By the time he’d returned home to talk to her, she’d had nosey work colleagues, ex-girlfriends and family retainers on the telephone in their droves, to say nothing of the press pack camped out on the doorstep. Some callers had yelled abuse, some had taunted and others had merely been avariciously curious: ‘how did Crystal feel, knowing that her lover was married’, ‘what was it like being the scarlet woman’, ‘did she have a favourite perfume’, ‘what was his favourite sexual position?’ The questions had gone on, and on.
Crystal had slowly slipped into shock. The Mistrianos family were ‘old’ money, related to senators and past-presidents, their history went way back to the start of the Union. They were seriously powerful, and it appeared that Amanda Mistrianos, darling divorce lawyer to Hollywood’s elite, was her boyfriend’s wife.
When he’d finally arrived home under cover of darkness and had been at pains to point out that there were things that he needed to tell her, she’d not wanted to listen. She’d heard too many lies already that day. Either way, she’d left him in LA, walked out without a backward glance and they had never really sorted out the details, ever.
While Crystal’s mind had been busy trawling through their shared past, Phil had been discreetly analysing the play of emotions that flashed across her face, in much the same way that she’d been surreptitiously watching him. He thrust a hand in his pocket and the movement pulled the material of his trousers taut across his abdomen, outlining his physique as he leaned his buttocks against the arm of the chaise-lounge right beside her. He ran a finger slowly over the cover of the tequila printed diary and raised an eyebrow, “A blast from the past?” he asked, wondering why it was resting there, alongside the other business-related clutter.
Crystal flushed.
She had an older, wiser and far more powerful version of her ex-boyfriend standing right here in her kitchen, mere inches away, and one last chance to resolve un-finished business and tie up the loose ends. How to phrase it? Where to start? She had no idea, but this time she’d make sure she had all of the facts before making up her mind. Some things still didn’t quite add up, Saskia’s involvement for one, and since that lady was planning on marrying her twin brother, she felt that she had a responsibility to get at the truth and an absolute right to know. She owed it to herself and to Jez to find out what had really happened, once and for all.
She turned to confront him, standing square-on and face to face. He was close, very close, and he smelled of crisp, fresh countryside air. His body radiated heat and the warmth reached out towards her forming an invisible band, palpable and persuasive. He must have walked over here from the pub, she thought, as the years rolled back as if they’d never existed. If she stretched out a hand, she could touch him, her mind supplied the details and her resolve wavered.
No more procrastinating, time for answers, time to set the record straight. She braced her shoulders and plunged into the fray, this situation was well and truly ‘beyond the pale’.
Chapter
4
PAST HISTORY
Phil was watching the play of light on the unfamiliar pots, pans and copper kettles suspended from the strange, decorative wooden racking system, attached to the ceiling on heavy, black metal chains. The house was small, by American standards, and quaint, he supposed. The actual kitchen fitments looked new, and strangely out of character with the rest of the place, somehow he couldn’t imagine Crystal being happy in a room like this. She’d hated his swanky Bel Air apartment with a vengeance. She’d constantly tried to soften the sharp, edgy masculine feel of the place, she loved old and well-worn things, quality items, or she had done when they’d lived together, anyhow. Though it pained him, he wondered what she saw in Jazz. The first time he’d seen them together, he’d wanted to flatten the guy’s nose, but Crystal had seemed deliriously happy with him, and he’d already sealed his own fate with Olivia, so he’d grudgingly decided to make the best of the situation and move on.
He looked at Crystal now, nestled up beside him as if she’d always been there; she fit perfectly and his conscience pricked, he wondered just what they’d done. This had been the last thing that he’d expected when he’d walked in through the door. No, he corrected, if he was honest, he’d wanted Crystal in the primitive sense, all along, always had done; but he’d really not expected her to burst into flames the second that he touched her, that had been a real delight.
Either way, he felt damned uncomfortable about the whole thing right now. There was no way he could get out of here, they were wedged in together too damned tight, skin on skin, any move that he made would be sure to waken her. He wanted to slide his arms around her and kiss her to wakefulness, but he really wasn’t brave enough to try. He’d been watching her for the past five minutes or so, and he still had no idea what her reaction might be, when she did open her eyes. He frowned, there had been a time when he’d been sure of her response, secure in her love, but those days were long gone. For the moment, he was content to watch and wait, she had to wake up sometime and when she did, then he’d know.
There was a sound, a small sound, outside on the driveway, at the front of the house. He strained his ears, listening, instantly aware of the delicate predicament that they were both in. Was that a car door slamming, an engine running? He couldn’t be sure.
The sound was enough to disturb Crystal, she stirred momentarily, and then her eyes flipped open as if she’d been shot.
He watched her silently, trying to judge her reaction as she recalled their combined actions, in this kitchen, less than an hour ago. He flinched, and squirmed, if his intuition was anything to go by, the shit was about to hit the fan, big style.
She turned clear green eyes in his direction, accusingly.
He flexed his shoulders and a pain shot down his left arm, he winced, this pretty day-bed thing was not meant for a guy of his size. A hundred and one words of apology had been flitting through his mind in the time that she’d been asleep, but one look at her expression now and he knew that he’d not utter one of them. She looked like she was about to tear him off a strip, he’d seen that expression before. He sighed, he felt affronted, there was nothing to apologise for, they were both over the age of consent and she’d met him half-way, no, more than half-way, to be truthful she’d been a willing participant. There was no way that he was apologising for his actions, he decided, no way.
The unexpected shrill ring of the front doorbell split the silence and galvanised them both into action, effectively breaking the contretemps. Suddenly, there wasn’t a spare second to indulge in the niceties or the formalities of the situation. Crystal shrieked loudly and catapulted herself from the chaise-lounge, unceremoniously aiming his pants and underwear at his midriff, “Quick, make yourself decent,” she instructed, “the loo is through that door there, beside the pantry, first right, beside the back door, you can’t miss it. Let yourself out.’
So that was how it would be, was it? Dispatched like a servant and shown the tradesman’s entrance. He thought not. He’d come here to get some answers today, and they may have got distracted, but he was staying until they had sorted this thing out.
Crystal was too busy trying to tidy up her own appearance to even consider the impact that her words had on Phil. She stopped in the hallway and attempted to straighten her hair and repair the damage wrought on her face by sheer seductive misbehaviour and utter delinquency. Lucky she’d been wearing her pyjamas, she thought, as she hopped her way along the corridor trying to get the correct leg in the corresponding leg-hole, sliding on the smooth finish of the well-polished floor. With absolute panic clawing at her insides, her fingers had turned into thumbs making the job twice as difficult as needs be and her co-ordination had gone haywire. It felt as if the blood was pumping through her veins at a hundred miles an hour, her palms were moist and sweaty and her face flushed. Her reflection told the whole story - guilty as charged. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing pulse. If she opened the door like this, then the gam
e would be up for sure.
She pinned a bright smile on her face and moved the five or six steps over to the front door on legs that threatened to buckle underneath her at any moment, grasping the door handle firmly she flipped the latch as she pulled the heavy oak door wide.
A dishevelled and snivelling Lolly stood whimpering on the doorstep, a battered suitcase in one hand and a tatty old carrier bag in the other, a wealth of expensive underwear trailed behind her as it disgorged itself through a couple of large holes in the base of the bag. Lolly appeared completely immune to the worried frown on the taxi drivers face, as he rapidly collected his fare and steered her, bags and all, over the threshold and into the hallway.
“Oh, Crystal, I’ve been such a fool,” Olivia wailed, as she launched herself at her cousin, managing to catapult herself into Crystal’s slack-sided, disloyal embrace.
“Lolly,” Crystal squeaked, her voice raised by several octaves and feeling more rattled than she cared to mention. “What are you doing here?” she almost yelled, horrified. Her head swam and she felt faint. She was not cut out for this at all, she realised, as she heard the slight but distinctive sound of the latch on the kitchen door slipping closed. Great, so now Phil had bunked off, leaving her to sort this out for herself. Bugger, bugger, bugger, could this day get any worse?
The bell for coffee break sounded in the factory and Jazz glanced at his watch. He slumped back in his comfy leather chair and let out a sigh, he was tired, dog-tired, it had been a long day already. He flicked at the paperclips in the small pot on his desk and ruffled a few papers, loads to do, but nothing pressing. He glanced at the digital clock on his computer screen, was it really only just ten a.m? It felt like he’d been here forever. He wondered if there was time to fit in a spare half an hour for a mid-morning cup of coffee with Crystal if he got a move on. She was working from home today, he could pop off back to the house and surprise her, he reckoned that he’d earned himself a break. The factory had been a nightmare this week, they had called him in every night so far, over some technicality or other, and his patience was wearing thin. He couldn’t wait for Mark to get back from his holiday, two weeks baby-sitting the company was one week, six days too long for him. He’d made a good decision when he’d handed the directorship of the company over to Crystal’s older brother. The night shift had only been introduced two weeks ago, to help them meet production schedules with the launch of Crystal’s new product range and he was already beginning to wonder if it was worth all of the extra heartache and disruption. He’d been in the office since five am again today, not that you’d notice the difference, given the state of his desk. The lights flashed on the state-of-the-art bank of modern technology which was patched in to the factory floor and accompanied the new laser cutting machine and the etching equipment which constantly seemed to need re-programming in order to meet the bespoke nature of Crystal’s new designs.
He knew that it was early days yet, old Bob would soon get the hang of the new equipment, there wasn’t a tool in the whole factory that he couldn’t control, and no doubt about it, he’d master the new technology too, given a bit more time and patience.
Perhaps he’d just sit here a while longer and go through a few e-mails, there was no point in going back home now, the lunch-time crew came on in an hour or so and they’d only call him back out when Jimmy took over the shift. He sighed, the rivalry between the two men was legendary, and went back decades, he really needed to explain the concept of 'goal congruence’ to the pair of them, and he would do too, if he thought it might make a shred of difference to their outdated territorial behaviour.
Mark seemed to have the knack of getting around each of them, but he’d grown up in the family firm, and that afforded him some kudos, but Jazz was still the brilliant hot-shot London director in their eyes, which automatically meant that he knew nothing of machine-shop practices and they viewed his every word with caution, even after four years of expertly negotiating the company through some very troubled waters.
He scanned the list of e-mails which had popped through while he’d been down in the cutting bay, overseeing the guys who were setting out the new layouts for the first time. They’d paid a fortune for the new computerised machinery and he was still very hands-on with the management level of operations. They had gambled cold hard cash on improving productivity and general working conditions in the factory and he wanted to make sure that they achieved their goal.
He took a single glance at the computer screen and spotted one rogue message, standing out from the others like a beacon. He highlighted the address then tapped the return key to open it up.
[email protected] pinged up on the screen, followed by the narrative; it was short and to the point.
Hi Jazz,
Nothing to do with me, ask Bertie.
Jazz scowled at the screen and swore colourfully, reaching for the phone as he did so. This sleazy mess was far too close to home for his liking, he’d been implicated in it, so he’d have to deal with it. While there was the opportunity for the truth to leak out he’d endeavour to find a way to silence the people who were pedalling the lies, stop them from slavering over the tasty intimate details. There was a kernel of truth there at the core, best squash it now, before it unfurled. The press excelled at infiltrating his personal life with their half-truths and insinuations, this could not be permitted to make front page news. There were innocent reputations at stake, other lives would be damaged if the story leaked out, and he couldn’t take that chance.
He dialled quickly, fingers jabbing at the telephone, beating out a tattoo on the key pad.
“Bertie, Jazz Silver. How are you my old mate?” he barked into the receiver, the second that the line connected.
Then, “Yeah, long time, no see, eh? Listen, I’ve got a problem here, as I think you already know.”
He listened for a moment. “Yeah, I thought you might have something to do with that, old chap,” he acknowledged.
He frowned. “Business is good this end too, but about this problem.” He waited while Bertie replied.
“I know, old mate, but this really does need your excellent assistance. You do realise where this is leading, don’t you?”
He listened to the voice on the other end of the line, face growing more thunderous as Bertie proceeded to lay the facts on the line.
“So, you can’t stop it then?” Jazz asked more quietly, brain whirring at full speed as the implications struck home. He’d known Bertie since college days, and although Bertie was a bit of a slime-ball he had some important contacts in the newspaper industry, people that he’d known from the old ‘Fleet Street’ days, before transparency had become an issue. Bertie had begun running errands on one of the dailies at sixteen years old, straight out of school and he’d worked his way up through the industry by sheer hard work and a newshound’s nose for a story. If he couldn’t help Jazz and get those photos stopped, then Jazz realised that he had a real problem on his hands.
Jazz listened for a while longer as Bertie listed other avenues he might like to try. He’d stopped publication for the moment, but it was highly likely that the issue would raise its ugly head again, before too long. There were people out there with an axe to grind who knew that the photos existed and the people who held the digital rights to them were not handing them over, heaven only knew how many other copies were out there now. Bertie had worked in celluloid himself and he’d been a fair photographer in his time too, but with the new technology you could never be sure that you’d covered all bases. There were people who’d stop at nothing to put those pictures out into the public domain.
“Thanks Bertie, I owe you one,” Jazz finally muttered into the receiver, biting his lip as he hung up.
Moments later he reached for his jacket, slung carelessly over the back of his chair, and headed for the door, shrugging broad shoulders into the fine dark cloth as he went. This whole episode had left a bad taste in his mouth; he was off home for an hour or so. He need
ed to re-group and recharge his batteries; he needed to speak to Crystal.
It was raining as he pulled the Aston into the drive and he noticed immediately that the Land Rover was missing. Strange, Crystal hadn’t mentioned going out today. In fact, she’d made big issue of the fact that she was working on the marketing for the new product release today, she’d pointedly hinted that he should make sure that Imogen ‘stayed out of her way; all day’. He sighed; he wished that Crystal would show a little more ‘sisterly’ affection for Imogen. He knew that she could be a pain at times, but she had her heart in the right place and she had grown into a kind and considerate woman.
He let himself in through the front door and noticed the bags piled up in a heap in the hallway, where Lolly had left them. Oh no, he didn’t like the look of this. He walked on through to the kitchen, the laptop on the table was still plugged in and winked a green light at him, having long since reverted to ‘stand-by’ mode. Crystal had been gone for a while then, not like they’d just run out of milk or something and she’d gone to the village shop for more. He slouched down on the chaise-lounge, on top of the soft fluffy blanket that Crystal loved so much, it would leave tiny streaks of purple hair and fluff on his dark suit, but he didn’t care. He kicked his feet up and allowed his head to rest back against the curved back and arm rest, this thing was surprisingly comfy. Highly unsuitable for a kitchen, of course, but Crystal insisted that it fired her creativity, and who was he to argue.
He smiled as he thought about the sofa. Imogen had put up a strong case for replacing it with a chunky leather chesterfield just last week. She said it was much more hygienic for a kitchen; it could be wiped down with antiseptic wipes and such. Crystal had merely twitched an eyebrow and told him that if he allowed ‘that darned woman’ to so much as lay one finger on her favourite sofa she would drive the Aston to the scrap yard and feed it through the car crusher herself.
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