Thankfully, the voicemail cuts him short, or Denys’s little rant, I know instinctively, would have turned into the equivalent of a radio play with two acts and a half-time interval.
Coolly, I click onto the next message and I know it’s going to demand my urgent attention the minute I get home.
Because it’s Harriet. Yet again. Sounding so breathless and overhyped, I’m hardly able to decipher her.
‘Meg, where are you? I’ve been calling you non-stop all night, why don’t you pick up? You will not believe what I have to tell you!’
And you will not believe what I’m seeing, I think, instantly clicking off the phone and squinting out the car window.
At first, it looks innocuous. Just a middle-aged man, out walking his dog late at night. Strolling nonchalantly down the street with a gorgeous chocolate-brown Labrador, who’s straining at the leash to such an extent, you’d wonder who was walking who.
It’s pitch-dark, but still, I’m pretty sure it’s him. Same height, same gait, same slightly stooped walk, everything.
I run a lightning-quick Google search on my phone, and bingo. There’s a photo of him in a magazine from last year, a pretty twee-looking family photo shoot that’s been staged for the election campaign and clearly modelled on a Homebase ad, but where everyone involved ends up looking overdressed, stiff and uncomfortable. The only one who looks relaxed and happy is the same chocolate-brown Labrador, to the forefront of the group shot, lying obediently across a rug in front of an overloaded log fire. Meanwhile, the rest of the family are all clustered around a Christmas tree, pretending to drape tinsel and bulbs onto it, even though it’s already fully decorated. The very definition of forced cheesiness.
Senator Katherine Sisk, pictured at home with her family, including her loving husband of over twenty years, businessman Philip Sisk, runs the banner caption underneath it. Even Mycroft, the family dog, is getting ready to join in the fun!
Yup, there we go, I think triumphantly. Katherine’s loving husband of over twenty years, who’s just about to pay a sneaky little nocturnal visit to his girlfriend.
Noiselessly, so as not to wake the dozing driver, I tiptoe out of the car.
It’s been a long and gruelling day. I’m used to being busy and chasing my tail, but it’s next level at the moment. I’m beyond exhausted, I feel like I’m juggling seventeen balls in the air all at the same time and that’s before I even get started on the stress of Harriet Waters landing on top of me at the very, very worst time possible.
And yet, and yet. This part of the day, I absolutely know, will be bloody brilliant.
This, I’m most definitely going to enjoy.
11.42 p.m.
Nimbly, filled with fresh energy and that late-night surge of adrenaline you only get when you know things are finally going your way, I hop out of the taxi and stride across the deserted road. There’s a small bay window to the very front of the house, but, try as I might, it’s hard to see inside, as it’s in pitch darkness. Meanwhile, there’s a light on in the hall and further down the hallway, I’m guessing, a living room, where it’s all happening.
At least, that’s what I’m counting on.
I knock on the door. Immediately, I can hear a dog barking loudly and incessantly from inside the house, followed by a man’s voice shushing him back into silence.
So I wait. Knock again. Wait again. More loud barking, but still, no one’s coming to answer the door. Carefully, I glance over my shoulder at the street behind, but it’s a quiet residential area and most of the houses are in darkness. I strain at the hall door to hear what’s going on inside the house and could swear I hear voices, but they sound too muffled for me to pick up anything clearly.
Annoying.
One last knock on the door before I take out my phone to call Jess as a last resort – but just as I’m reaching down into my bag for my work mobile, the hall light grows brighter and through the opaque glass on the door, I see two shadowy figures loom into view.
‘Don’t even dream of answering,’ a man’s voice mutters, to the background noise of a dog panting. ‘Good boy! Lie down, good boy.’
‘I ordered takeout food for us, that’s probably who it is,’ says Jess; I’d know that high-pitched, nasal whine a mile off.
So I rap on the bay window at the side of the hall door. Then, unable to resist, call out, ‘Hi Jess! It’s me, Meg. Can you open up, just for a quick sec?’
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I hear Jess whispering. Then a quick, whispered conflab seems to take place, as I wait patiently on the doorstep.
Morons. How thick are these people? Don’t they realise that they can be overheard loud and clear? Idiots, I sigh deeply, almost wishing this could be a bit more of a challenge.
A tiny chink in the hall door as it’s opened. And there’s Jess, poking her red mane of hair out through the gap.
‘What is it?’ she says tersely. ‘It’s almost midnight! What is wrong with you?’
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ I say, starting into my little pre-rehearsed speech. ‘But I just remembered you saying Katherine was going on breakfast TV in the morning, and I wanted to let you know that I’m happy to go with her. You’ve got quite enough to get on with, and I thought this might lighten the load for you a little.’
‘You couldn’t have phoned?’ Jess says.
‘Battery died. So it was just as easy to get the taxi to come straight back here instead.’
Did I play that all right? Conscientious and embarrassed for disturbing anyone this late at night is what I’d been going for.
‘Hey! Nice doggy!’ I throw in, as if noticing for the first time that there’s an actual dog in the house. ‘Lucky you, having such a gorgeous dog. A Labrador, right?’
‘Oh . . . I’m just . . . looking after him for a friend,’ Jess stutters, looking, it has to be said, a bit flustered.
Meanwhile, the dog nuzzles up to the door to have a good sniff at me, so she’s forced to open it a little wider.
‘Good boy!’ I say, as the dog slobbers all over my hands and legs, tail thumping excitedly off the door frame. ‘Well, aren’t you just the cutest?’
I take a tiny step inside the hall and while the dog paws at me and licks my hands, I grab the chance to run a quick scan of the place. Absolutely no sign of any company, which means Philip has to be hiding in what I can only guess is a downstairs loo under the stairs.
Unbelievable. Like I’ve just walked into a late-night French farce.
‘I love Labradors,’ I say, ruffling the delighted dog playfully on his ears and whisking around the name disc on his collar. ‘What’s your name then, boy? Well, well, well. Would you look at that. Mycroft.’
Silence as Jess and I lock eyes.
‘I’ll take care of breakfast TV in the morning,’ she says curtly. ‘So you don’t need to worry about that at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s very late and I really need to sleep.’
‘Mycroft,’ I repeat, saying the name slowly, not letting it drop. ‘A very unusual name for a dog. Exactly the same name as the Sisk family dog. And they have a chocolate Labrador too, don’t they?’
Another tense little pause, except this time Jess starts to get a bit twitchy and uncomfortable.
‘Wow, that’s some coincidence, I’d say,’ I smile. I can fake-smile with the best, but this one is genuine. I’m enjoying this.
Not a word out of Jess though. And that silence speaks volumes.
You know I’ve rumbled you, so here we are.
‘Philip called over to drop off some campaign notes for me,’ Jess eventually mutters, looking down at the floor, knowing she’s utterly checkmated. ‘That’s all. He was out walking the dog, so it was on his way.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’d be doing me a favour if you didn’t mention this to Katherine. She’s under quite enough stress as it is.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I smile sweetly. ‘We women need to stick together. Don’t we?’
<
br /> 11.51 p.m.
Walking away from the house and getting back into my taxi, I’m certain of a few things at this particular moment. I know that right behind me, I’ve unleashed full-on, full-scale panic. In fact, I almost wish I could linger outside the house for a bit longer to overhear what’s being said, just for the laugh. I can only imagine the row that’s broken out, and it makes me smile to think of it.
I don’t, though. Instead, I flee the scene of the crime, waking up my slumbering taxi driver and crisply giving him my home address.
‘Jeez,’ he says sleepily, glancing down at the still-ticking meter, ‘this is turning into some late-night bonanza for me. And I hope you’re well prepared for it, love. Because this fare is costing you about the same as a flight from here to New York. Return.’
‘Don’t you worry, you’ll get paid,’ I say distractedly, already busy on my phone.
WHITE SMOKE, I quickly text Katherine, fingers flying. HOPE TO HAVE SOME DEVELOPMENTS SOON.
WE’LL DISCUSS IT IN THE MORNING, pings back the instantaneous response.
Which is probably as close as I’ll ever come to an actual thank you.
But still. Sitting back against the seat of the car, I allow myself a rare moment of self-congratulation. Regarding this particular situation, I think, reaching my hand back to massage throbbing neck muscles that have been at me all day, I’m making progress. It’s not over, certainly not until I’ve brought Philip and Jess’s little dalliance to a firm end, but to paraphrase Winston Churchill, this appears to be the beginning of the end.
They know I’m on to them and that’s a start. Now, of course, I need to work on Jess, and hopefully persuade her to take up that job offer in Brussels – if Callaghan loses the election. All going to plan and, with any luck, the whole affair should quickly die a natural death.
Oh, who am I kidding? This doesn’t rely on luck, this is down to skill on my part and nothing else.
Then it’ll be Philip Sisk’s turn for a royal comeuppance he’ll never forget, and all will be well in the world again. Wrongs will be righted and balance will be restored.
Soon. Very, very soon.
WEDNESDAY
Chapter Eighteen
Meg
I pay the driver and wearily plod my way inside my apartment building and on up to the penthouse floor. Yes, there’s much, much work ahead to do, but at least regarding the Katherine Sisk case, I can allow myself to feel pretty bloody smug, actually.
The lovely, warm, satisfied glow doesn’t last long though.
Serves me right.
My hall door is opened before I’ve even had a chance to put the key into the lock. And standing there, brazen as you like, is my biggest headache of all.
Harriet.
Still here, acting like she owns the place, even though I made it perfectly clear to her that she couldn’t stay. Looking fresh-faced and pink-cheeked and scrubbed and blonde and pretty, like something off a shampoo ad, even at this ungodly hour.
‘Meg! There you are – finally!’ Harriet gushes breathily. ‘I’ve been phoning you and phoning you, and I’ve waited up for you all evening . . . Oh, Meg, I have something incredible to tell you . . . and you won’t believe it!’
‘What now?’ I say exhaustedly, beyond caring if it sounds rude.
‘You’ll never guess who was here when you were out! Freddie de Courcey!’
For a second, I don’t register this. Just stare blankly back at her, saying nothing, doing nothing.
I possibly blink, but don’t breathe. Can’t.
‘And I think he’s single and most definitely finished with that doctor ex-girlfriend of his now,’ Harriet witters on, ‘and . . . oh, Meg . . . he says he really missed me and thought about me a lot when I was away – isn’t that so sweet? He’s talking about taking me out properly . . . how amazing is that? I mean . . . isn’t that just the best news you ever heard? . . . Meg? Meg? Why aren’t you saying anything?’
*
Four a.m., and I actually think I might be having a mild heart attack. All those horrible, sweaty palpitations are back, and the more I think about how the whole Harriet situation is upending on me, the worse they get.
He was here. Actually here, in my home. Somehow Freddie de Courcey found his way here. So now, of course, it’s only a matter of time before word leaks back to the mighty Ellen de Courcey, my landlady, benefactress, and pretty much the woman I owe my entire career to.
OK, so this is bad. This is unprecedented. This isn’t just a waking nightmare, this is a full-on horror movie, with zombies and dead corpses lining the streets.
Nor is there any plausible way out of it, at least not that I can see. And if I can’t see one, who can? This is what I do. This is my superpower. I fix things – messy, emotional situations just like this are my bread and butter. But I’ve never had one as challenging as this.
I try to rationalise it, to think through solutions, but I can’t seem to find one. It doesn’t help that it’s practically dawn and it’s sticky and humid. I’m tossing and turning around in a huge king-sized bed, stressing and fretting from the sheer worry of it all, while expensive Egyptian cotton high-thread-count sheets knot themselves into ropes around my ankles.
I’ve been a complete idiot.
Jesus Christ, how could I have let things get this far out of control?
I should have dealt with the Harriet situation from the get-go. To hell with any kind of latent friendship we once had, and to hell with guilt; I should have frogmarched her straight to the airport or the train station the minute she materialised on my doorstep, what was it, just one night ago? It feels so, so much longer.
Over by the floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom, heavy, shockingly expensive drapes gracefully black out the early-dawn light. But even through the gloom, I can still make out the silhouettes that surround me. The walk-in wardrobe, my pride and joy, that houses all my ‘costumes’ – every different ‘look’ needed to woo every different kind of client. Then there’s the expensive paintings that dot the walls; artwork I chose to invest in, not only because I’d heard it was a good idea, but . . . well, because. When in my entire life did I ever have lovely, pretty things to call my own? When have I ever been able to buy something just because I felt like it? Certainly not when I was a kid growing up, that was for sure. Unlike my half-brother and -sister, who were given a beautiful painting each on their birthday. Every single year, with no expense spared.
‘Art isn’t just nice to look at, it’s a great investment for the kids, too,’ my father Charlie had proudly boasted to me on the one and only occasion when I’d been forced to visit him in his brand-new home, where he lived with his brand-new wife and his two new kids, then aged six and four, with every single luxury thrown at them that money could buy.
Expensive paintings, I’d thought. For two small kids? I was barely fifteen years of age at the time and even then, it had made me want to vomit. And that’s before I got started on the neo-Georgian five-bedroomed house where Charlie and his new family were living, all thanks to a sizeable inheritance from his father – my grandfather, technically – who’d passed away not long ago. And did Mum and I even see as much as a penny of that windfall? Take a wild guess.
‘Doesn’t matter that your brother and sister are still too young to appreciate good art when they see it,’ Charlie had bragged.
‘Half-brother and -sister,’ I corrected him.
‘The point is, when they’re older, they can flog the paintings and make a nice few quid for themselves. All Doreen’s idea. Good, isn’t it? Better than buying the pair of them cuddly toys and dolls and all of that shite, isn’t it?’
‘Well, lucky them,’ I said drily.
‘Means a lot to them that they have their big sister back in their lives now, love. Sure they’re delighted. All they want is to get to know you.’
‘Yeah, but when did you ever buy me anything nice for my birthday?’ I couldn’t stop myself from blurt
ing straight out. ‘I’d have been doing well to get as much as a card from you.’
‘Ah now, Meg, love, don’t be like that,’ Charlie had shuffled awkwardly. ‘They were different times, weren’t they? I couldn’t afford anything back then, for a start. And then when your mum and me broke up . . .’
‘I think you meant to say, when you first met Doreen and did the dirt on Mum and me,’ I replied, coolly folding my arms.
‘Meg, don’t. We’re having a nice day here,’ said Charlie.
Did he really believe that? Wow, he really doesn’t know me at all, I thought, hating every second of this.
I didn’t answer and he started to sweat a bit and look uncomfortable.
Served him right.
‘Sure, it’s all in the past now, and it’s great that you can be pals with Doreen and your brother and sister, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, would you ever fuck off!’ was all I could think of firing back at him, jealousy choking me in a hot rage. I’d stormed off and it had taken me two buses before I’d cooled down again. A little.
One day, I’d thought. One day, I’ll have nice things around me too, and no one can say I didn’t earn them for myself, fair and bloody square.
My eye drifts out towards the balcony just outside my bedroom, with its spectacular view that never fails to soothe troubled spirits, no matter how strung out I get with all the many and varied work ‘projects’ I’m trying to balance.
It’s been one full year since I was given the keys to this beautiful apartment. Handed them, just like that, told I’d earned it and to enjoy living there for as long as I wanted. The lease on the flat was in part payment from Ellen de Courcey, and a very handsome bargain I’d made of it at the time too. Besides, I reasoned, I earned this place fair and square, didn’t I? In fact, I’d sweated blood for it. I’d fixed her situation for her good and proper – game over, job done.
From day one, I’d adored the place. It suits me down to the ground and outside of family, there’s very little else in my life that I do love. I don’t have a social life – it’s almost impossible given the way I work. Not to mention, in this game, you soon learn no one is trustworthy and who needs friends like that? I had one friend, and look at the almighty mess that’s landed me in.
The Fixer Page 13
