“I drew the short straw,” Crystal stated, without preamble, as she avoided his mouth and his kiss landed safely, high up on her cheekbone. “Got the job of trying to convince Phil to go back to LA without Lolly,” she answered, almost truthfully. She glanced from Olivia to Reg and then back again to Jazz. He didn’t look furious, so it didn’t look like either of them had managed to drop her in it then.
She plonked herself down in the nearest chair and Jazz sat down beside her.
He couldn’t fail to notice the thin black tee-shirt though, worn over-long and at least two sizes too big over Crystal’s favourite skinny jeans. It didn’t look like something his girl-friend would have purchased herself and it had all the hall-marks of an expensive leisure brand which was marketed exclusively at the well-heeled athletic male. He wondered why she’d chosen to wear it to the pub.
Olivia was immaculately dressed, as ever, in some narrow designer skirt, pale suede court shoes and a Hermes scarf over a twin-set and pearls, she looked like a Sloaney cross between a ‘preppy American’ and his maiden aunt Diana.
“Saskia is throwing a ‘wobbly’ because Phil is over here in England with Lolly, Jeremy is tearing his hair out in America and I can’t get any sense out of him or Saskia with regard to the wedding. Phil and I were having a discussion, of sorts, but he’s not being reasonable either,” Crystal began to explain.
Lolly’s eyes fixed on the smudged lipstick, which quite clearly told a different story. She could see Phil peering through the glass panel beside the stairway door out of the corner of her eye, if he came in now there would be hell to pay. She marvelled at her cousin’s composure and wondered what had really been going on upstairs, then reminded herself that it was nothing to do with her now anyway.
Crystal didn’t deserve it, but she stood up and excused herself for a moment, intending to head Phil off at the bottom of the stairs. She’d spent most of her teenage years covering for both Jeremy and Crystal as they managed to get themselves into one scrape after another and she was still doing it now, she realised. As she walked across the dark, heavily varnished floorboards of the ‘Dog and Duck’ Salon, she willed Phil to stay where he was; out of sight. Her pulse raced with every step that she took and her breath caught in her throat, she thought she might faint from the trauma of it all. She raised a fluttering hand up to the base of her neck, trying to still her panic, she just didn’t know how her cousin could sit there, flirting with Jazz while knowing that Phil was here, witness to her games and likely to erupt into the room at any moment. She noticed Jazz lean over to whisper something into Crystal’s ear as her slim heels tapped a solitary tattoo across the hard wooden floor.
Momentarily distracted, the stray loose end on the fringes of one of the many threadbare rugs which lent an air of faded charm to the interior of the ancient old building formed a neat trap for one of her dainty heels. As she drew level with the fire-place and reached out for the latch on the stairway door, her right shoe snagged the mat and without warning Lolly tumbled over, her head connecting briefly with the corner of the heavy stone fireplace as she fell.
Jazz was first on his feet, with Crystal a couple of seconds behind. Phil had been watching her progress through the narrow window and reached her first, dropping down onto his knees to run a hand down her cheek, as her eyelids fluttered open and then closed again. Lolly was out for the count.
Chapter
9
SECRETS
It was after midnight when Giles let himself quietly into the cottage on the green. This time there was no tell-tale light left on in the dining room window and no Imogen waiting for him in the hallway. He’d remembered to ring her before he left the office today to warn her that he might be home late and she was still in a sulk with him over the last time he’d stayed out drinking anyhow, so that suited him just fine.
He loved his wife dearly, he really did, but she was so darned difficult to live with. She had an almost fanatical paranoia about germs and cleanliness, he didn’t need to sniff the air as he opened the front door, the smell of antibacterial cleanser and industrial strength antiseptic assailed his nostrils at ten paces, a bit like a nursing home but without the pervasive smell of boiled cabbage. Imogen routinely juiced or pureed every living thing to death in their kitchen on their new healthy eating plan anyway, so there was zero chance of finding so much as a stray boiled potato or sautéed carrot in any meal, let alone the aroma of cooked vegetation hanging around.
He took the precaution of removing his shoes at the base of the stairs before he attempted to tiptoe up the first flight to the landing. It was an old house and the treads creaked alarmingly in the dead of night. He didn’t want Imogen to know what time he’d come in, although he doubted that she was listening out for his arrival anyway, she usually took sleeping pills and slept with a beauty mask over her eyes to eliminate the last vestiges of light, she claimed that it helped her to deeper more ‘meaningful’ sleep. What with that slime-like gloop that she spread liberally over her face to purify her skin and eliminate wrinkles and the ioniser puffing out steam beside the bed, it was like sleeping in a sanatorium in their bedroom some nights.
As he slid in through the doorway to the spare room and began removing his clothes the faint flowery scent of his girl-friends perfume wafted over his senses and his lips curled into a satisfied smile. He absently rubbed at the small of his back, his muscles there ached and he could feel a bit of a twinge between his shoulder blades too after that last marathon session in her bed, but he wasn’t complaining. She made him feel desirable again, she didn’t care if he left his clothes in a heap all over the floor; hell she helped him put them there. He could still picture the gleam of triumph in her eyes as she peeled him out of his suit and tie last night, right before she deposited the offending garments in a higgledy-piggledy flourish all over the floor. She wasn’t likely to complain about a stray dark hair or two in the plughole either, he doubted she’d notice the microscopic evidence of their furtive activity so wantonly abandoned in the shower tray, she was a true breath of fresh air compared to living with Imogen.
He automatically began emptying his pockets as he slid out of his trousers and defiantly kicked them across the carpet to land in a crumpled heap underneath the artfully arranged basket of teddies and soft toys that Imogen had painstakingly chosen to decorate the corner of the room. She’d been angling at transforming this dressing-room into a nursery for weeks now, but he’d been resolutely ignoring her thinly disguised hints. He didn’t want a baby with Imogen; it was as simple as that, he knew that he didn’t.
He also knew that her body clock was ticking and that she’d been surreptitiously keeping tabs on their love life by tinkering with those testing kits and charts that she’d bought over the internet, he wasn’t stupid. Fortunately Imogen had failed to register that every time there was any possibility of her falling pregnant he made certain that he was well and truly indisposed. It wouldn’t work for ever though, he knew that she’d manage to trap him eventually, which meant that he needed to sort out his priorities and decide where this current dalliance was headed before he made any moves which would surely end his respectable and sedate marriage to Imogen. There was a lot to be said for a well-kept house and an orderly life, but he was a true flesh and blood man, just like any other and he had needs too, needs that had been withering away to dust until he’d asked Jazz for the name of a reputable employment agency, one that would provide quality staff.
In his line of work it was imperative to employ the ‘right’ staff, those who understood the lifestyle of the clients they represented and were at ease around some of society’s wealthiest and most privileged individuals and discreet too, absolute discretion was a pre-requisite. Only those who had passed a stringent vetting procedure and came with hand-written personal recommendations made it over the threshold into the inner sanctum of the senior partner’s office, even for a job interview and his current paramour came with the highest endorsement that there was, professionally
speaking, of course.
He slipped in, naked, under the covers of the spare bed and felt the ice-cold of the starched cotton sheets against his bare flesh and shivered in the darkness. The intimate side of his marriage to Imogen was a joke, he reflected, a barren waste-land, one that he had no idea how to breach. He was skating on very thin ice at the moment, taking liberties with a subordinate, but the thrill of the illicit liaison was one that he was temporarily powerless to control. He’d make a decision soon, but not now. There was no need to do anything yet a while, he could have his cake and eat it too, if he played his cards right.
Crystal stared hollow-eyed into the darkness, listening to Jazz’s slow rhythmic breathing and the torrential rain thrashing against the bedroom window pane. She wondered what time it was now. She’d been lying there, wide awake, when he’d returned home in one of Bob’s a taxi cabs, just after midnight. He’d been out drinking in ‘Town’ with Bertie, that sleazy reporter friend of his. Bertie had some important news for him, he said.
Which was one of the reasons why she was lying here, in the dead of night, watching the refractions of light that the cars cast on the ceiling each time a vehicle rounded the bend at the end of the lane.
Bertie knew Phil, very well.
Bertie had been instrumental in several of Jazz, Phil, and Saskia’s activities in the past. In short, Bertie knew too much.
Also, Bertie was a scum-bag.
So what had he told Jazz last night, she wondered. Her conscience pricked. In Crystal’s mind, his involvement now did not bode well. She shuddered. She hoped that Phil hadn’t confided in Bertie, he was unlikely to ‘offload’ as the Americans would say, he usually played his cards very close to his chest, but she couldn’t be sure, he was also a risk-taker when it suited him. As for Bertie, well, she just didn’t know. He was a member of the press, an unprincipled bunch of philanderers and alcoholics the lot of them, in her opinion. As Editor of one of the ‘dailies’ he’d been making and breaking reputations every day of the week, for years, and they didn’t come any more greasily transparent than Bertie.
Her thoughts skidded to a halt and she let out a heartfelt groan as she remembered that the camera crew were ‘in’ at the airfield as well today, they only had one ‘practise’ jump before the ‘real thing’. They did one jump today and then next time it was the final event, full designer parachute-wear, coloured streamers, colour-matched plane and a big brass band playing at the airfield, televised coverage, the whole razzmatazz. Was it any wonder that she couldn’t sleep? Jonno had instructed them to get to bed early last night, he’d insisted that he wanted them at the airfield, early, alert and most specifically, ready to jump.
Crystal was not well rested, her eyes hadn’t closed for more than a second all night and she didn’t feel alert either. She contemplated burying her head under the duvet and calling the whole thing off.
It really wasn’t an option, she knew that; but she still didn’t want to do it. Images of total canopy failure, twists, lineover or sailing majestically into a large oak tree and then falling to a painful and tragic death crowded her brain, as each scenario faded, another much worse disaster offered itself up for her consideration.
As she lay there in her own doom laden miasma she realised that the rain had slowed to a mild drizzle. The jump wouldn’t be called off now; she was going to have to do it, unless she came up with a plausible excuse. She thought about Jonno, what would he think if she backed out now? He’d probably be relieved, she acknowledged. She knew that he stayed so close to her because he thought she might kill herself or someone else when they did get airborne. He didn’t need to say it; the expression was clear when he thought she wasn’t looking, she was a liability, plain and simple.
So why was she going ahead with it at all?
Because she’d promised, because her whole life was a mess and she had no one else to blame but herself, and because she needed to do this, she had to put the pieces of her life back into place, one block at a time. She wasn’t a quitter and she wasn’t weak either, it was just a matter of having a bit of faith in her own abilities, if she concentrated properly she could get this right, she’d show them; she’d show them all.
She turned over yet again and thumped her pillows back into shape. The first fingers of light were beginning to creep in through the gap at the top of the curtains; it was almost time to get up.
Her mind began to wander again. Jazz was keeping secrets from her, but why? She’d cheated on him with Phil, but he didn’t know about that yet, of course, unless Bertie had told him last night? Her head began to spin as she considered the implications if Jazz discovered the truth.
And then there was the wedding, she was no nearer sorting that out now than she had been two months ago, what with Phil permanently hanging around in the village and Saskia out in America and being left in charge of her own PR. Nothing in her life was going according to plan.
Which brought her neatly around to her cousin; Crystal gulped.
Olivia had looked deathly pale and lifeless when she’d visited her last night. Her hair had been pushed back from her face and her skin had been almost the same colour as the hospital gown that she wore, just a small flush of colour along her cheek-bones, otherwise her face had been a stark, pallid white.
Phil been sitting by her bedside, holding her hand as she’d walked into the private ward that Jazz had arranged, and he’d looked straight through her, barely acknowledging her existence as she’d tentatively entered the room.
She’d refused to be brow-beaten by his attitude, if he was on a guilt-trip that was his own concern, not hers. “How is she?” she’d asked him, pointedly, making him acknowledge her presence. This was as much his fault as her own, she reasoned, there was no way he was laying the blame on her for this disaster.
“She’s been conscious for part of the day,” he answered quietly, not even bothering to glance in her direction, his eyes fixed pointedly on the woman in the bed. “She’s sleeping now, that’s all.”
“Any change?” she’d asked.
“No. She still can’t remember her own name, let alone yours Crystal,” he’d replied acerbically. “There’s no certainty that she’ll regain her memory completely for quite some time yet, according to the nurses. The longer that she remains in this half-awake half-asleep mode, the more likely it is that she’ll regains some of her recollections at some unspecified point in time, so they say. Most of the sleeping is induced by the drugs they have given her, but they can’t be sure on the outcome though, depending on who you talk to,” he continued in a voice devoid of all emotion, as he continued to tenderly stroke the delicate hand with the almost translucent skin, which lay supine on the bed.
Crystal was moved to comfort him, he was clearly struggling with the situation, but she didn’t know how or where to start. What had begun a few weeks ago, as a quick tumble on the kitchen floor had now grown to a mammoth chasm between them, a gorge to cross, with torrents of unspoken words and emotions flowing beneath. Their duplicity sat there, like an elephant in the room, taunting them both and projecting discord and disharmony. Their relationship shouldn’t have descended to this; a blank nothingness, a gaping void. How could so much raw passion dissolve into such banal drivel, meaningless pleasantries exchanged between them around a sterile hospital bed.
She wanted to scream at him, rail at the fates, beat out her frustrations on his chest. She felt as if her own life force, as well as Olivia’s was hanging in the balance, precariously suspended in the mists of time, waiting for some invisible deity to dictate the terms of survival.
As the guilty recollection faded, replaced by a scenario where she imagined Olivia waking up and revealing all to Jazz in a passionate moment of self-revelation she irritably kicked her feet free from the quilt at the bottom of the bed and felt the chill early-morning air caress her toes. Her mind was getting the better of her now, turning all her guilty paranoia into ridiculously impractical situations, if Olivia had kept her silence this
long then she was unlikely to spill the beans now, even if she did regain her memory.
As for Phil, she knew that he blamed her, or maybe himself for what had happened to Olivia, but in truth it had been an accident, nothing more. As the hands on the clock moved inexorably towards dawn, Jazz moved closer in the big double bed and flung his arm out over her, pulling her in towards him as he drifted back off into a deeper sleep. Crystal lay immobile beside him, lost in her own thoughts and speculating on what ‘might have been’.
Two hours later, she slew the Aston into the car park sideways, in a flurry of gravel and shale, rubbing at eyes that pricked grittily from tiredness and blinked back at her from the rear-view mirror red-rimmed with fatigue.
She’d lain still for so long, listening to Jazz’s smooth regular breathing that she’d finally drifted off into a heavy and dreamless sleep, just as dawn was breaking and now she was not only running late, she was holding everyone else up too.
Jonno’s face was like thunder as he broached the driver’s side of the car and yanked the door open with little regard for the patronage or prestige of the vehicle.
Crystal opened her mouth, and closed it again quickly.
“Get out of this car and into your things and get your backside over there,” he indicated the aircraft idling on the tarmac on the other side of the airfield. “In the next ten minutes Crystal or we take off without you,” he instructed in a voice that brooked no argument. His eyes had darkened to the colour of coals and his jaw was held rigid, the only clue as to the extent of effort that he was maintaining as he battled to keep control.
“Do not forget the safety checks, Crystal,” he intoned softly, through gritted teeth. “No, scratch that,” he amended, almost as soon as he’d spoken, as he watched Crystal scramble with undignified haste out of the vehicle. “I’m coming with you, to check,” he added, as he swiped the camera out of his face for what seemed like the fiftieth time.
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