‘Oh, I can’t come up to Albany.’ She was across the room, already getting dressed, briskly pulling on some new clothes – a pair of jeans and a sweater. Not the clinging red number she’d been wearing earlier. Laura Fielding was the perfect lay – you banged her, and then she got right up and got herself out of the door. ‘I’m busy.’
‘When will I see you?’ Shelby propped himself up on his elbows, looking after her.
‘Don’t worry.’ Laura wasn’t looking at him. ‘You’ll hear from me soon enough.’
The Johnson townhouse was a sedate fantasy of old money.
Walnut panelling lined the Victorian elevator. There was imported Italian marble in the bathrooms, a maid’s apartment in the attic, a private garden and a library.
It was the perfect backdrop for the moneyed politician. Or for a bright young buck, launching himself into society – into the same glorious future his mother and father had enjoyed.
Edward Johnson loved his home. He especially loved how it smelled of his mother – the one perfect woman in the world. As her only child, Penelope Johnson had pampered and spoiled Edward since the day he was born. He loved wandering into her boudoir, drinking in the scent of her powder and rosewater. He loved seeing her dressed in evening gowns, tucking him into bed. He loved watching her give orders to the cook, kiss his father on the cheek and generally behave like the perfect wife. Edward loved perfection and his house and mother were the apex of it.
One day, Mrs Edward Johnson would be a replica of his sainted mother. He adored her and, when his friends called him Mommy’s Boy, Edward replied, ‘Absolutely!’
He was sitting on the covered terrace at the back of his bedroom, eating stuffed olives and sipping an iced tea. Edward regularly went back home for Sunday lunch; that was the great advantage of Columbia – he didn’t need to stay in his student apartment any more than he wanted to.
‘Darling! Lunch!’ his mother called.
‘Coming!’ he shouted.
The housekeeper had set up their table al fresco, because his mother preferred to dine in the garden in spring. She was immensely proud of this ritual. Father was back from his travels, electioneering, and the three of them would sit around and chitchat over a glass or two of chilled Chablis, a Waldorf salad and some carved ham.
Shelby Johnson was already sitting down, the New York Times sports section laid out in front of him, when Edward arrived. His wife was hovering, wearing a light yellow silk dress and a smug expression. Shelby’s ascent in the polling was smooth, her social dominance almost complete.
‘Some wine, sir?’ A butler hovered as Edward threw himself into his seat.
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Oh, you’re here, Mr Edward. There’s a package for you.’ The old housekeeper, Selina, came forward and handed him a manila envelope.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘It was hand-delivered earlier, sir. There’s one for you, too, Mrs Johnson.’
‘Thank you, Selina. That’s all for now,’ his mother said.
‘Wait.’ Edward felt the first stirrings of unease. ‘Hand-delivered? By whom?’
‘A young lady.’ The older woman turned to leave.
‘Wait!’ Edward said, sweating. ‘Mom! Don’t open that—’
Too late. Penny had already neatly ripped the paper and, as he stared in horror, the large, colourful, glossy pictures poured out – nearly twenty of them. They scattered over the table, across it, spilling everywhere, polluting his eyes.
Shelby Johnson – Edward’s father.
Shelby Johnson – Penny’s husband.
Shelby Johnson – for Congress.
There he was, in all his elderly glory, ridiculously naked, pink-faced, erect. A young woman was straddling him. Her face was blocked out, cut off, but there was no denying it. Shelby Johnson, handcuffed; Shelby Johnson, gagged; Shelby Johnson, licking a pair of stilettos.
Penny Johnson went ashen.
One of the butlers moved forward, to pick up the shots.
‘Get back!’ Edward barked. ‘Leave it! Leave us!’
‘Sir . . . ?’
‘Now!’
There was a clatter as all the staff withdrew. Penny Johnson started to wail, a keen, high-pitched shriek.
‘I . . . I don’t know . . . These are faked . . .’
Shelby was puce, muttering. He felt sick. He was dizzy. He gripped the table, hoping not to faint.
‘I need to lie down,’ he whimpered.
A small, neatly folded piece of letter paper fluttered out of the dreadful envelope to the paving stones of their terrace. Mechanically, Edward picked it up. His mother snatched it from him, held it in trembling hands. Then she read it aloud – the worst words Edward had ever heard in his life:
‘Since your son fucked me for his amusement, I fucked your husband for mine.’
There was no signature.
Penny Johnson screamed and ripped up the note. She rounded on Shelby. ‘You goddamned bastard!’
‘It was a mistake . . .’
But Penny was rifling through the pictures. ‘A mistake? A mistake? These will wind up in the press. I’ll be a laughing stock!’
Shelby looked, moaned in horror. It was worse than being caught cheating. He was ridiculous – totally ridiculous.
He thought of all his friends, laughing. The nudges at the club. The sly looks in the boardroom.
‘I can find her, Mother . . .’ Edward said. ‘I can get her—’
‘Get her? You got her already, whoever she is . . . You found the lowest whore in the world.’
‘Mother!’ His mother was swaying. He rushed to steady her. ‘I won’t . . . let her do anything . . .’
‘Find the bitch. Her name is Laura Fielding,’ his father said.
Edward moaned in his throat. Fielding. The name he’d used. ‘That’s not her real name.’
‘Just find her. What will it take to buy her off?’
‘I don’t know,’ Edward said.
‘Find her.’
He looked. He looked for two days. But she was gone, vanished from his sight. The apartment was locked up – sold, so the super told him, twice in a month.
‘She lived here.’ A hundred-dollar bill loosened his throat. ‘Sure, she bought the apartment from the landlord. Sold it three weeks later. She made a nice profit on it, real nice.’ He was admiring. ‘I couldn’t believe . . . Used to be a dump, before her. That kid is going places.’
Yeah – going to jail. For blackmail.
He rang the coffee shop, but she hadn’t gone back since she was fired. There was nothing registered in the phone book. And then, on day four, Edward had a bright idea.
He reconnected his old cellphone – the cheap one he’d bought to woo Dina Kane.
Almost instantly, the text came through. It had been waiting for him:
Missing me? You can call.
He rang the number and left a message. In an hour, she rang him back.
‘You fucking bitch!’
‘How are you, Edward? Don’t tell me you’ve stopped laughing about our little tryst. I thought you and your friends were so amused by it?’
‘What do you want? Money? Isn’t that what whores want?’ He was vicious in his contempt, his hatred. ‘How much will it take?’
Edward’s family was already shattered. His mother had demanded a divorce and locked herself in her room, throwing things and drinking. His dad had slunk off to the Pierre hotel. He wanted the nightmare to be over, but the pictures were burned into his brain. He blamed his father, and Shelby blamed him, and Penny was diving into the vodka.
‘You think I’d ask for money?’
‘We don’t want those photos in the press.’
‘And?’ she replied, coolly.
‘How much?’ Name a figure. I’ll come after you till the end of time. Whatever it takes.
‘I’m not a blackmailer, Edward. That’s a felony.’
He bit his lip; he had been hoping to go to the police. Edward
’s father had contacts there, lots of them.
‘If I send those photos to the press, that’s my right – first amendment, and all that stuff.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing. But I’m happy to offer you some advice. If I were your father, I wouldn’t run for office, and if I were you, I’d drop out of college. You don’t deserve to study when girls like me can’t.’
‘Drop out of college?’ He’d be nothing – a trust-fund brat who couldn’t hack it.
‘It’s your choice, of course, but doesn’t your mother need you?’
I hate you, he thought. ‘You are blackmailing me.’
‘Hey, you can ignore the advice if you want, Edward Johnson. Nothing you do will affect how I use the photos – or don’t use them. What I want is for you to stay the hell out of my life. Got it?’
She was too clever to fall into his trap. He hated her.
‘You used my father like a toy.’
‘A toy? Like you used me? And how many other girls?’ Dina’s voice was ice. ‘Was my mother a toy when you went hunting for information about my background, just so you could humiliate me in bed? You said my mom was the town slut. Well, what about your dad? Seems we have something in common, no?’ She laughed, and he flinched, hearing the loathing in that sound. ‘Get over it, Edward. Volunteer at a homeless shelter. You know – do something useful. Goodbye.’
And she hung up.
Edward Johnson looked at the phone for a long time.
Then he made two calls. By the end of the day, Shelby Johnson was no longer a candidate for office, and Edward Johnson had dropped out of college. He didn’t ring Dina Kane to tell her.
He knew she would be checking up.
‘You little prick,’ Shelby Johnson said.
He stared down at his son, sitting there on the couch in his sterile hotel suite. Behind him, the television news channel had his face on it. His goddamned face – not in triumph, the way it was meant to be when he was elected, but grim, like a mug shot.
Shelby Johnson pulling out of Congressional Race. Shock exit by Shelby Johnson. Johnson leaves family home . . .
The headlines scrolled across the screen like a horrible ribbon of smut beneath the pretty, bland faces of the newsreaders, who were talking about him, talking about his family. His marriage. His disgrace.
‘We don’t know exactly what happened, Joanne, but we have to speculate that some kind of affair is possible. After all, Mr Johnson left the family home last night.’
‘His wife briefly left the house this morning and was seen without her wedding ring.’
‘The thought of a Shelby Johnson affair will go down very badly with the Democrats, and his employers, Coldharbor Bank, are known to be extremely cautious with their image in the community . . .’
He wanted to switch it off, but he couldn’t. They were talking about him, and he was rubbernecking at his own car crash.
‘Don’t blame me, Pop. I’m not married.’
Shelby grimaced. Penelope was out of control, screeching at him. She wouldn’t let him home and he didn’t even want to go back. Facing the world seemed impossible. The Democrats wanted him to give a press conference. A press conference!
The thought of those pictures – him, tied down on the bed, legs spread, humbled, into bondage . . . Oh, God. He thought he would kill himself, except he was too cowardly for that.
‘But you provoked her, didn’t you?’
‘I couldn’t tell that she was a bunny boiler.’ Edward loosened his collar. ‘It’s your fault; you gave her something to work with; you gave her the photos. The first piece of skirt to throw herself at you and you’re off . . . You’ve humiliated Momma . . .’
‘Please don’t try to play the moralist with me.’ Anger suffused him – at the girl, Edward, his screaming, drunken wife, himself. What the hell? Other men did it, even powerful men – especially powerful men, so they said – letting hookers tie them up. But they were careful. He hadn’t been. It was all over. ‘I’ve lost all the work I put in.’ He mopped a tissue over his brow, sweating. The photos loomed in his mind again, as though they were already splashed over page one of the Post. ‘You’re such a self-righteous little jerk, Edward. You’ve never done a stroke of work in your life. It’s my fault; I gave you too much. You should have been working a job this summer, not chasing pussy at some fucking coffee shop. Your grades were dire before this, anyway.’
Shelby thought of the awful phone call, worse by far than his wife’s demented crying, from Conrad Peterson, Chairman of Coldharbor. ‘We don’t think you should resign. Just retire, Shelby. It’s better this way, wouldn’t you say? So many clients want discretion these days, not scandal, nothing flashy in the bank . . . What did you tell me? Others want publicity; Coldharbor runs from it.’
He hadn’t said too much. A call to the lawyers first, perhaps. They couldn’t fire him for having an affair. There was no morals clause in his contract.
But, whatever he thought, the ghastly image of the photos . . . being released in the press, passed round at work . . . sniggers, maybe a bringing the bank into disrepute line.
Jesus. He didn’t know what to do. Shelby hated everybody in the world right now, and his feckless, entitled son most of all. Edward brought this on him.
‘What are you going to do?’ Edward asked.
‘Do? What the hell can I do?’ Shelby paced. ‘Take retirement from the bank, I suppose. Work out a divorce settlement with your mother.’
‘Divorce! You have to fight to get her back!’
Shelby rounded on his son. ‘Do I? She hasn’t exactly stood by me, after one goddamned mistake, has she? She threw me out! No. You know what, Edward? I don’t think I owe either of you anything.’ He imagined Dina Kane, as he now knew she was called: that firm young body, the ripeness of it. Compared to his wife’s ultra-thin, waspish, menopausal flesh . . . Christ, why should he try to get her back? The loss of money, of status, of his political dreams – it was all bad enough. He couldn’t tolerate months of apologies to Penny as well, just to be allowed back to that sterile bed.
‘It’ll blow over, Dad.’
‘Not soon enough. When is she releasing the damned pictures?’
Edward ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, maybe never, if we give her what she wants: me leaving school; you leaving the race for Congress.’
‘I wish she’d just get it over with. And she wouldn’t take money?’
He shook his head. ‘I offered.’
Shelby thought about it. Leaving, leaving . . . He still had some cards to play. Give Penny the house; take most of the cash. There was an irrevocable trust – she could live off that. He could offer Coldharbor a deal, too – a quiet exit in exchange for an extra couple of million on top of his retirement fund.
It was possible to disappear without resorting to suicide. Florida – it had year-round sun, very few bankers – he was always advising middle-class clients to buy mansions there. The Homestead laws meant your principal residence couldn’t be touched, even if you went bankrupt and it was a six-acre palace with a pool.
Plus, nobody there knew him. In his current world, Florida was déclassé. The social registry preferred California for a winter haven – something chic in Malibu. He saw himself living large on half the money – living better, really – a pool, properly divorced, some good therapy, a few nubile girlfriends. And no fucking photos. It was an escape route, a fresh start at almost sixty.
Why the hell not? Let Edward make his own way. No family firm. No handouts. Penny would get the house and plenty for her needs.
He made his decision. Let them all rant and rave, he was going to drop out – in a very moneyed, sun-filled manner.
‘The photos are of me. The marriage is over, Edward. You need to stand on your own feet. I’m going to call your mother tonight – or at least her lawyers – and offer a quick settlement.’
‘But where will you go?’ Edward yelped. ‘What will happen to
me?’
‘You’re an adult. Make your own decisions,’ he said. God, how had he raised this snivelling wimp that wanted his hand held, even now? ‘You should have thought about it before dumping on the mad girl. I’m going to leave the state. Nobody really knows me outside of New York. I will retire and go to Florida. And find myself, in peace.’
Damn, if it didn’t sound noble, put like that . . . For a moment his mood lightened a little. Perhaps that vicious little tramp had done him a favour, after all.
Dina Kane smiled to herself. The photos were already erased from the memory card, the camera dumped from a car somewhere off the New Jersey turnpike. She’d bought a prepaid phone and called Edward from that – it was in a dumpster two minutes after their conversation.
Now, maybe, it was all over. Now, at last, she could have some peace.
Sleeping with Shelby had been disgusting. But, every second, she’d kept in mind the grinning, mocking face of his son, the way he’d threatened to pass her around his friends, like a piece of meat, called her mom the ‘town slut’, turned sex into rape, shoving himself deeper, even as she struggled to push him off her. Edward Johnson: a privileged yob who stood for every man who’d ever leered at, drooled over or assaulted her – the guards who’d felt her up in Don Angelo’s gatehouse, the boss who’d let her be abused, as long as it kept the customers happy.
Dina no longer believed in love. Revenge was a much more achievable goal. She wasn’t going to send those pictures anywhere. Just let them sweat; let them all sweat – cheating, lying Shelby; Penny, who raised that pig of a son; and, most of all, Edward, who treated her like a joke.
I just want to level the field.
Shelby would be divorced – his political dreams over. She didn’t want a rich, arrogant bastard like him anywhere near the halls of power.
Penny Johnson . . . Dina shrugged to herself. A woman who associated with these assholes was not her problem. There were lots of good divorce lawyers out there . . . And she was better off out of that fake marriage, anyway.
And Edward, the arrogant college boy who’d used her while she slaved just to make the rent. If there was no college for Dina, there would be none for him, either.
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