‘Do you want to tell me more about that?’ pressed Olga.
Diana could only look down at her feet.
‘It’s natural to enjoy the company of those closest to your husband,’ said Olga, encouraging her to say more.
Meeting Olga’s gaze, Diana wondered how much her therapist had worked out. If she was as clever as she thought, it was probably obvious to her.
‘I have feelings for him.’ She felt a huge wave of release just saying the words.
She waited for Olga to say something, but when the therapist remained quiet, Diana knew that she had fallen into a trap. A silent confessional booth, where once you had entered, you were expected to admit everything.
‘We had sex.’
She knew what Olga Shapiro was thinking. I told you to go fly a kite with a friend, you silly woman, not jump into bed with your brother-in-law.
‘How did it happen?’ she asked.
Diana wanted to tell her everything, as if she was single and carefree and gossiping with friends or some glamorous character on Sex and the City. She wanted to tell her about the rooftop in Brooklyn. How beautiful and sexy he made her feel. How she finally understood what all the fuss about orgasms was about. How she had stopped feeling sad and lonely.
‘We met up in New York and it was wonderful,’ she said simply. She glanced up, expecting another smile of encouragement. Instead, Olga Shapiro’s face had a stern, disapproving blankness.
‘You and your brother-in-law are joined in grief. You have experienced loss and you each represent Julian to one another. You have an emotional attachment and sometimes that can spill over into a temporary physical connection.’
Diana frowned. ‘I don’t think you understand. I didn’t think it was Julian that night. I didn’t want it to be Julian. I felt like a woman again. It felt like a fresh start. I felt reborn. As if I could carry on living.’ She could feel herself gushing, but it was impossible to hold back her emotions. She wanted to defend their night together, defend her relationship with Adam.
Olga appeared unmoved. ‘Loss creates a need for affection. You miss a sex life. You miss the support of someone who cares for you. Your brother-in-law has stepped into that role . . .’
Diana could feel her eyes narrowing. The woman didn’t understand. Sex had never been important to Diana. It was something that she associated with failure – she didn’t need a therapist to tell her that. She could remember very little about Charlie’s father; she couldn’t even picture his face, beyond a vague recollection that he had been cool and good-looking. They had met in a club in Ibiza and had sex on a little fisherman’s boat that had been moored in the harbour. She had been drunk and high on vodka cocktails, a couple of Ecstasy tablets and a holiday recklessness that made girls like her do things they shouldn’t. He was going home the next day, so they hadn’t even exchanged numbers. That was what he had told her anyway, but maybe she hadn’t been a good enough screw. Failure.
She had always had irregular periods and didn’t realise she was pregnant until she was almost three months in. She had made an appointment at the abortion clinic, the date in her diary there like a big scary full-stop, but before she went, she had spoken to a girl who’d terminated her pregnancy a few weeks earlier. The girl had talked about the searing cramps, the clotting and bleeding afterwards, and when she had described what a baby looked like at eleven weeks, Diana hadn’t been able to go through with it. Of course she was glad of that decision now. Charlie was the most precious thing in her life.
After Charlie had been born, after she moved to London, she had avoided sexual relationships because of the fear of where they might lead. Men thought she was frigid and casual boyfriends gave up on her before it became anything more serious; no matter how beautiful they thought she was, she wasn’t worth the effort. Until she met Julian. Julian changed everything. She went on the pill a week after they started dating. They made love in hotels, in deluxe villas, under the stars. They made love everywhere, and this time she wasn’t scared where it all might lead. She was aware that she was not a practised lover, and this was often a source of much concern. She had no real idea whether what they were doing in their sex life was too much, or not enough. Was she being slutty allowing him to do certain things to her, or was it all too vanilla?
She had got her answer soon enough when she had found out that Julian was unfaithful. It had been easy to blame it on herself, easy to believe that she simply hadn’t satisfied him sexually. And the existence of Madison Kopek had only reinforced that sense of failure. But that night in New York Adam Denver had made her feel anything but a failure.
‘Have you spoken to your brother-in-law about your feelings?’ asked Olga.
‘Not yet.’
‘Then you should. Perhaps you should encourage him to speak to someone in the way that we are talking,’ said Olga efficiently.
Diana almost laughed out loud. Adam was the least likely person to seek solace in a shrink’s chair.
‘When someone leaves us, dies, it can feel like a betrayal,’ continued Olga. ‘Sexual contact with your brother-in-law is a way of compensating for your loss.’
‘Why does this all have to be about Julian?’ said Diana, feeling her temper fray. ‘Why can’t it be about two people who like each other? I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but this man feels right for me.’
Olga Shapiro twisted her silver pen between her fingertips.
‘I am not here to tell you who is the right man for you. I’m not here to tell you when is the right time to start dating again. What I can say is that your brother-in-law might feel like a safe option right now, but what has happened between you two might not be helpful. It’s not going to heal your pain.’
Diana fought the urge to shake her head. There was nothing safe about Adam Denver. He was exciting, unpredictable and she knew what people would say if word of their romance got out. But she couldn’t help the way she felt about him or the way he made her feel.
‘So what are you saying?’ she asked, feeling tears well. She had come to see Olga Shapiro to find answers, get solutions. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted from therapy? She wanted Olga to approve of her relationship with Adam. After all, it had been the therapist’s suggestion to seek out the people that made her happy; it was why she had gone to Dorset that day with him. It was why they had flown a kite.
‘I am saying that when people are at difficult points in their life, it doesn’t help to add more issues, more problems, more challenges . . .’
‘Adam isn’t an issue,’ said Diana, more sharply than she’d anticipated. ‘I didn’t choose for this to happen. I didn’t want it to. But I care about him and I think he cares for me. I think we make each other happy and how can that be a bad thing? Can’t you see we make each other happy?’
Her pale hands were trembling and she couldn’t stay in this claustrophobic room a second longer.
‘I should go,’ she said quickly.
‘We need to talk this through, Diana.’ Olga’s voice was firm and commanding, but Diana had already blocked it out and left the room.
40
Susie McCormack, now Susan J. Mack, had come up in the world. Her Docklands flat was small, but smart, modern and expensive, all cream throws and minimalist leather upholstery, plus it had a killer view of the eastern stretches of the Thames estuary. It was Susan herself, however, that most impressed Rachel. Her hair fell to her shoulders in artful shining waves, her teeth were as white as a chat-show host’s and, dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored pants, she looked every inch the mover and shaker she now was.
‘It’s good to finally meet you,’ Susan said as she showed Rachel into her lounge.
‘Likewise,’ said Rachel thinly, thinking that the young woman didn’t even know the half of it. Susie McCormack hadn’t been the easiest person in the world to track down. Although
Rachel had turned a blind eye to the paper running the story about Julian and his eighteen-year-old mistress, she hadn’t been involved in the research and actually hadn’t paid much attention to the story when it appeared; all she cared about was the fact that Julian had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. She racked her brains now: had they found him with this girl in some tucked-away shag pad? She just couldn’t remember. And there was no point in looking it up: Denver had done a pretty good job of exorcising the whole business from the web. According to Diana, the company lawyers sent any website recounting the story threatening letters until one by one they simply took it all down for the sake of a quiet life.
Rachel had trawled Facebook trying to find her, but she had eventually turned up on the business networking site LinkedIn as Susan J. Mack. At first Rachel hadn’t believed it was her. Susie McCormack had been a teenage wannabe model from the rough end of Battersea. Susan J. Mack was an account director for a prestigious financial PR consultancy.
Looking at her now, it was hard to believe that she was only about twenty-three. What was most amazing was her sudden jump in confidence, a transformation from doe-eyed Lolita with a penchant for too-tight jumpers to a self-possessed woman who could have slipped effortlessly into one of Diana’s society dinner parties without turning a hair.
But then perhaps Rachel, like everyone else, including Julian, had underestimated Susie McCormack.
When the tabloids had fallen on her like hooting jackals, Susie had simply batted her eyelashes and played the simpering hair-twirling innocent, just an ordinary girl who had fallen in love with a wealthy older man. Who could blame her? Julian was handsome, rich and, seemingly, immoral. Susie was cast as the injured party, a slip of a girl seduced by a philanderer, but clearly there was much more to her. Much more.
‘Of course I heard about you from Julian,’ said Susan. She smiled as she perched elegantly on the edge of a sofa. ‘I don’t think he was your biggest fan at that point.’
‘I imagine not,’ said Rachel, sitting opposite the woman. ‘So I understand you’re working for a lobbyist now? That’s impressive.’
‘Not as impressive in reality, let me tell you.’
It had to be well paid, however, unless . . . Rachel wondered for a moment whether there was another older, wealthy lover paying for all this. Don’t be a traitor to your sex, Rachel, she scolded herself. Why couldn’t a woman – and a woman clearly suited for a job charming powerful men – earn a decent living under her own steam? She’d had enough men dismissing her own rapid climb up the media ladder as a clear case of sleeping with the editor; she should really know better.
‘Talking of which,’ said Susan, glancing at the slim gold watch on her wrist, ‘I should have been at work thirty minutes ago. You were lucky to catch me.’
‘Of course,’ said Rachel. ‘As I said on the phone, I’m looking into Julian’s death, trying to find out what pushed him to . . . well, do what he did.’
Susan nodded, looking down at her lap. ‘It was quite a shock, I have to say. I know I was only young, and as things turned out, I was horribly naïve,’ she said haltingly, ‘but I did . . . I did care for Julian.’ She looked straight at Rachel, her expression defiant. ‘You thought I was a gold-digger, didn’t you? Everyone did, I don’t blame you. But Julian was my first love, that’s the truth.’
‘But you knew he was married?’ asked Rachel carefully.
‘I’m not particularly proud of that part of it. But think back to when you were that age. What would you have said, what would you have done if a handsome, charming billionaire came along and promised you the earth?’
Rachel thought back to her own teenage years. Stranded in Ilfracombe, with its chip wrappers and run-down arcades, she’d had no more chance of meeting a billionaire than flying to the moon. Of course, there had been that one awkward episode when Mr Ferris from the newsagent’s had touched her bottom . . . but he hardly counted. He had a bad back and was paying off a loan for a caravan in Rhyl.
‘Where did you go to meet Julian?’ she asked.
‘Well, we couldn’t go to any of his houses, of course. So he’d book hotel suites if he could get away.’
‘Did he have anywhere special he used to take you? An apartment, perhaps?’
Susan glared at her. ‘I wasn’t a kept woman, if that’s what you mean. I’ve told you, I was in love with Julian. I didn’t need him to buy me a flat or jewellery or things like that. All I wanted was to be with him. Besides, the relationship didn’t last very long. Little more than a summer. Your newspaper made sure of that. And Julian certainly wasn’t going to fight for me. I understood that he would have to go back to his wife – for the sake of his family if nothing else – but the thing that hurt the most was the way he just dropped me like a stone. He rang me the day before it was in the paper, you know? I think he’d had a tip-off and he was ringing to warn me. He told me he didn’t care, that we could still see each other, but that was it. I never heard from him again.’
Rachel never thought she would have any sympathy with a husband-stealer, but there was something about Susie that made her feel some compassion. She had been young. Very young and very impressionable.
‘Well I’m pleased you’ve made something of yourself. It can’t have been easy after all the tabloid attention.’
‘I didn’t work for a year,’ Susan said matter-of-factly. ‘Not unless you include the offers of pole dancing.’
‘I thought you got some money from the newspaper.’
‘You’d know that,’ she said tartly. ‘You’ll also know that I wasn’t one of those kiss-and-tell girls. I didn’t go to you. Your news team tracked me down. Had me over a barrel. They said they’d give me a few thousand quid if I posed for some photos. Thought I might as well, seeing as they had me anyway.’
She hooked her handbag over her shoulder and made for the door.
‘I have one question for you, Miss Miller. Why didn’t you expose his other affairs? For all his claims about a “moment of madness” in those carefully worded press statements, I wasn’t the only one.’
‘Which ones?’ Rachel asked cautiously. She had heard whispers, of course, all from good sources, but she’d never found any other names.
‘I was at a party about a year ago – this was when I’d finally turned my life back around – and a lady came over to speak to me. She was beautiful, a redhead in this gorgeous dress, you’d guess she was the wife of a lawyer or a banker – she looked a lot like your sister actually; anyway, she came up and told me that she knew how I felt. I asked her, “How I feel about what?” and she said, “Julian Denver”.’
‘Who was she?’
‘She gave me her card. I kept it. You never know when Julian Denver’s other ladies might need one another.’
‘Do you have it?’
Susan sighed, as if Rachel had truly overstayed her welcome, then disappeared into her bedroom, returning a few moments later with a business card.
‘You can’t have it,’ she said quickly. ‘But you can take down the details. I can’t tell you anything about Julian’s secret assets. I assume that’s what you’re here for, tracking down his love nests. But perhaps she can tell you more than I can.’
41
The Limelight Club in Bishopsgate was one of the most exclusive private clubs in London. It had stunning views over the City, an executive chef who had just been poached from Alain Ducasse in Paris, and on any given day it would see Forbes 500 chief executives, senior bankers and an assortment of other City power-players pass through its revolving doors. Most importantly, it accepted women as members, unlike many of London’s more established clubs, like White’s or Boodle’s in the West End.
Patty Reynolds stood by the window in a meeting room on the top floor known as the Snug.
‘I know we’d all have preferred lunch in the restaurant – but
these walls have ears,’ she said, instructing a waiter to leave a platter of sandwiches on the table.
Diana looked around the cosy space. Greg Willets and Michael Reynolds were reclining in two leather club chairs. A third chair was conspicuously empty.
Patty noticed her line of vision. ‘I did invite Elizabeth, but she was too busy to come.’
‘Is that what she said?’ said Diana.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Greg Willets, sniffing out the gossip.
‘She’s challenging Julian’s will,’ said Michael, putting down his Financial Times.
‘And what’s Adam got to say about that?’ asked Greg, sipping some mineral water.
‘You can ask him after the meeting,’ said Patty, nodding towards the door.
Diana turned, and her heart raced as she saw Adam striding through the door in a smart grey suit. Their eyes connected and she felt a flood of butterflies turning somersaults in her belly.
The empty chair was opposite her, and she shifted her position so that she was only looking at Patty.
‘The reason we’re here is to discuss Julian’s memorial service. Adam, I think even you will agree that perhaps the funeral didn’t have enough of Julian’s soul in it.’
‘I think Elizabeth is quite far down the line with arrangements. Does she know about this?’ Adam looked slightly fearful about the repercussions of what Patty was proposing.
‘Leave it with me. We can make some suggestions here today and I can pass them on to Elizabeth.’
‘Suggestions?’ said Greg. ‘You know as well as I do that Elizabeth will disregard anything that doesn’t come as a three-line whip.’
‘Perhaps you should give them to Ralph,’ said Diana diplomatically.
‘I said I’ll deal with it.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Michael, putting up his hand. ‘Let’s remember why we are here. And it is possible to work with Elizabeth on this, rather than against her.’
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