‘Bev! How are you getting on?’ There was an edge to her voice, as though she didn’t want her own children to eavesdrop.
‘I need cash, Angela,’ Bev said. ‘I can’t follow a man who has two homes in opposite ends of the country without so much as petrol money.’
‘I can get you £30.’ Her voice was a near whisper. ‘Maybe next week.’
Bev bit back a that’s-no-damned-good retort. ‘Is it really that bad?’ she asked.
‘Yes. He did give me some money but I had to spend it on my teeth. Sorry. You will get paid eventually, though. He’s sitting on a fortune.’
‘You need to search the places where he might write sensitive information down. Has he got a study?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look for passwords. Pin codes. Anything that might get you into his online banking.’
‘How would I even know where he banks now?’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
There was a pause on the other end of the phone that was filled with the sound of small children’s squealing laughter. Angie’s voice became tight and squeaky, breaking up in parts where she sounded like she was choking back tears. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but for years he’s just . . .’
Come on, Bev, she thought, fighting back the urge to scoff. You of all people should know the corners that bad people back their partners into. Don’t traumatise the poor cow. ‘Listen, Angie. He’ll have cards in his wallet and some paperwork somewhere. He’s sure to. And try to get evidence of his maltreatment of you. Shitty texts. Nasty emails. Take snaps of your bruises. Look out for any photos or correspondence that might prove infidelity. That sort of stuff. Dirt that a divorce lawyer is going to love.’
The call ended. Bev felt no better. This was the trickiest job she had ever taken on.
‘Why the hell are you doing this, you berk? Just walk away! You’re not her mother,’ angry, cynical Bev told a younger, naïve version of herself, who was hiding beneath the layers of bluff and bluster that had become her armour since her divorce.
But the mental image of that bruising wouldn’t leave her. Beverley Saunders was no longer Rob’s passive, pleasing wife. She was now a woman who wouldn’t take any more shit, helping other women who weren’t yet strong enough to fight their own battles. And didn’t she still have the biggest battle of her own to fight? This job could give her the financial security and professional standing she so desperately needed to convince the judge she was back on track and a responsible adult.
Picking up the phone, she dialled an ally she hadn’t spoken to in some years. Wondering if he’d even take her call, she was pleased that his secretary put her straight through.
‘Beverley,’ her old boss said. His voice had aged audibly. Near to retirement, now. ‘What a blast from the past. To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Graham,’ Bev said, not hiding the gratitude in her voice for the man who had given her her very first proper job. They exchanged pleasantries while she mentally rehearsed her pitch. Best not to skirt around the issue with an old-school, no-nonsense sort like Graham. ‘I’m looking for some freelance work. Copywriting, if you’ve got it or some print management.’
‘I thought you’d left marketing for good after that sticky business at BelNutrive.’
‘None of that was down to me, you know.’ She bit her lip. Realised she was holding her breath. Silence on the other end.
‘Of course, my dear. I know slander when I hear it. How on earth did you get yourself into such a mess?’
‘Look, it’s a long story,’ Bev said, swallowing hard as she remembered the feel of her skin crawling as she’d faced the BelNutrive death squad in the directors’ boardroom. ‘I’ll tell you over a coffee if you can find me some hours. Please, Graham. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. I could mainly work from home. Even if I’m down in London a couple of times per month for meetings . . .’ She quickly thought of the best way to spin the financial sting of claiming travel expenses from Graham’s charity. ‘I’ll work out cheaper than a salaried marketeer or a consultant. You know I’ll more than pay for myself.’
‘Actually, our marketing girl has just gone on maternity leave . . . just at a point when we need to design and print the annual report. We need a new legacy marketing leaflet putting together too. A cinch for an old hand like you, eh?’
Ending the call, Bev discovered she was breathless and dizzy as conflicting emotions did battle beneath her apparent composure. She was going back to London, however temporarily, and to a career she’d been forced to leave behind. All with the intention of helping a stranger. It felt good to make things happen. It felt dreadful to dredge up the past. But the old Bev would never entirely go away, she realised.
She channelled that old Bev now, as she wrote a LinkedIn message to Jerry Fitzwilliam.
Hi Jerry. Thanks for accepting my connection request. I saw you on breakfast TV the other day, delivering that speech about the future of British science education, which was utterly captivating. At Belfry Automotive Engineers, we want to start a mentoring scheme for local schoolchildren who might consider careers in engineering. Can I pick your brains? I think we could work together.
Cat x
Pinging off the missive, she swapped her formal business profile photo for a coquettish snap of her former self – chewing seductively on her glossy bottom lip, a knowing twinkle in her eyes, with the camera angled down from on high, so that her cleavage was in the frame too. It was the photo she’d used to good effect online – during her single years. It had always worked. Would it work this time? Would it pique the shadow cabinet minister for Science’s interest?
CHAPTER 6
Angie
‘Coffee darling?’ Angie asked, standing in the doorway to Jerry’s office with a thudding heart she was certain he could hear.
‘Hmm.’ He was seated behind his desk, facing her. His large computer monitor obscured what he was doing, though he was looking down at something. Presumably preoccupied by his phone, judging by his movements. No difference there, Angie realised. Except . . . her gaze wandered over the desktop. She could see the corner of his iPhone peeking out from beneath a pile
of paperwork.
Almost as if he’d only just registered she was watching him, he looked up swiftly. Red in the face.
‘Don’t sneak up on me like that, for Christ’s sake. You nearly gave me a heart attack.’ As he spoke, it was apparent from his upper arm movements that he was slipping something into the drawer.
Angie could hear Bev’s words resounding in her memory. Make nice. Get him onside. Pretend the whole divorce thing has all blown over. Forcing a benign smile onto her face, she avoided making eye contact. ‘So sorry, darling. I just wanted to know if you fancied a coffee. I’m making a fresh pot.’ She could hear the tremor in her own voice. Swallowing hard, the bruising around her neck ached as though her husband’s hands were still on her.
He sized her up and the silence between them was so thick, it was almost tangible. Was he trying to read her mind or was he genuinely considering his coffee options?
‘Forget it,’ he said, checking his watch and standing abruptly. He plonked his briefcase onto the desk and started to stuff paperwork into it. ‘I’ve got to go into the office for my surgery. I’ve got to see a pile of nimbies moaning about the HS2 rail thing before I head back down to London tomorrow.’
This was her chance. If Jerry got wind that she had Bev snooping around, it would take very little for him to whisk any banking paperwork down to London in that big briefcase of his. She couldn’t wait for tomorrow to sneak a peak in those desk drawers. Gretchen might finally be back from her trip home to Austria. This morning though, Benjy was on a playdate with a little pal from Montessori. Poppy was taking a nap. It was now or never.
‘Shall I make you a sandwich to take with?’
He pulled a laptop out of one of his drawers and slid it into his briefcase. Was that the glint of a key between his fingers? Yes.
> ‘I’ll grab a bite while I’m out,’ he said.
She couldn’t see what he was doing from her vantage point, but she could hear him turning the key in the desk-drawer lock. What would he do with the key? Had he pocketed a second phone? Suddenly, Angie found herself wondering if he’d deliberately rigged his desk up with piles of books, a row of family photos and a giant monitor to conceal from her view everything that went on behind it.
Find out what cash cards he’s got. Bev’s instructions. If you know where he banks and you can make a note of his account numbers and sort codes, you’ve got a cat-in-hell’s chance of getting your mitts on your fair share of the money. Paying solicitors’ bills and funding your new-found independence won’t come for free, love. Find any confidential documents, anything that might help us. You need proof that he’s a liar, a cheat and a bully. Dick pics on a second phone. Love letters. Anything.
Angie stood her ground and waited until her husband was almost upon her. Silently, she prayed that the sexual favours she’d extended to him last night and the heartfelt faux admission that she’d made, proclaiming her demand for a split had merely been a terrible hormonal-led mistake, would be enough to keep him calm and unsuspecting. ‘Before you go, can I have some money, please, darling? I’ve got to go to Waitrose.’
He frowned. Her pulse quickened. All she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. Was he irritated that she was barring his easy exit? Instinctively, when he set his briefcase down, she flinched, waiting for a slap or more.
‘You’re out of cash already?’ He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. ‘Jesus, Ange. Are you trying to bankrupt us?’
She put her arms around his thick middle as though she was hopelessly in love. Planted a kiss on his florid cheek. How had she ever found him attractive? At what point had she started to find him repulsive? ‘I wanted to make your favourite tonight just to show you how very sorry I am and how much I love you.’
‘Fillet steak and chips?’ He grinned. ‘Good girl.’ Slapped her bottom before extricating himself from her embrace. ‘No chips for you though, eh?’ He unfastened the press-stud on his wallet. Still staring at her with narrowed eyes that seemed full of suspicion, though his thin lips curved up into a smile.
Don’t let him know you’re interested in the cash cards. Bev’s advice. Angela forced herself to meet his gaze right up until the moment he glanced down to open his wallet. Then, she drank in as much visual information as she could, scrutinising the colours on the plastic. Trying to place them. But the cards were all rammed too deeply into their slots to show any logos.
‘Forty do?’ Jerry shoved two blues at her, though she could see the section for paper money was fat with notes.
‘Perfect.’ Now was not the time to draw attention to herself. She’d failed this time on the wallet front but there would be other opportunities. Perhaps when he was sleeping. The main thing was to get him out of the house. ‘What time will you be home?’
He glanced at his watch. The wallet was back in his trouser pocket now. He was picking up his briefcase. Silently, Angie prayed Poppy would sleep on long enough to give her the opportunity to have a good half hour’s rifle through Jerry’s office.
‘Couple of hours, depending on the turnout.’
As he shooed her out of the doorway, Angie could feel an itchy rash creeping beyond her collar, up towards her neck. She pulled her silk scarf up. Deflated to see Jerry pull out the key to the mortice and lock it, as usual. Today of all days, she would have appreciated him slipping in his routine, but such a lucky break wasn’t forthcoming.
He plopped the mortice key into the breast pocket of his jacket and, zipping it shut, winked at her.
Did he anticipate her ham-fisted sleuthing attempt? Or was she being paranoid?
When she closed the front door behind him, Angie exhaled heavily and stood with her back against the stained glass, considering her next move. She waited for the engine of his car to spark into life. Tears rolled unbidden down her cheeks as tension sapped the strength from her body. But this was not a time for weeping. It was a time for action.
Advancing along the wood-panelled hallway, praying Poppy would sleep on, she tried the handle of Jerry’s study. How sturdy would a Victorian lock really be? After peering to see if there was a gap between the door and the architrave, she retrieved her Costa coffee loyalty card from the kitchen drawer and tried to slide the card between the two surfaces. She remembered forgetful students breaking into their own rooms in halls by doing a similar thing with their cashpoint cards. She tutted. It was apparent the gap was too tight to breach, and anyway, she realised that the bank-card trick only worked on latchlocks, didn’t it? And if she forced the lock, he’d know.
‘Come on, Ange. Hold it together,’ she whispered beneath her breath.
After five minutes, she was out of ideas. Damn this. Maybe I should just get out of the marriage and take my chances. Run away with the children. Start again. Do I really need the money? I’ll get a job in admin or some temping work. But then she considered how Jerry had only managed to build his profitable career thanks to her efforts in holding hearth and home together. Half of that money was hers! And hadn’t he threatened to deny her access to the kids? He’d come after her ; expending every effort to blacken her name publicly and make her life a waking nightmare. No. She had no option but to go for broke, and the only way she could do that was to gather intel like a low-rent spy, to demonstrate what a bullying manipulator she’d married. She rang Bev, who suggested trying to climb in through the sash window. Had Jerry locked that too?
Hooking the baby monitor onto the waistband of her jeans, Angie padded into the garden, carrying a basket of washing. She glanced around to check she wasn’t being observed by the neighbours.
Setting the basket down, she looked up at the study window. She could see there was a gap of about half an inch where she could perhaps get her fingers in. If only she could reach it. Pursing her lips, she examined her beautifully manicured nails. They wouldn’t last long. Wishing she were stronger, she lugged a cast-iron garden chair to the window, wincing when it scraped noisily against a flagstone. She held her breath. Would Poppy wake? No sound from the baby monitor.
Angela stood in her Gucci loafers on the chair and started to hoist the window up with all the might she could muster. The sinews in her forearms stood out like ropes as she edged the peeling wood upwards. It was back-breaking work, as the pulley mechanism had been painted over so many times and was stiff. But inch by inch, she managed to lever the window open by a good twelve inches before it jammed. She said a silent prayer of thanks to the Goddess of Desperate Housewives that Jerry had forgotten to shut and lock it properly. At that moment it was clear to her that in locking his office, his aim was to keep his wife out, rather than any burglar with a penchant for government white papers.
‘Bastard,’ she muttered.
Being thin had its advantages. She clambered up onto the sill ; wriggled until she had squeezed herself through the gap. Dropping down to the stripped and polished floorboards, her breath ragged, she looked around the study. First, she made for the desk, tugging at the drawers. No use. They were locked. She picked up a brass letter-opener and tried to slot the tip of the blade into the keyhole of the central drawer where she felt certain Jerry had stashed another phone from view.
‘Damn it.’
Angie realised she had no way of breaking into the desk without causing damage. The deep drawers on either side were also locked. Her husband was a man who liked to maintain control over what he kept secret and what he made public. Spotting his smug face grinning out from the largest of the family photos, she spat on the glass, savouring the sight of her gob of mucus rolling from his forehead onto the chin. ‘Filthy pig!’ Reluctantly, she wiped it off.
Next, she padded over to the filing cabinet. Surely he left something unlocked. Tugging at the handles, she realised quite how careful he was.
Turning slowly in the room, she
pondered where her husband might leave the key to a filing cabinet. If it was on his keyring, her efforts would be scuppered. But if he’d hidden it somewhere in here . . .
Could he have tucked it among the political tomes and James Patterson novels on the bookshelves that lined the alcoves either side of the chimney breast? Nothing was evident lower down. Feeling on the higher shelves, she found only dust among the leather spines. Next, she eyed the fireplace and noticed the silver art-nouveau candlesticks, plant pots containing orchids and elegant nick-nacks she’d thoughtfully arranged on the mantel in a bid to feminise the masculine space. They had always hidden the spare key to the house under the plant pot by the front door. Perhaps Jerry had lacked the imagination to find a better hiding place for his filing cabinet key.
Sighing, it felt like a fool’s errand as she lifted the plant pot holders, one by one. As she held the third aloft, she gasped. The object that lay beneath glinted in the light, as though winking at her in collusion. It was the key to the filing cabinet – of that she was certain.
As Angie pulled the top drawer of the filing cabinet open, she was so thrilled by her own skulduggery that she failed to notice the thrum of an engine – the engine of a powerful car. Rummaging through the hanging files, she saw documents for their house insurance, car insurances, BUPA plans . . . She was so beside herself with excitement when her fingers happened upon a file hidden beneath the other mountain of documentation, right at the back, that she didn’t immediately recognise the telltale crunch of gravel as Jerry’s Jag pulled onto the driveway. In fact, her husband’s early return didn’t register with Angie at all until the baby monitor picked up the front door slamming and Poppy starting to cry as her sleep was disturbed.
The key being inserted into the lock on the other side of the study door gave Angie no more than a five second countdown before she was discovered, clutching a sheaf of correspondence from Coutts & Co bank.
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