by Susan Lewis
‘I was surprised to receive your call,’ she remarked in a clipped, disdainful voice as she removed her hand from his. ‘Can I get you some refreshment after your long drive? Tea? Coffee? Something a little stronger?’
‘Scotch?’ he said.
She nodded then turned to the drinks cabinet secreted in one of the bookcases. As he watched her, studying her efficient movements and the harsh outline of her fleshless figure he could feel the biting heat of lust stinging deliciously at his groin. All that power could turn him on like nothing else he’d ever known.
‘So,’ she said, handing him a glass and waving him to a black leather Chesterfield, ‘Laurence McAllister has been at my husband’s Chelsea home for two days.’
He nodded. ‘He arrived on Christmas Day and as far as I know he hasn’t left yet.’
‘I see.’ Her lips had compressed so tightly they’d turned white. ‘I imagine we must therefore assume that they are reconciled. The only thing that surprises me about that is how long it’s taken.’
He sipped his Scotch and waited for her to continue, aware of how the venom was starting its vicious trail through her body, like molten lava preparing to gush its deadly heat over those who dared trespass its path. Of all the enemies he might ever make in his life he hoped to God Dyllis Fisher was never one of them.
‘We will destroy the relationship, of course,’ she said.
‘That should be easy enough,’ he responded.
Her flinty eyes darted to his then a slow, malicious smile twisted itself across her mouth. ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘if I had full confidence in what you’ve told me . . .’
‘I can assure you, Dyllis,’ he said mildly, ‘that everything happened exactly the way I reported it. I saw it with my own eyes. Anna Sage was murdered, I know how it was done and my guess is we can get her to do it again.’
‘And how would we do that?’
‘We would use her obsession with Laurence, of course.’
Dyllis was shaking her head incredulously. ‘It was so damned ingenious, how did she ever think of it?’
‘Does it matter? The fact is, she did.’
‘And gave us exactly what we wanted.’ She laughed, but it was a horrible crackling, sound, like branches breaking under a violent, dry wind. ‘She gave us so much more than we wanted and who would ever have dreamed her capable? Does Kirsten suspect her?’
He shook his head.
Dyllis was still for a moment and he could almost see the hatred of Kirsten flowing beneath her papery skin alongside the sheer elation she felt at the way fate had played so providently into her hands. He knew how she worshipped at the altar of her own power, equated herself with no living soul and saw the murder of Anna Sage as nothing less than Divine justification of her vengeance.
‘Dermott Campbell’s been trying to find out what I know,’ she said suddenly peering at him through narrowed eyes.
‘What have you told him?’
‘That I can prove Anna Sage was murdered.’
He nodded. ‘But he wants to know more.’
‘Of course he wants to know more,’ she said irritably. ‘Wouldn’t you if you were Helena Johnson?’
‘Are you going to tell him what you know?’
‘Don’t be a fool!’
‘Then what are you going to do with it?’
‘I’m going to see Kirsten Meredith behind bars, that’s what I’m going to do,’ she said smoothly.
‘They have the death penalty in Louisiana,’ he reminded her.
‘I’m going to show that whore just what it means to take something that belongs to me,’ Dyllis went on as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘And while I’m at it I shall make sure that film never gets finished.’
‘I thought Campbell was doing that for you.’
‘Campbell!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s gone soft in the head over the Johnson woman. He’s willing enough to see the whore fall flat on her face, but not so McAllister. And if McAllister is back with the whore then there’s every chance he’ll persuade Campbell to ease off on her. But I’m telling you this, I’ll see them all in hell before I allow that movie with its dedication to my husband on any screen. She humiliated me publicly once, she’ll never do it again. Now, I shall have to hand your report to my lawyers, but it’s going to need some work on it before I do that. And I need to be wholly convinced that you are going to stand up as a witness to say that it was Kirsten Meredith who committed the murder.’
‘You have my word on it. Are you going for just the one murder or shall I try to see if we can get our friend to commit another?’ He smiled, almost jovially.
Unimpressed by his humour Dyllis tore her eyes from his and took some time to think about that. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said eventually. ‘I think for now you’re going to have to watch carefully to see if things start to settle down the way you suspect they will. She’s going to have everything she wants so why should she commit another murder?’
‘Why should either of them?’ he smirked. ‘But a reason could always be found – or planted.’
It was incredible, almost mind-blowing, he was thinking to himself, how matter of factly the two of them could sit here discussing murder as though they were exchanging seasonal civilities when her grandchildren were playing so close by and when, over the next few days, any number of high-ranking government ministers, captains of industry, high court judges, peers of the realm, even royalty would be populating the house for the New Year celebrations. But, to his mind, even more disturbing was the mesmerizing portrait of her husband whose gentle eyes followed her about the room as though he too were listening to all that was being said. But nothing, it seemed, fazed this woman. Kirsten Meredith had taken her husband and for that Kirsten Meredith was going to pay with everything she had, maybe even her life. And the tragedy of it was, at least so far as Kirsten was concerned, that it wasn’t really Dyllis Fisher she had to fear at all, it was someone much closer to home.
‘I want this sealed up so tightly that not even a shred of doubt can escape,’ Dyllis said getting to her feet. She opened a drawer in her desk, pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. ‘But if in the end we can’t prove it then I shall see to it that she is driven to suicide – and that, my friend, given her precarious state of mind, is going to be a lot easier to manage than you might think.’
‘So what’s stopping you going ahead with it now?’ he enquired, pocketing the envelope.
She started to answer then stopped, suddenly. He waited, watching her closely as she slowly raised her hard, impenetrable eyes to his face. ‘Sit down,’ she said, quietly. ‘Sit down, I don’t think we’ve quite finished . . .’
Half an hour later Dyllis was standing at the window watching the tail lights of her guest’s Montego disappear down the drive. Her cruel brown eyes were glittering with triumph, though in her heart was a tempest of frustration. Her hands clenched at her sides. She was so close now to seeing the end of Kirsten Meredith, to witnessing the public disgrace of the whore who had destroyed her marriage, that she mustn’t allow her impatience to run away with her. It was going to happen, of that there was no doubt, it was just going to take a little more time.
She waited until the car had disappeared then turned back to her desk. As she lifted the receiver she looked up at her husband, a vicious smile twisting her lips. What a fool the man was never to have realized what she would do to his precious whore once he was gone. And what an even bigger fool to have made such a will. He’d have done better to have left out his children altogether, but as it was he’d left the money in trust for the whore to live on for the rest of her life! And even more absurdly, he’d provided for any offspring his whore might have in the future. Dyllis’s smile widened. He was the only one who could have protected Kirsten Meredith, but dolt that he was he hadn’t seen it. Instead he’d left her wide open to the mercy of someone who knew no mercy when it came to dealing with the theft of that which belonged to her. And not even Laurence McAllister was going to stand in th
e way, for as besotted with the whore as McAllister might be, Dyllis would stake her life on the fact that he’d never put her before his son.
‘Hello, Lucy?’ she said as she made the connection to her secretary’s Battersea home. ‘Yes, Merry Christmas to you too. Get me Thea McAllister’s number will you and call me back . . .’
Discovering each other again after all this time, after all the pretence and struggles of the past six years, was in its way as calming as it was exciting. They talked endlessly, about Paul, about Pippa, about Ruby and the fact that she was Laurence’s mother, about Helena and Dermott, about Jane and Tom, about so many things, but mainly they talked about themselves. They were so alive, so ridiculously happy that Laurence could hardly bring himself to leave her to go and collect more clothes. When he returned they fell into each others arms, kissing frantically as though they had been parted for a month rather than an hour. Kirsten could be in no doubt as to how much he loved her, neither could she mistake the way he was still suffering for all he had done. So often he would wake in the night and pull her into his arms, holding her tightly and whispering,
‘I can’t believe you’re here. Hold me, Kirstie, hold me and tell me you love me.’
He brought her breakfast in bed each morning, fed her, made love to her, showered her and made love to her again. His teasing humour fuelled her laughter, his wry confessions swelled her heart. They were like children chasing each other about the house, rolling around the floor and laughing till passion stole their smiles and desire took them over. Just like in the past erotic games started to spice their love-making and Laurence wondered how he had managed to live without her for so long. Her imagination was as mind-blowing as her exploits, her appetite for sex as insatiable as his own.
Once or twice they went out to the cinema where they dived into cartons of popcorn, held hands and kissed throughout the film. Occasionally they would sit down to discuss their own movie, but it was never long before one of them would reach out for the other, maybe just to touch, or to kiss, but the need to reassure each other of their feelings was constant. They never fought and only rarely did they discuss the final days of their break up. It was part of the past now and why look back when they had so much to look forward to?
From time to time a treacherous doubt would flare inside Kirsten, but Laurence was always there to comfort her, to tell her how very much he loved her. His patience during those times was endless, his tenderness so moving and so absurdly poetic that Kirsten would find herself laughing through her tears. He accused her of faking her insecurity just so’s he’d make a clown of himself and in truth Kirsten couldn’t always deny it.
The only truly difficult moments over that time came on New Year’s Eve when Laurence insisted that Kirsten join him and Tom at his parent’s house for dinner. At first Kirsten refused. She couldn’t quite say why she was so reluctant, but she was. Perhaps it had something to do with leaving their fantasy world and confronting reality, but it was more likely that she remembered Jane telling her how Pippa and Laurence’s mother had never got along. Kirsten had no idea whose fault that was, but she had an uncanny feeling that Thea McAllister wasn’t going to be an easy woman. However, in the end, Laurence managed to have his way by putting Tom to work on the persuasion. Faced with two pairs of those shamelessly beseeching blue eyes Kirsten found herself unable to say no.
For the main part the evening went well. Thea McAllister was the perfect hostess, though Kirsten wondered if she ever let down her veneer of regal politeness when she was alone with her family. She was such a formal woman, so courteous and considerate yet when she looked at someone her gaze stopped just short of them, as though not quite wanting to touch them. That was unless she was looking at Laurence or Tom. It was then that Kirsten felt that it might be possible to warm to the impeccably dressed, perfectly mannered American woman, for there could be no mistaking how much she doted on her stepson and grandson. And her husband too, Kirsten thought, seeing the way their hands touched as Don McAllister got up from the table to go and fetch more wine. One look at Laurence’s father was enough to see exactly where Laurence and Tom had got their looks, not to mention their mischievous humour; the three generations were, despite the varying ages, virtually identical.
Tom struggled his way through the meal, looking adorable perched on his cushions on the grand high-backed dining chair. He tried hard to keep abreast of the conversation which was mainly about Laurence and Kirsten’s film and hotly denied that he was tired even though his curly black head kept lolling towards his plate. He was determined he was going to make it through to midnight, but half an hour before he was curled up in Laurence’s lap, fast asleep.
Laurence took him off to bed leaving Kirsten in the drawing room with Thea. Don was in the kitchen sorting out champagne for the toast.
The instant they were left alone together Kirsten was overcome by the feeling that she wanted to be anywhere but where she was. Thea’s perfect smile and serenely benevolent manner was making her so uncomfortable it was all she could do to stop herself squirming. And the fact that, at Laurence’s insistence, she was wearing no underwear was turning her hot with embarrassment. She watched as Thea plumped up the shimmering raw-silk cushions of the sofa opposite Kirsten’s, then smiled awkwardly as Thea turned to face her.
‘I’m glad to have this chance to speak to you, Kirsten,’ she said smoothly, leaning back on the sofa and crossing her silk-stockinged legs.
Kirsten smiled in return.
Thea bowed her head, as though in acknowledgement of Kirsten’s permission to continue. ‘Laurence means a great deal to his father and me,’ she said, still smiling, but though there was a hint of her perfect white teeth, her dark eyes were glinting like ice. ‘He’s been through a lot this past year, what with Pippa leaving him and that dreadful mishap on the film. It’s to be expected that he should act out of character for a while, and naturally if he wants to have a – how shall we put it? a liaison? – then Don and I wouldn’t dream of standing in his way.’
Kirsten could feel her cheeks starting to burn, but still she said nothing.
Thea’s smile widened, somehow turning it even more glacial. ‘I will be blunt, Kirsten,’ she said. ‘I could have wished that Laurence had chosen someone else to . . . shall we say, help him over this bad time. But I guess we should have expected it to be you.’ She sighed. ‘It is my hope that this affair between you will burn itself out much more quickly than it did the last time, after all we don’t want a repeat of what you did then, do we? It took Laurence a long time to come to terms with that abortion and the way you went about it, it hurt him much more deeply than I think you realize. And since we’re talking frankly I think you should be aware that Laurence’s inheritance will come from me – not his father.’ Her eyebrows were raised questioningly, as though asking Kirsten if she understood what she was saying.
Kirsten did, only too well, but Thea McAllister decided to spell it out.
‘Mine is one fortune you will not get your hands on, Kirsten, even if it does mean cutting Laurence out of my will.’
Kirsten’s throat was so constricted she could barely speak. ‘I love Laurence, Mrs McAllister,’ she began.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Thea interrupted, flicking invisible cotton from her lapel. ‘I’ve come across your type many times in my life, and even without the corroboration of the press, I know a fortune-seeker when I see one. I think, Kirsten, that you have . . .’ Her eyes suddenly darted to the door as it opened and Laurence came back into the room. Thea’s expression was instantly transformed to one of motherly affection. ‘Ah, there you are, darling. Tom settled is he?’
‘Settled and snoring,’ Laurence answered going to sit beside Kirsten and draping an arm around her. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Getting the champagne, I hope,’ Thea said glancing up at the French ormolu mantel clock. ‘Only a few minutes to go.’
On the stroke of midnight they all stood to drink a toast, then pulling Kirsten into
his arms Laurence whispered, ‘Happy New Year,’ and brushed his lips lightly against hers.
‘Happy New Year,’ Kirsten smiled, but feeling Thea’s eyes boring into her she looked away.
Laurence lifted her mouth back to his. ‘What is it?’ he said softly. ‘You’ve gone quiet all of a sudden.’
‘Oh nothing,’ Kirsten said, ‘just a bit of a headache. In fact, I think perhaps I should be going.’
‘Are you serious? Already?’
‘Yes,’ and turning back to the sofa she picked up her bag. ‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ she said to Thea and Don. ‘Thank you so much for letting me share it.’
‘But there’s all this champagne to be got through,’ Don protested. ‘You can’t run out on us now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kirsten said. Then looking at Thea. ‘Maybe I could call a taxi.’
‘By all means, my dear.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll take you,’ Laurence snapped, dragging his eyes from Thea.
‘No, no really. I’ll be fine in a taxi.’
‘The hell you will.’
They drove home in silence. Kirsten could sense Laurence’s smouldering anger, but kept her face turned to the window, wishing to God that she could do something to stem the tears that were threatening to spill from her eyes.
‘OK,’ Laurence said tightly, as they pulled up outside Kirsten’s house. ‘What did she say?’
‘Who?’
‘You know who. So come on, let’s have it.’
‘Honestly, Laurence, it doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter,’ he barked, pulling her back as she made to get out of the car. ‘She told you to back off, didn’t she?’