The Second Woman

by Charlotte Philby

  Anna is dead.

  At some point Maria finally falls asleep and when she wakes up the space beside her is still empty. Pulling on a cardigan, she moves through the empty kitchen, outside where a light wind blows through the palms.

  Following the deck towards the grass which rolls down to the shore, she spots David, barefoot in the sand, looking out to sea. She says nothing, moving beside him and looking out at the water. His eyes are red from crying and she slips her hand in his, reminded of the night some fifteen years earlier when they walked together along the path beside her house, back in Greece, before David had given her their first kiss.

  When she turns to face David now, she seems someone else entirely.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks finally, still not knowing the right thing to say to him, when it counts.

  ‘Yes,’ he says simply, turning back to the house. ‘I’ll have them make breakfast.’

  ‘Do you want me to call the girls, see how they are?’ Maria asks a couple of days later as they sit opposite one another at the kitchen table, both glassy-eyed from continued lack of sleep.

  The words feel brittle on her lips. She has to be careful of what she says next, every word a potential fracture line – and yet, she would ask that, wouldn’t she? The Maria David knows has spent the whole of the children’s lives devoted to them, looking after Stella and Rose with a singular dedication. How could she possibly hear what has happened to their mother and not automatically turn her thoughts to them?

  David’s jaw tightens at the mention of Stella and Rose, the children who think he is dead, the man they still believe to be their father.

  He turns away from her. ‘Why would I want that?’ Maria flinches, and after a moment his expression softens slightly. ‘They’ll be fine. They’re with their grandmother.’

  He places the emphasis on their, reminding himself as well as her that the children are no longer his concern – as if he could so easily spirit away his love for the twin girls he had raised for three years as his own.

  For the first time, Maria wonders whether Harry knows the girls are his. Had Anna told him? There are so many things Maria can’t be sure of; so much is staked on instinct, feeling about for who to trust. And yet where had instinct got Anna?

  Later that week, she spends the morning walking the modest length of beach alone, while David and Jorgos sit hunched opposite one another at a table and chairs under the portico that runs between the two main villas. She can see from here that they are deep in conversation. She watches them, oblivious, wishing there was a way of listening in on what they are saying, but every time she has gone near them since her arrival, the men have fallen into silence. It is a moment before she sees the third figure, Hans, seated a few metres from the other men, looking back at her.

  Turning away from his intense gaze, Maria moves back to the house.

  There is something unsettling about the presence of the staff who suddenly appear, making up the beds unasked, swilling dishes, silently laying out food at the kitchen table three times a day, and then retreating again.

  ‘Lunch is ready,’ one of the maids says as Maria enters the villa, still picturing Hans’ inscrutable expression.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll fetch David,’ Maria replies and the maid indicates for her to sit.

  ‘He has asked not to be disturbed. He will join you in five minutes.’

  Maria wonders what this woman must think of her, unaware as she is that until recently she, too, was the hired help.

  ‘This looks delicious,’ David announces, sauntering into the room with an unconvincing show of ease as the maid sets to work at the lobster at the centre of the table, with a cracker and picker. The crunch of the shell is like breaking bone, and Maria winces as David fills their glasses from the bottle of Chablis.

  ‘What have you been working on?’ Maria asks, once the woman has excused herself.

  David has already finished his wine, and she watches him pour himself another glass.

  She is about to suggest he slows down, but she thinks better of it. In the week or so since Anna’s death, David has grown increasingly tetchy. There is something performative about this newly cavalier persona – something unpredictable, and untrusting – and she has felt the soothing effect she has always had on him slipping from her grasp. Perhaps a few glasses of wine to loosen him up is exactly what he needs.

  ‘Same old,’ David says, just as she was beginning to wonder if he had actually heard her, leaning forward to refill the small amount of wine she has drunk.

  ‘Have you spoken to your father again?’ she asks a while later, once David has knocked back more than half the bottle.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ he snaps, as if she has no business uttering Clive’s name.

  ‘I just …’ She takes a deep breath. ‘He’s not getting any better, David. The doctors—’

  ‘The doctors are fucking quacks, the lot of them.’ He cuts her off, taking a long sip of his wine and laughing slightly to himself as he returns it to the table.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I was just thinking,’ David says.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Anna.’

  ‘Thinking what?’

  ‘I was just thinking how she thought she was so bloody clever, but she got everything wrong. Everything. She didn’t even know where my mum died.’

  David looks up at her, holding her eye, and Maria feels the mouthful of lobster catch in her throat.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  David’s expression changes. ‘Nothing.’ He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. ‘Just that Clarissa told her about my mother dying, about me being the one to find the body, and she assumed it had happened at the house in London …’

  He flinches at the memory, and then looks up. ‘Anyway. It’s interesting how you think you know someone but then it turns out you don’t know them at all.’

  ‘How long are we planning to stay here?’ Maria asks over dinner one evening. David has spent the afternoon once again discussing business at the other house, returning with a look of frustration.

  ‘Why, are you bored?’ he snaps.

  ‘No. But, well, it’s not a long-term plan, is it? I’m just wondering what—’

  ‘Look, I can’t discuss this with you now. I need some peace to think. I have a call with Jeff in a minute.’

  There is a note of disdain in his inflection when he mentions his father’s business partner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Is something wrong, work-wise?’

  David pauses, as if he is about to say something, and then Jorgos walks into the room, calling him away.

  David is further distracted when he comes back from his meeting, his foot thrumming at the base of his chair as he pours himself another drink.

  ‘Are you all right, David?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You seem … Are you having second thoughts, about asking me to come with you?’

  David leans forward, genuinely engaged with her for the first time in days. ‘Of course not. I’m sorry I’ve been so short with you, it’s just so much stress. You know? Everything, and now Jeff—’

  ‘David, could I speak to you for a moment?’ Jorgos puts his head round the door.

  ‘Sure,’ David says, beckoning him into the room. ‘Come in.’

  Jorgos pauses. ‘Can we speak in private? It’s about the meeting earlier.’

  David stands up, unsteady from the wine, apologising to Maria.

  ‘You go to bed, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Maria waits up for him, dressed in a silk nightdress. She pours two glasses of brandy and sets them on the small round copper table in the corner of the room.

  She is genuinely intrigued by who would own a villa like this, with its outdated kitchen and ready-made art pulled straight from the pages of a timeshare catalogue. It must cost so much money to own and run, and yet it’s as though no one ever really visits. Except as soon as she thinks it, she knows exactly
what an island like this is used for. It isn’t a holiday retreat; this is a meeting place for people who want privacy, a space in the middle of the ocean where they can get away with murder.

  By the time David arrives back, Maria is drifting off in one of the chairs, but she pulls herself awake at the sound of the door. Automatically, she feels for the phone by her feet, inside the bag.

  Maria smiles up at him, and David’s expression softens, his eyes appraising her outfit approvingly.

  ‘Come, have a drink with me,’ she says and he joins her, visibly relaxing at her touch as she waits for him to take his glass and then moves behind him and begins to massage his shoulders.

  ‘Mmmm, that’s good,’ he says, closing his eyes, letting Maria work her hands around his shoulders and down his back. He takes another swig and makes approving noises as she kneads away at areas of tension.

  ‘Come here,’ he says, pulling her in front of him, pouring himself another drink and sipping at it before pulling her on top of him and lifting up her nightdress.

  As he does so, his body visibly relaxes and he calls out, ‘Yes, Anna.’

  Maria tenses, waiting for him to flinch at his own mistake, but he just continues to push himself into her, unaware of what he’s said.

  Maria

  It is the height of the dry season and Maria imagines other nearby islands, bustling with tourists, as she walks the length of the beach the next morning. As she moves towards the jetty, she sees a boat; food supplies being unloaded by a couple of the workers who share the third villa. For a moment she pictures herself creeping aboard, convincing the boatman to take her somewhere far from here. At that moment one of the maids looks up at her, and Maria turns away.

  David had woken first but he is not at his usual place on the porch of the second villa, where Jorgos and Hans are staying. She looks around, the windows of the connecting villa glistening down at her, the glass reflecting the sunlight so that she has no idea who is inside, and who’s looking out.

  Maria’s phone is by her side in her linen tote bag, which is where she keeps it at all times, wary not just of David but of the workers who bustle in and out without a moment’s warning, their eyes everywhere. She reads a book on the beach for a while, turning the pages occasionally for the benefit of the cameras that lean in overhead. Who knows who is watching, and how close up they can move, whether they capture the wary movements of her eyes as they scan the page, willing a reply to the message she sent Harry from her phone, forwarding the picture of where in the ocean they are, in the dead of night.

  There is no reply when Maria checks her phone the next day, or the one after that.

  For all she knows, Harry might be dead.

  A month on the island passes painfully slowly, her toes sinking further into the sand with every step. The rum cocktails that at first tasted sweet and reassuring become sharp and sit heavy in her gut.

  Every day she checks her phone for a reply from Harry, and then one day it comes.

  ‘I’ve spoken to my woman, she needs more than this. Has David mentioned Anna?’

  Frustrated at the lack of meaningful information, Maria inhales sharply as she types: ‘I’ll try to call in the next few days. Please answer.’

  In the days leading up to Anna’s inquest, Maria hears David waking early, heading out and pacing the beach until either Jorgos or Hans come down to get him, leading him, childlike, back to the villa where they feed him coffee and then spirits, as the day progresses while they toil over papers.

  ‘I want to speak to my father before I make any kind of decision,’ she hears David tell them pleadingly one afternoon as she passes along the beach below.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ Jorgos says simply. ‘It’s not safe. Clive knows about this; he and Jeff have discussed—’

  As if sensing they are being overheard, Jorgos lowers his voice and the conversation continues out of hearing range.

  That afternoon, Maria takes a swim and when she returns to the house, David is sitting completely still at the breakfast bar with his iPad next to him. Moving behind him, Maria sees the whisky and then the article open on the screen, the headline reporting the inquest verdict.

  Socialite hanging: Death by Suicide.

  Maria expects David’s nerves to calm once the verdict is announced, but the moment they learn of the coroner’s conclusion, his restlessness turns to listlessness, as if rather than feeling he has got away with it, he has simply given up.

  There is no sign of him when Maria awakes, a couple of days later. None of the men are to be found; presumably they have tucked themselves inside the other villa, wishing to discuss whatever it is that has been bothering David in a more private setting.

  Taking the opportunity to check whether Harry has been back in touch, Maria turns on her phone, her mind going back to the day Felicity revealed herself, and MI6’s interest in TradeSmart: ‘Arms dealing, people trafficking, a child brothel frequented by older men at a very high price.’ The investigations had been going on for years, she said, but they were finally reaching a critical stage. An inside man, one of Clive’s closest colleagues, was helping to bring the whole thing down. But they needed more. They needed her.

  Maria had questioned Felicity at once. ‘Inside man? Who, Jeff? Jorgos?’

  It could have been either of them, or someone else entirely. None of them were to be trusted. Felicity’s face had given nothing away. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that.’

  Maria slips the phone back into her washbag, which she returns to her tote, putting a towel and book on top, and leaves the bathroom holding the bag over her arm. When she opens the door and looks up, David is standing directly in front of her, his expression glass-like.

  ‘David! You scared me,’ she says and then takes a step forward, noticing the blotchy skin around his eyes. ‘What—’

  ‘It’s Dad,’ he says. ‘He’s dead.’

  Maria

  The day Clive dies

  They sit for hours, side-by-side, without talking, the day Clive dies, just as they had the day of Artemis’ funeral, two decades earlier.

  ‘It might help to talk about it,’ Maria tries for a second time, breaking the interminable stretch of silence, the only sound the occasional swig of David drinking whisky straight from the bottle.

  He doesn’t reply and Maria tries again. ‘Perhaps we could send flowers?’

  David finally turns to face her. ‘Flowers?’

  ‘It’s your father’s funeral, David, and you can’t be there. I thought you might like—’

  He laughs, as if she has just told the funniest joke. ‘Oh yes, great idea. I’ll just ring Interflora, ask them to send a bouquet reading “With love from your dead son, David”.’

  Maria blushes. ‘I didn’t mean … I just thought if there was a way of discreetly … But you do have a new phone here – isn’t that risky?’

  He stops laughing then. ‘It would be if it was registered to my name, or in any way traceable to me. It’s only for using the proper messaging system, not for chit-chat, not for ordering bloody lilies.’

  ‘You mean the EncroChat you mentioned?’ Maria asks.

  He looks at her for a moment. ‘Christ, what is this, the Spanish bloody inquisition?’

  ‘David, I’m just talking to you. It’s not like we have anything else to talk about, is it? It’s not like I do anything other than—’

  ‘I see,’ David says. ‘Are you regretting coming here with me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Her honesty cuts him dead.

  Neither of them speaks again for almost a minute and then Maria continues, more quietly. ‘I’m just lonely. There’s nothing for me here. You’re working all the time. You hardly talk to me.’ She inhales. ‘I suppose it’s not how I imagined it.’

  ‘So you wish you hadn’t come?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she replies, taking the bottle from him and drinking, appreciating the burn of the whisky in her throat.

&nbs
p; ‘I’m sorry,’ David says after a moment and Maria feels a tug of guilt.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she says.

  ‘Is there anything I can do, to make things easier?’ he asks and Maria pauses, before taking another drink.

  ‘I would like to speak to my mother.’

  ‘You know you can’t do that.’

  ‘Why?’ she asks plainly, the frustration making her bold.

  ‘We spoke about this, Maria. This is not a game. It’s too risky. You agreed to cut off all contact, at least for the time being, until we’re more settled.’

  ‘Settled where? How?’ Maria feels her voice rise. ‘Don’t you think it’s stranger if I don’t call, ever? It will be Christmas soon. There is no reason why anyone would be listening in to my mother’s calls. Everyone thinks you’re dead, David, and I’m just the nanny. The only person who is likely to be suspicious that something is wrong, to raise any kind of alarm, is my mother. If I don’t call—’

  ‘Jorgos wouldn’t like it,’ David says sharply.

  ‘Jorgos?’ Maria sneers. ‘Who is in charge here, David? I have given up everything to be here with you, with no friends, nothing to do, for what, be your mistress – someone to have sex with at the end of another long day of meetings? And still you don’t trust me?’

  ‘It’s not just about me,’ David says, his voice quieter. ‘Things are complicated with the business right now.’

  ‘Complicated how?’

  ‘It’s Jeff,’ he pauses. ‘He wants to take the business in directions I’m not sure of.’

  ‘You’ve just lost your father, I’m not sure that’s the best time to be making any kind of major decisions.’

  David snorts derisively. ‘I’m not really in a position to be taking compassionate leave.’

  Maria doesn’t rise to the bait. ‘What does Jorgos say?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Jorgos,’ David snaps, his voice less controlled.

  ‘I agree. But does he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, it seems to me that Jorgos is keeping an eye on us, as much as he is protecting us.’