning the programme to hot wash, she added some disinfectant with the detergent. She was probably ruining the delicate silk but she did not care. Thankfully Jason had been gone when she woke. It was just the evil whiff that lingered. And the disgust.
She made her coffee black and strong and brought it over to the table. Then she sat and sipped and tried to hold back the tears. Neither crying nor self-pity was going to help. She had got herself into this situation and now she would just have to get herself out of it. She had nobody to turn to. Ironically, that is the way she had planned her life.
Looking around her now, Maxine saw the trappings of success. Expensive décor in her expensive apartment. Designer clothes in her wardrobe. Money in her deposit account. Even more money in her savings account. With the art on the walls and in the bank vault and the apartment itself included, Maxine Doran was worth a lot in monetary terms. Her life, on the other hand, was worth nothing. It was Jason Laide’s to play with as the mood took him. Enough!
Maxine went to her computer and logged onto her online bank. Satisfied, she logged off again. The bottom lines on her accounts could represent freedom. She could sell up. Emigrate. Change her name again. Change her appearance. Disappear. Run. Hide. But she knew there was no hiding from Jason Laide. No place safe from him. He had contacts everywhere. Maybe she should just do what she had said last night. Stand her ground. Let him do his worst. Let him send his vile video to the press, to her agent, to all the people who knew her as the cool, sophisticated supermodel who only fucked someone worth more than a million in assets. Her modelling career was nearing its time limit anyway. She had no intention of hanging around until she was reduced to modelling thermal underwear. She could open her restaurant. Follow her dream. But how could a disgraced supermodel whose name had been dragged through the tabloids hope to have any respect, any credibility as businesswoman and entrepreneur?
As always in times of crisis, Maxine went to her dressing table and unlocked the top drawer. Carefully she removed the tattered photo album with the red velvet cover. It fell open at the portrait of Great-grandmother Harriet. Maxine sat still, looking into her great-grandmother’s eyes, seeing the dignity and pride there, the confidence of a beautiful and privileged woman. Had Harriet ever felt as desperate as her great-granddaughter did now? Had she plotted and planned to escape the poverty and vulgarity into which her impetuosity had led her?
When her text alert sounded, Maxine jumped with fright. She carefully closed her album and put it back in the drawer before reading the message.
It was from Andrew. Andrew Ford. ‘Hope you enjoyed Paris. Would like to see you when you have a chance. Have something interesting to show you.’ Maxine smiled. Something interesting? Everything about Andrew was interesting from his dark blue eyes to his laugh full of warmth. Andrew was so very strong, so vibrant that he made her feel alive, in touch with her own feelings as no other man had ever done. And Maxine realised, as she sat there, phone in hand, that Andrew Ford would be horrified if he knew the real Maxine Doran. The girl that Jason Laide had found and exploited. The Maxine in the video. The Maxine who must remain secret.
She texted Andrew back. ‘Tonight?’ Then she sat and waited for his reply.
* * *
Ella had a headache. She rubbed her temples but still the band of pain encircled her head. It was a pressure headache. Too many thoughts vying for attention at the same time, jostling each other inside her skull. Annoyed, she dropped the papers on which she was working onto her desk and went to get a drink of water. Her phone rang just as she reached the water dispenser. Cursing under her breath, she went back to pick it up.
It was Jason Laide, wanting to view Manor House. Today. Now! Ella patiently explained that she would contact Rob Trevor and try to arrange a viewing as soon as possible but that today might not be convenient.
“Does he want to sell it or not?” Jason snapped.
Ella felt like snapping back at him but had to remind herself how big the commission on the sale would be. “I’ll contact you as soon as I can arrange a viewing, Mr Laide.”
She rang Rob Trevor but there was no reply. She left a message. Maybe he was at some art exhibition, or perhaps he was out somewhere on the vast grounds of Manor House. Jason Laide would just have to wait.
Ella got a glass of water and took some paracetamol. Closing her eyes, she sat back in her chair, waiting for the pain to lift. It didn’t. A new worry began to nag. Could this headache be a side effect from the sleeping pills Peter Sheehan had prescribed? He had not mentioned that this might happen. He should have. Anger replaced the nagging worry. Peter Sheehan was so cavalier! Ending her session yesterday just when she needed to talk more and then giving her pills that were putting her through agony. The headache grew in proportion to her resentment.
When Andrew came into the office he looked at his wife with concern. He should have known that the fleeting good humour of this morning would not last. She seemed distraught now, distracted and angry.
“Something w
rong?” he asked.
“Just a headache,” she replied dismissively and Andrew knew she had retreated back into her own world of suffering and silence and that he was not welcome there. Jesus! How much more of this depressive behaviour could he be expected to tolerate? Was there no light at the end of this dark and lifeless tunnel?
“Jason Laide has been on the phone, demanding to view Manor House.”
Andrew whistled. “He’s keen! When are you showing him around?”
“As soon as I can contact Rob Trevor. You should really be there too.”
“Fine, as long as it’s not this evening. I’m meeting the Coxes. A discussion about marketing their new development.”
Ella looked sharply at him. “I thought that was all finalised.”
Andrew looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes. He mumbled something about organising a property exhibition. He was glad when her phone rang. He did not like lying to her.
She finished her call and sat back in her chair.
“Pity about your meeting tonight. That was Rob Trevor. I’m going to let Jason Laide know now that he can view Manor House this evening. Just like he demanded. This deal could be closed very quickly.”
It was a pity. Andrew should be there really. Jason Laide would expect the full treatment. Flattery and bowing and scraping to his spending power.
Ella would have to do that on her own. Andrew had already replied to Maxine’s text. There was not a sale big enough to make him cancel that arrangement.
* * *
Jason met Ella at the imposing gates of Manor House. They drove in convoy up the tree-lined avenue and parked on the gravelled circle in front of the house. When he got out, Ella could see that Jason was awestruck. He bent his head back and looked up towards the turreted roof. She walked over to him and shook his hand.
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