by Joanna Rees
She stared at the brown bottle of pills on the bedside table, feeling the fuzzy, dull ache in her head that the pills were supposed to take away. But Thea knew this was a pain that couldn’t be reached by pills, no matter what the doctor said.
Of course he’d referred her to a shrink when he’d prescribed them, but Thea had refused to go. What was the point? She didn’t need a doctor to tell her why she was depressed.
She knew it was useless torturing herself, but she couldn’t help it. Just as surely as she couldn’t help herself working out the dates that were etched in her mind. Which is why she knew that it would have been two years old by now.
It.
Her baby.
The baby that might have been Tom’s, but might also have been Brett’s.
A son. The baby would have been a little boy. She was sure of it. She felt the familiar wrench of remorse and guilt, like a twist in the guts.
What would have happened if she hadn’t booked herself into that Harley Street clinic, she wondered now? What if she’d taken a different path – kept the child, abandoned her career? Would she be happier now, with someone to love? Someone of her own?
But what child could love a mother who couldn’t even say for sure who their father was? What child could cope with a mother who had been raped by her own brother? What kind of child could respect a mother who had allowed that to happen?
Which is why Thea had taken the decision to terminate the pregnancy. She’d insisted on a local anaesthetic so that she could leave the clinic as quickly as possible. Which meant that she’d met the abortioner with the butcher’s hands. She’d watched him scraping out the contents of her womb, lifting out the bloody instrument as her insides contracted in labour pains.
Unable to bear the memory, she sat up in bed, reaching out to stunt the alarm clock before it went off. Then she tipped the pills from the bottle into her hand and stared at them.
How easy it would be to take them all, she thought. To swallow them all down and to forget. But then he would have won, she remembered, tipping the pills back into the bottle, except for one. Then she swept the bottle into the drawer in the small bedside table, but the lid wasn’t on properly and they spilled.
Cursing, she sat up and opened the drawer fully, collecting the pills. At the back of the drawer she saw a photograph in a small frame and pulled it out now. It was one she’d always kept, of her and Michael outside the stables at Little Elms when they were kids.
Where had that happy, grinning little girl gone? Thea wondered, rubbing the dust away with her fingertip. That was probably the last time she’d been conscience-free. When everything was shining and pure in her world. Just her and Michael, and her horse, when that had been all she’d really needed.
With a sigh she got out of bed and went into the shower, letting the water pummel her into numbness, remembering the similar shower she’d taken after Brett had raped her in Switzerland on her twenty-first birthday. When all she’d been able to think about was how lucky she’d been to get away, how satisfied she’d been that she’d locked him in the sauna, wedging the door shut and turning off the alarm.
She’d had every intention of leaving him there to die of heat exhaustion. Such was her loathing, her fury, her shame. Which is why she’d stayed in the shower, ignoring the banging on the sauna door and Brett’s muffled shouts.
But then he’d gone quiet. When she’d turned off the shower, the terrible silence had attacked Thea’s conscience. And at the crucial moment, when she should have gone to get Tom, she’d gone back and opened the door of the sauna and saved Brett.
She remembered now the blur of paramedics, Storm freaking out. Griffin Maddox staring at Brett’s body on the stretcher. Through his parched lips, Brett had managed to speak to Thea.
‘You breathe a word of what happened and I’ll get you for attempted murder.’
‘The next time you touch me, I will kill you,’ she’d replied. And she’d meant it.
Tom had woken up as the helicopter was leaving to take Brett to hospital. Unaware of the drama that had happened, he’d tried to apologize for his behaviour, keen – despite his hangover – to make Thea’s birthday special. He’d even gone as far as producing the diamond ring he’d brought for her, but Thea had just looked at the slushy snow on the ground and told him that it was over between them.
She’d loved him then, more than ever. But she couldn’t be with him, because she’d known that she could never tell him the truth. Even though she knew it hadn’t been Tom’s fault, she knew that if he’d been there in the sauna – with her – then she and Brett would never have ended up alone. Tom would never be able to truly protect her. She’d been a fool to think he could.
So she’d told him she’d made a mistake. That he wasn’t the right person for her. As the words had come out of her mouth, she’d been unemotional, hard, as if her heart was locked away somewhere that she couldn’t access. As if she was watching herself from above. Watching his aghast face, as fat snowflakes settled in his hair, like ash.
Poor Tom. He hadn’t understood. How could he? He hadn’t been able to believe that she could stand there and callously break his heart. He’d blustered, argued, then left angrily, telling Thea that Bridget had been right about her all along.
Back at Oxford, Thea had stayed in her rooms, venturing out only for lectures. The rest of the time she’d worked, trying to forget the terrible thing Brett had done.
Then she’d found out she was pregnant.
Now Thea stepped out of the shower, towelling the body she no longer felt belonged to her. She stared at herself in the mirror, seeing her older, more serious face. When was the last time she’d smiled? she wondered. When was the last time she’d laughed – truly laughed – like she used to with Tom?
Tom. There it was. Just the thought of him, his name forming in her mind, was a touchpaper to fill the numbness with a burning ache.
Don’t think about it, she told herself, forcing herself to forget before more tears came. Don’t think about it. Just think about work.
She plucked out a neat work suit from her cupboard and quickly got dressed. It was time to put on her mask, she thought. Time to get through another day.
Downstairs Ollie Mountefort was in the open-plan lounge in a shabby dressing gown, a plate of toast in his hand. He was watching the breakfast headlines, the news blaring out more twists and turns in the O.J. Simpson trial. No doubt there would be a load more O.J. gags circling the office by lunchtime, Thea thought. Even though she didn’t join in, she liked all the banter and the British sense of humour she’d grown accustomed to.
And there was no funnier guy than Ollie. He was her only friend still left from Oxford and, when he’d called her a few weeks ago and asked her if he could ‘crash’ whilst he applied for acting jobs, she’d been so shocked to hear from him that she’d agreed, and he’d moved into her pristine, hardly-ever-used guest suite.
She hadn’t ever considered what it might be like to have a housemate, but she couldn’t complain. It was better having him here than an empty house to come home to.
‘You’re up early,’ he said.
‘They’re signing off my cover today, remember?’ she said, fetching her scooter helmet from the cupboard.
‘I don’t know why you work so hard, Thea,’ Ollie said, sitting down on the big couch and putting his feet up. ‘You should tell them you’re the big boss’s daughter.’
‘No. I told you. I want to work my way up. Prove to them that I have talent, before they find out who I am.’
‘I still think you’re mad. You’ve got a Porsche in the garage. You should be cruising up and down the King’s Road in it.’
‘What? Like you want to?’ Thea said. ‘Nice try, roomy.’
Ollie laughed. ‘You see through me every time.’ He grinned at her and took a big bite of toast. ‘Want some? You should start eating something, you know.’
‘I’m fine,’ Thea said quickly. She’d have a coffee at the office. Th
at would do for breakfast. She knew Ollie was concerned that she was so thin these days, and he’d hinted at it more than once. She thought back to the days in Oxford when he used to fancy her. She worried that he just pitied her now instead.
‘You out at any auditions today?’ Thea asked, fastening her helmet under her chin. Ollie was still as handsome as he had been at college, although his dark hair was in less of a quiff these days. Certainly leading-man material, she thought – just not for her. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d looked at a man and felt aroused.
‘There might be something. In the meantime I’ll be here waiting for my agent to call.’
‘Don’t you ever get . . . ’ Thea asked. ‘Don’t you ever want to give up? Acting seems so hard. So cruel.’
Ollie stared at her. ‘And that’s the appeal of it. It’s worth fighting for. You never give up, Thea. No matter what. No matter who stands in your way. You keep going until you get where you want to be.’
‘I guess.’
‘Well, you’d know,’ he said, laughing. ‘You’re the most driven person I know.’
Suddenly embarrassed, he swung the remote at the TV to change channels. The room filled with the noise of Formula One racing cars.
‘Wow! There he is,’ Ollie said, his face lighting up. ‘Alfonso Scolari. Amazing driver. I’ve got a tenner on him to win.’
‘Any chance of any rent then?’ Thea asked, hopefully. She didn’t need it, but it was the principle that mattered.
‘If he wins, yes, and dinner on me.’
Thea was on her moped and driving along the river within five minutes, her mind focusing on the day ahead. Within ten minutes she was walking into the grand Thames-side office block that housed the Maddox Inc. operation in London.
She’d had the job for nearly two years, having applied after graduating, faking her CV and changing her name to Tina Jones. It had been harder and considerably more expensive than she’d thought to change her identity. She’d had to consult a lawyer to get a National Insurance number in her fake name, as well as references and a bank account for Miss T. Jones.
But Thea was pretty sure that she’d covered her tracks, so much so that Griffin Maddox remained totally unaware that she was working for one of his companies. He was under the assumption that she was doing a PhD at Oxford and that her workload was keeping her too busy to go home to New York until the summer vacation.
Instead she’d immersed herself in life as Tina Jones. She’d dyed her hair red and wore it in a short bob and, so far, her disguise was wearing well.
She knew her ruse annoyed Ollie, whom she’d sworn to secrecy, but it was true what she’d told him earlier. She was banking on the fact that by the time her true identity was revealed, her colleagues would be so impressed with her work that they would applaud her for wanting her talent to be seen without prejudice. She fantasized about going to the board meeting in New York next spring, with several triumphs under her belt. Her father couldn’t ignore her talent then.
And Thea knew she was well on her way. After her help during the coverage of the collapse of Barings Bank earlier in the year, and her opinion piece on how securities broker Nick Leeson could have lost $1.4 billion by speculating on the Tokyo Stock Exchange, Andy Bellson, the Editor-in-Chief, had finally acknowledged her presence.
In the last few weeks she’d been promoted to the journalistic team of the Sunday Bulletin, the biggest UK Sunday newspaper. It was a prestigious job, and one that she was never allowed to forget could be someone else’s in the blink of an eye. Even better, this week, with staff on holiday, Judith, her boss, had asked Thea to help out with the editorial team of the Culture section, the cover of which would be flagged up on the front page of the paper.
All Thea had to do was have it signed off at today’s meeting and she would have her first issue under her belt. With the exclusive article on Perez Vadim that she’d commissioned featuring strongly in the Fashion section, Thea had fought for the cover image: a striking picture of a dark-haired girl, by fashion-photography hotshot Nico Rilla. His subject, Romy Valentine, was the model Vadim had described as his muse and responsible for inspiring his latest groundbreaking collection, which – Thea’s copy argued – had altered the course of fashion. She found it ridiculous that she’d had to go from the financial pages to immersing herself in the fripperies of the fashion industry in order to get her first shot at a lead article, but she was pleased with the way it had turned out.
Andy Bellson strode through the open-plan office, tugging at his tie, as he made his way to the boardroom, like a general going into war. Judith, a small mousy-haired woman with a permanent frown on her forehead, pulled a face of concern at Thea and gestured for her to hurry up and fall into line behind the editorial team who were following him to large glass-walled boardroom.
‘We’ve got the head honcho in. Move it, people,’ Bellson growled as they all scurried to take their seats at the oval blond-wood table.
‘Head honcho?’ Thea asked Jack, her contemporary, in a hushed whisper, gathering up her things.
‘Some guy from the holding company. Management. Bellson hates it when they descend. Rumour is that they’re looking at streamlining the papers. Cutting down the London operation.’ Jack pulled a grim face at her as Thea followed him into the boardroom.
‘Actually, sir, he’s already here,’ Thea heard Susan say in a meek voice.
Thea felt her heart racing as they all sat down in the boardroom. With any luck the meeting would be quick and brutal, as they always were, and then she could hide until whichever ‘head honcho’ was out of the way. She just prayed it wasn’t one of her father’s team, who might recognize her.
But almost as soon as she thought it, a movement through the glass window snagged her attention.
He was coming out of the lift, surrounded by five men in suits who were all talking. Even just seeing a glimpse of the side of Brett Maddox’s face made nausea rise in her throat. She’d spent so long trying to forget him. Trying to forget what he’d done to her in that sauna. But there he was – just the same cocky, arrogant guy everyone loved, never suspecting that underneath he was a sadistic pervert.
Thea tried to steady her nerves, but her mouth had already filled with saliva, the hairs on her neck bristling.
Brett was wearing jeans and a stripy shirt and was deeply tanned. He grinned at everyone, knocking on the glass of the boardroom and walking in, as if he was some kind of entertainer rather than the person who could fire them all.
Andy Bellson introduced him and sat back down – a rarity in itself. Everyone in the room knew how tense he was. They all knew that this meeting had to go well.
Thea shrunk behind Judith, using Judith’s body to hide her from Brett’s line of sight. She drew her leather folder up high in front of her, but she could feel her pulse in her cheeks.
Bellson went through the other staff and they briefly outlined the news pages, until it was the turn of the Culture Bulletin.
‘Cover,’ Bellson said, nodding to Judith, who nudged Thea.
‘Go for it, kiddo,’ Judith whispered.
Thea stared at her. She knew she’d wanted to get noticed, but she was rather alarmed that Judith had dumped this on her at the last minute.
‘Yes. Come on, let’s hear it . . .’
Thea cleared her throat.
‘Jones,’ Bellson said. ‘Get on with it. Don’t keep our visitor waiting.’
‘Yes, Miss Jones, I’d love to hear what you’ve got for us,’ Brett said. And as Thea met his eyes and saw the cold glint in them, she knew that he knew. Somehow he’d found out. Now he’d come here to make her suffer, to watch her squirm. Well, she wasn’t going to give him the pleasure, she decided. If he knew, then her father probably knew too.
So be it, she thought, standing up. The cover was as good as signed off. If she was going to be ‘outed’, now was as good a time as any.
Thea explained the article on Vadim and showed the mock-ups of the cover w
ith the model on it.
‘Fine. Looks good. Next,’ Bellson said, and Thea felt a glow of pride.
But at that moment Brett spoke up. ‘Hmm. I don’t like it,’ he said, standing and walking around the table.
‘But we’ve got an interview with Vadim,’ Thea protested to Bellson, ignoring Brett. ‘Surely his muse should go on the front cover? That’s the basis of the whole article. This is a major fashion scoop.’
‘But I don’t like her look,’ Brett said, standing too close. Thea felt the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She almost gagged at the all-too-familiar smell of his aftershave. ‘She looks mean. She’s not feminine enough. Women should look like women. There must be other models. What about her?’ Brett pointed to the small picture in the article.
‘Tia Blanche? But we can’t,’ Thea protested, panic rising. ‘The article is all about Perez Vadim and how his collection has been inspired by this English model. We can’t use Tia Blanche.’
‘So? It’s about aesthetics. We’re in the business of selling newspapers. Or so I thought,’ Brett said, looking up. ‘The whole point is to get a pretty girl on the front cover. Especially in August,’ Brett said, grinning at the others around the boardroom. ‘And gentlemen definitely prefer blondes.’
‘But Tia Blanche isn’t really blonde – this is just her latest look—’
‘Mr Maddox is right,’ Bellson interrupted, clearly alarmed that Thea was arguing with Brett. ‘Put Tia Blanche on the cover. Rewrite it, Tina. Make it a general fashion piece.’
‘Sir?’ Thea said. ‘There’s something I want to say.’
‘What is it?’ Bellson asked, annoyed now.
‘I’m not Tina Jones. I’m . . . ’ she glanced at Brett. He might have snatched the cover from her, but she’d do her own unmasking. She wouldn’t let him humiliate her. She was proud of what she’d achieved, and sick of him walking all over her whenever he chose.