Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  He leaned in to kiss her. She offered him her neck. He sucked like her Dyson after its recent servicing. The skin would surely bruise. Arsehole. What would Mo say at group therapy if she turned up covered in love bites like a randy seventeen-year-old?

  ‘I want to fuck you into next Wednesday,’ he said. ‘How about that?’

  She could feel his fingers searching for the ties at the side of her bikini bottoms. Had he spoken loud enough for the microphone? Could the waiters see what was going on?

  ‘Cheeky!’ she said, pushing him away playfully. ‘What about your poor wife? Does she know you like to party when you’re in London?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about her. I want to talk about me and you, getting all down and dirty. Come back to my flat.’

  That had definitely been loud enough. And he’d mentioned the flat. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘You’ll see. The view from the living room’s amazing.’

  ‘Is it your place?’

  ‘I share it with some friends. My, my.’ He reached out to caress her breasts under the water. Was he too drunk to realise that somebody might see or did he simply not care, now she was on his members-only turf? ‘Aren’t you the inquisitive one?’

  Bev was torn. A voice within her said she was overstepping a mark. Asking too many questions at once. But she wanted this over and if she were to succeed, she needed more information. She was certain he wasn’t about to take her to his barge. At least if she discovered the address of his secret pad, she’d be able to make up some excuse and beat a hasty retreat back to safety.

  She swam to the far side of the pool, climbed out, trying to appear as lithe and seductive as possible for a woman with big knees and breasts almost heavy enough to give her a stoop. Took a towel from the pool-guy. Turned back to her date. ‘I can be dressed and ready to go in five.’ In for a penny . . .

  The journey out to Ealing took an hour in a cab. The shadow Science Minister’s need to uphold a respectable public persona in front of a very chatty, Labour-voting cabbie saved Bev from being mauled mercilessly on the back seat. Clearly, he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know where the line was drawn.

  Pulling up outside a high-rise that looked like some ex-local authority block, covered in the sort of cladding that had seen Grenfell go up in flames, Bev found she could barely bring herself to leave the safety of the cab.

  ‘Are you coming then?’ Jerry was holding the door open for her. An expectant look on his face, complete with raised eyebrow. ‘For our marketing meeting.’ Wink, wink.

  She swallowed hard, clutching her bag that contained a wet bikini, wrapped in a stolen towel. The ends of her hair still dripped chlorinated water onto her crappy dress, rendering the fabric almost see-through. She felt just as transparent. What happened next? Should she take her chances inside with a man who didn’t take no for an answer? She was well aware that having travelled all the way out here, sex would be an expectation. And though Bev was hardly averse to one-night stands now that she was single, this was business. A client’s repulsive, violent husband humping away on top of her was the opposite of what she wanted and didn’t even approach being professional conduct.

  ‘Get your skates on, love!’ the cabbie said, an impatient look on his face, visible in his rear-view mirror. ‘I’ve got another fare to pick up.’

  Stepping out into the night, standing alone in the harsh light emanating from the block’s foyer, Bev reminded herself that she was no victim like Angie. She was not a vulnerable young girl like the prostitutes ordered from ‘Stan’. Her days of being in thrall to and at the mercy of a man were over. If the need arose, she determined to clobber her way to freedom with her heavy handbag.

  Fitzwilliam beckoned her inside, where there was no concierge but where they were followed by the whine and zoom of a CCTV camera, suspended by a bracket, high on the wall. In the lift, he inserted a key into the bank of numbered buttons and pressed P for penthouse. He leaned in for a kiss, but Bev pointed to another lens, spying on them from behind what appeared to be a shatterproof glass panel, mounted high in the corner of the cubicle.

  ‘We’ve got an audience,’ she said, wondering if any footage had been taken of ‘spring lamb and sugar’ coming to the flat. ‘Slow down, cowboy.’ She placed a firm hand on his chest, keeping distance between them.

  He clasped her hand and kissed her knuckles.

  She pulled away. ‘Marketing meeting, remember?’

  He backed off, nodding at her cleavage and smiled.

  The lift doors opened to reveal a small, carpeted lobby with one solitary door facing them.

  ‘Welcome to my modest little pleasure palace,’ he said.

  Fumbling momentarily with his keys, he unlocked the door to reveal a cramped hall, which led straight into a large living room. It was all parquet flooring and leather sofas. There was a glass coffee table, on which she imagined lines of coke would have been cut on many an occasion, waiting to be snorted up bent politicians’ hairy nostrils through a twenty-pound note. A reproduction Mondrian on the walls. Through large ceiling-to-floor windows, the vista of a main Ealing thoroughfare – still busy though it was late – and the suburban roads beyond, was striking, if not stunning.

  ‘Nice place. Must be expensive,’ she said, staring down at the neon lights of an off-licence and the neighbouring kebab shop.

  ‘Like I said, I share it with buddies.’ He disappeared into the kitchen.

  There was the sound of a cupboard opening. Glasses set on a worktop. The tinkle of ice.

  ‘You’re a gin drinker, aren’t you?’ He poked his head out of the door. A charming host, now, as if the watchful presence of the CCTV in the foyer and lift had pushed them both into the eye of his amorous storm.

  ‘You bet.’ Bev took her drink from him. Made a mental checklist : she now knew he did have an additional property, the details of which he hadn’t disclosed to his wife ; this was an interior to look out for in any dodgy videos they found online ; decided on a sudden migraine as an excuse for a sharp exit. Just a few more questions, and she’d go . . .

  They both took a seat on one of the sofas, her handbag and the camera within reach on the coffee table, facing them. He spread his free arm along the back, leaning in towards her. His shirt rode up, revealing that his flies were undone. She spied his erection peeping over the top of his underpants, thick and red with sexual intent. He reached out to caress her hair.

  OK, lady. You’re in danger. Do whatever it takes to get your footage and get the hell out of here. But Bev’s gung-ho tongue had seemingly disengaged itself from her cautious brain. ‘What else do you like to do when you let your hair down, Jerry? Does Charlie come to the party?’ She raised her eyebrows suggestively. ‘What about . . . Ernie?’

  The temperature in the living room seemed to drop abruptly by several degrees.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, backing away. ‘I’m not sure I feel comfortable with where this conversation’s going. You’re starting to sound like some red-top hack on the hunt for scandal.’ He grabbed her face, inclining her jaw so that she could see him only through her right eye.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’ It was difficult to speak in his vice-like grip. ‘Let go, Jerry. You’ve got me all wrong. I was . . . just curious.’

  But he didn’t let go. He held his face so close to hers that she could smell the champagne and gin on his breath ; the chlorine in his hair. ‘You know what curiosity did, don’t you, Cat?’ He said her name with exaggerated emphasis. ‘If I find out you’re spinning me a yarn, and it turns out you’re actually an undercover reporter, you might find I pay you a visit in the middle of the night that you won’t enjoy. How about that? Waking up to find me at the end of your bed in your basement flat.’

  Enough. Bev pinched him hard on the inner thigh. How on earth did he know she lived in a basement flat? Had she slipped up in conversation? Did he know everything? It didn’t matter. She’d spent her entire life being bullied. She wasn’t about to let this evil chump join
the list of her tormentors. ‘Get your fucking hands off me, Jerry Fitzwilliam. I resent your accusation and I will not tolerate your threats.’

  ‘And I won’t tolerate blackmailing honeytrappers and gold-diggers.’

  She stood, dizzy from the sudden rush of blood away from her brain. ‘Enough of this crap. I’m off.’ Snatched up her handbag, preparing to use it as a weapon, and scrambled backwards towards the front door. Her heart thudded in a frenzy inside her as if trying to escape.

  He mirrored her movements, also rising rapidly. ‘Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, you cheap tart.’ As he rose, his shorts slid down to reveal a large, dark red birthmark on his hip that was roughly the shape of Australia. Bev stared at it. She recognised it.

  ‘Go to sex parties, do you?’ she shouted.

  The door was within reach – her escape almost made good, now.

  He’d already turned his back on her, thankfully, and was making his way to the kitchen, empty glass in hand. But he turned around, wearing a menacing grin. ‘What did you just say?’ His feet slap, slap, slapped hard on the parquet as he blundered back towards her. Murder in his eyes. ‘Are you threatening me?

  Jerry Fitzwilliam was clutching his heavy crystal tumbler like a cosh. Closer, closer, he was almost upon her . . .

  CHAPTER 23

  Angie

  Am going to meet him again. Will get everything you need. Get packed. Get you n kids out. Speak when I’m home. Bev

  With a shaking hand, her heart racing from a mix of euphoria and dread, Angie deleted the text. Looked over her shoulder, the hairs on her forearms standing on end from the feeling that she was being observed. Yet nobody was there and nothing was out of place in the domestic scene : sideboard, ornaments, paintings, windows facing onto the back garden. The shutters were still open and the garden was in darkness, though.

  Angie snapped shut the louvres, exhaling. Cocked her head to listen. The house was silent. The ticking clock on the sitting room mantelpiece showed that Poppy and Benjy had been tucked up for a good few hours.

  ‘Stop being silly,’ she whispered. ‘Find the suitcases.’

  Making every effort to creep soundlessly past the children’s bedrooms, Angie climbed the stairs to the attic. Winced when the old wood groaned beneath even her meagre weight. She was breathless, now, not just from the climb but with excitement at the thought that soon she’d be free of Jerry. Able to make her own decisions on where she went, with whom she socialised, how she spent what she hoped would be a considerable divorce settlement. She wondered if she’d get to keep this grand house that she loved so very much. Her divorce lawyer had assured her that there would be no problem in securing the family home for Angie and the children. The divorce lawyer didn’t yet know that Jerry had been amassing a fortune through fraud.

  Stop being negative, she told herself.

  As she rummaged among the packing boxes and trunks for the suitcases, coughing at the clouds of dust that billowed into the air, she thought about her engineered encounter in Carluccio’s with Tim. Who’d have thought in a million years that Tim would be friends with Rob? Sophie and Tim had supposedly hated and mistrusted Bev’s ex so much that they had effectively severed contact with Bev until she was rid of him. She made a mental note to warn Bev that Rob had seemingly insinuated himself into her circle of trust, which was surely a betrayal of sorts on Tim’s part . . . wasn’t it? The biggest surprise of all, however was the psychiatrist who had been introduced to her as Mo. Angie had recognised him from the health centre where she secretly received support for her anorexia. She was certain that she’d seen Bev coming out of the group therapy room where Dr Mohammed Ashraf presided, though she’d said nothing to Bev, not wanting to draw attention to her own foibles.

  Angie reflected that she had been so nonplussed by this unlikely cabal of United supporters, who had been laughing and joking over their tortellini as though they were best friends of old, she had failed entirely to ask Tim about the pied-à-terre he’d once shared with Jerry. She’d merely said hello, exchanged pleasantries about the weather, United’s prospects and the look of their lunches. Then, she’d hastened back to her car, panicking that Rob might have recognised her without the green bobble hat and sunglasses. It wouldn’t take much for Rob to tell Tim about Bev’s client. And Tim would lose no time in telling Jerry, of course.

  ‘Silly, simpering girl,’ she said, opening the medium-sized case and checking there was nothing inside it.

  Tiptoeing down the stairs, she lugged three suitcases – one at a time – into her bedroom. With Jerry not back until mid-morning tomorrow, she had as long as she needed to make good her escape. It was finally happening. She would load up the car and drive them to a hotel somewhere along the M6. Tomorrow, she’d speak to her mother and arrange to travel down to her parents’ place in Shropshire.

  Flinging the cases onto her bed, she assembled a capsule wardrobe that would cover all bases. Found her pristine Hunter wellies at the back of her shoe store in case walks with Granny and Gramps in the rolling countryside beckoned. She crept into the children’s rooms, pausing to watch their eyelashes flutter as they dreamed in their toddler beds – Poppy’s Cinderella carriage and Benjy’s fire engine. The children wouldn’t be happy to leave their idyllic rooms and custom-made beds behind, but these were desperate times and temporary measures. She grabbed clean clothes from their wardrobes, sour that without her nanny, the dirty laundry had stacked up and the clean clothing options for Poppy and Benjy were limited. Never mind. She’d find a boutique near her folks somewhere. She was certain there was a lovely place in Shrewsbury.

  After packing their things in the cases, Angie emerged from her bedroom, preparing to wake her babies.

  ‘Going anywhere?’

  Yelping, Angie clutched at her chest. ‘Gretchen!’ Her nanny was standing in the doorway to her room, almost invisible in the dark. No light on behind her. Only the glow of a laptop screen on her dressing table that immediately caught Angie’s eye. ‘You’re in Austria!’

  ‘Clearly not.’ Gretchen took a step onto the landing, hands dug deeply into the pockets of her jeans.

  At this hour, the nanny was still fully dressed. And what was it that she’d been watching on her laptop screen? Couldn’t Angie spy the four-way split feed of the nanny-cam? Except instead of the children’s bedroom, the playroom and the garden, the footage was of the living room, Jerry’s office, the kitchen and Angie’s bedroom.

  ‘Jerry asked me to cut my extended leave short and come back,’ Gretchen said in her flawless, barely-accented English. ‘He thought you needed help urgently.’

  ‘How kind! When did you get back? Why didn’t you come and say hello, sweets?’ Angie asked, chuckling nervously and taking a step backwards. She was all smiles, but cringing inside. Unable to decide whether to say something about the nanny-cam or not.

  ‘I got back at lunchtime. You were out. I was so tired from the flight that I fell straight asleep.’

  ‘You’ve been sleeping all this while? Are you spying on me, Gretchen?’ She kept her voice light and friendly, uncertain how best to wear this new-found

  bravery.

  Gretchen pulled the door to her bedroom closed behind her. ‘Of course not, Angie.’ She clasped her into a stiff embrace. ‘It’s so good to be back. Although, perhaps you are going as I’m arriving?’

  Feeling cold sweat erupt along her spine, Angie shook her head, still smiling. ‘No. I’m not going anywhere. I was just packing away some old things for the charity shop. How was Austria?’

  Yawning, Gretchen retreated. ‘I’ll tell you in the morning. I’m very tired from travelling. Schlaf gut!’

  ‘Yes. Good night.’

  Angie returned to her room, dragging the cases off the bed. She wept silently into her pillow.

  CHAPTER 24

  Bev

  ‘The train will shortly be arriving at Milton Keynes,’ came the announcement over the tannoy.

  Idly, Bev stared out of the wind
ow at the early evening sky as the train slowed and the utilitarian office-block anonymity of the station and town beyond it came into view. She glanced at her watch. Come on! Come on! There were still hundreds of miles to put between her and the car-crash of a meet with Jerry Fitzwilliam.

  The beep, beep, beep of the doors opening almost lulled her to sleep. It was already dark outside at this time of year. She yawned, reluctantly moved her feet back under her own quarter of the table, and folded her arms as a middle-aged woman plonked a large weekend bag on top of the newspaper Bev had been trying and failing to read. The woman cast a judgmental eye over the low-cut neckline of Bev’s dress, just visible beneath her coat. But after a night spent in Doc’s mother’s guest bed, having been threatened by a powerful politician who had a penchant for beating his wife, Bev was in no mood for her new travel companion’s behaviour. She yanked her Times from under the weekend bag, unleashing the full force of her passive aggression.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  As the train pulled away, Bev watched town give way to countryside, but her thoughts were on the late-night conversation she’d had with Doc.

  ‘He’s been in my place already,’ she’d said, cradling a hot chocolate in the dated kitchen of Doc’s family home at 3 a.m. ‘Well, either him or some bully boy on his payroll, maybe.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Doc had asked, rocking back on the hind legs of his chair. It was at the small, pine breakfast table, shoved against a wall that still bore food-themed tiled wallpaper from the 70s.

  ‘He knew I live in a basement flat, for a start. And stuff’s been moved. My origami’s been pissed about with or stolen. Doors have been left open, like someone’s trying to freak me out. You know? I’m scared, Doc. I’ll tell you that for nowt.’

  ‘So am I. Understandable, given the circumstances. But what are you gonna do?’

  ‘I’ve got enough to give Angie from tonight.’ She’d picked up the tiny recording device, rolling it in the palm of her hand. ‘He behaved like the beast he is and it’s all here. Everything from him trying to shoot me with his big gun to the bit where he comes at me with a crystal tumbler. How I got out of there before he brained me to death or just plain raped me, I’ll never know. Well . . . I suppose a punch to his nuts and my sprint to a waiting lift helped.’ She’d enclosed her fingers around the evidence, exhaling heavily. ‘I know he’s got a secret penthouse flat. I know he’s an adulterer and a bully. We both need to go home. Right? Show this turd that we’re not scared, even if we’re filling our pants. Bullies back down.’