by Wendy James
She took a second glass of the sparkling – it really was cheap and very nasty – and walked over to where he was standing, bumping lightly into his shoulder.
He turned to apologise. ‘Honor.’ He’d been surprised, but his smile was genuine. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
She told him a partial truth – work dinner, just walked by, thought she’d take a look. ‘I wasn’t invited, but I know half a dozen people here – they’ll vouch for me. I won’t nick the masterpieces. But what about you? What are you doing so far from home?’
‘It’s, ah . . . Gemma’s cousin Beth is one of the artists. I thought I’d better come – she and Gemma were pretty close. Beth used to visit quite a bit at the end. That’s her over there.’ He gestured towards the girl with dark hair, who was talking to a woman Honor knew was a serious, and seriously monied, collector.
‘I saw you two talking. I thought she might be your new squeeze.’
‘Oh, God. Beth?’ He looked horrified. ‘No way.’
‘She seemed quite keen, I thought.’
‘You’re not serious, are you? Last I heard she was a lesbian. I mean, I know these things can change, but—’
She laughed. ‘This isn’t really your scene, is it?’
‘Oh, I dunno, Hon.’ He gave a rueful grin, crossing his fingers. ‘Art and me, we’re like that.’
And then it happened. He looked at her – and it was a look that set Honor’s heart racing again, reminded her of the girl she once was, the boy he’d been – and asked the question she’d been wanting to ask from the moment she’d seen him: ‘Do you want to get out of here?’
It was a cliché, in fact the whole thing was one glorious cliché – but she enjoyed the moment, anyway.
They headed back to his Kings Cross hotel room with a stolen bottle of the bad champagne, and fucked before they’d even drunk the first glass. It was good, better than she’d imagined. And it had left both of them wanting more.
Later, when she told Dougal her decision, he’d agreed without question, pleased. ‘It’ll be good for you to see your father more often,’ he said. ‘You know he might not have all that long. And it’ll give you some down time. And being in the country,’ he added, ‘is good for the soul.’ Dougal was always worrying about the state of her soul.
Two months later, the Randall’s property went on the market. The family had stopped farming years ago, sold off the land around them, and now they were selling the remaining five acres and the homestead. The house was old, desperately in need of a new kitchen, an extra bathroom, a paint job – but renovations would give her something to do. An added excuse for frequent visits. And even more appealing: the house was on the Wash Road, less than a kilometre from Chip’s.
Tonight Honor knew what was coming, but she tried to postpone the moment, pretending that nothing had changed. She wasn’t going to precipitate things; that would make it all too easy. For him. Instead, she poured him a drink and pushed it into his hand, told him about the day’s successes: the memoir deal wrangled for an ageing rock star, a six-figure exclusive for a new mum soap star, news of a client’s million-dollar contract with Netflix. ‘Here’s cheers,’ she said, ‘to sweet, sweet success.’
Honor knew that only a few months earlier these stories would have excited Chip. He loved hearing these tales, was simultaneously thrilled and disgusted by the excess. He enjoyed calculating the farm machinery that could be purchased with such sums, how many men could be employed for the cost of one ultimately forgettable performance. He loved to act the philistine man-of-the-land in these conversations. But tonight nothing she said moved him. He sipped his drink, smiled on cue. When he cleared his throat, ready to say what he’d come to say, Honor ignored him. She wasn’t ready. She started another story, but he interrupted.
‘Honor.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘We have to talk.’
Naturally, he did all the talking. What was there for her to say? She didn’t bother begging or pleading, making claims. Didn’t bother turning on the waterworks, or even showing any anger. These were their agreed-upon rules of engagement: no strings, no exclusivity, no promises.
But she did have one question.
‘Why is it so serious, with Suzannah? I don’t get it. You’ve only known her a few months.’
‘Why?’ He blinked, brought his attention back to her. He’d been staring off into the distance. His body was upright, taut with nervous energy. Even so, Honor could see how soft he was getting; he had the beginnings of a paunch, his shoulders sagged. His shirt was untucked, and she could see how pale his skin was, its crepiness. The old man under the middle-aged man’s body.
‘She’s pregnant. Suzannah. We’re having a baby.’
Honor didn’t flinch, but his words were like a physical blow.
‘And, I . . . I want to be a part of it all.’
She couldn’t help the bitter little laugh. ‘You’re almost fifty, Chip. Aren’t you a bit past all that?’
‘I dunno, Hon. If you’d asked me this time last year, I’d have said there was nothing I wanted less. But now . . . I’m sorry, Hon. I really didn’t expect this to happen.’
Honor could hear the pleading in his voice. He could have his true love, play happy families, but she wasn’t going to give him her blessing.
SUZANNAH: DECEMBER 2018
‘YOU AND HONOR?’ THINGS WERE BEGINNING TO SHIFT, TO TAKE on a radically different shape. ‘She told me you’d had a thing when you were young . . . kids, she said, but I had no idea . . .’
‘It was nothing. Really. Honor and me, it was—’
He stopped. The room had gone suddenly quiet. Mary had turned the television off and was gazing at us intently.
‘That woman you were just talking about. The good-looking one.’
‘Honor?’
Mary nodded. ‘What happened to her?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She hasn’t been over for a while.’
‘No. I suppose she hasn’t.’
‘Isn’t she your friend anymore?’ Mary looked worried. ‘Maybe she thinks I told you? Because I didn’t, did I?’
‘Told me what?’
‘About her coming here that day.’
‘What day? Did she come when you were here on your own?’
‘No. Nurse Ratched was here. She’d made me go to bed, and tried to lock the door. I came out to see what they were doing . . .’
‘And what were they doing?’
‘She was coming up from the basement stairs with a plastic bag. The one who brought Hannibal Lecter to dinner. She said she was getting something from the laundry.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘It was something to do with your birthday. A surprise. She told me not to tell you. So I didn’t. I like surprises.’
‘Oh, Mary. My birthday’s not until February.’
‘And she said if I didn’t say anything, she’d get me that peppermint ice cream, the one I really like, with all the crunchy bits. But she hasn’t, has she? I’m still waiting.’
Mary turned back to the television, picked up the remote control, and then swivelled around, her eyes wide.
‘I know what she was doing down there. I’ll bet that bitch stole my pyjamas.’
Chip phoned his brother early the next morning, before Mary was awake, eager to tell him what we’d discovered. We’d gone over and over our suspicions – now solidified into certainty – through the night, but were no closer to understanding how Honor was involved, or, more importantly, why.
Hal wasn’t impressed. ‘I know it was my idea, but this is a dead end. The fact that you told your mistress that your new girlfriend was pregnant isn’t proof of anything except adultery,’ he spoke bluntly despite the fact that he was on speakerphone. ‘Honor didn’t have any previous connection to Ellie Canning, did she?’
‘Well, not that we know of, but what if—’
‘What if won’t cut it Chip. This isn’t a crime novel.’
‘What
about Honor’s visit, the plastic bag she took away?’
His brother gave an irritated sigh. ‘Oh, come on. Any evidence provided by Mary is highly suspect. She can’t even remember what century she’s in half the time. It’s what we’ll be arguing if this goes to trial, anyway. We need to get rid of that police statement altogether, not argue that she remembers things differently now.’
‘Can’t you just check? See if Sally O’Halloran’s connected to Honor in some way? Hire someone to run a background check. See if her bank balance has gone up or something?’
‘I’ll talk to our investigator – maybe he can ask around discreetly. It won’t hurt. But look, even if we find she has some sort of connection with Sally, even if we discover that Honor did come to the house, there’s no evidence that she did anything untoward. It’s all supposition. And none of it proves that Ellie wasn’t down in Suzannah’s basement. There’s still the DNA, remember. What we really need is something solid that casts doubt on Ellie Canning’s story, not something that implicates someone else.’
HONOR: DECEMBER 2018
THE CALL CAME WHILE SHE WAS AT A FUNDRAISER. ONE OF Honor’s clients, a former fashion model who’d just written her memoir, was the charity’s patron. Once upon a time Honor had loved this sort of event: the glittering crowd, the stink of power, and in some cases, corruption. It had given her a thrill to be included, even if only in a minor way, in this hyper-privileged world, this alternative aristocracy. She’d come alone. While once she would have dragged Dougal along too, these days he rarely accompanied her. He’d never really been as enthusiastic – his connections to the rich and powerful were far more substantial, if less showy – and he would much prefer to stay home and have an early night. Just lately, though, Honor had begun to feel a similar sense of ennui. Over two decades some things had changed – the people, the clothes, the settings, even the menus – but the conversations had more or less stayed the same.
It was nine o’clock, and she’d been cornered by an author who’d recently received some extra attention owing to her controversial stance on stay-at-home mothers and was suddenly in high demand. She was wondering whether she should employ her own publicity agent – wouldn’t she get more lucrative speaking gigs that way, increase her sales? Honor tried to stifle a yawn, was already dreading the lunch meeting she’d taken her phone out to schedule with the woman, when she discovered that she had more than twenty missed calls. All of them from Ellie.
She keyed in the novelist’s contacts quickly, made a time, then smiled her apology and found a quiet place to make the call.
Ellie answered immediately. ‘Honor. Oh, God, Honor. We’re fucked. I’m fucked.’ She sounded drunk, or high. Or both.
‘What’s going on?’ Honor hoped that whatever Ellie had done, whatever she’d taken, wasn’t going to involve a visit to hospital. She immediately thought about how she was going to contain the publicity. She went through her contacts in her head, the doctors who might be able to deal with such a situation, who owed her something and could be relied on to stay silent. She was annoyed: Ellie had had an interview with a popular but notoriously intimidating young YouTube journalist earlier in the evening. Normally Honor would accompany her on these occasions, but tonight she’d had this party. She’d left Ellie a Cabcharge, with instructions to go straight back home after the interview, have an early night. Not only was it important that she maintained her squeaky-clean reputation, but she had a pre-record Skype interview with CNN early the following morning – it would only be her third US appearance – and in the afternoon they were meeting with two production companies vying for documentary rights. Honor wanted her to be switched on and looking her best. As far as she could tell the girl had been acquiescent; in fact when she’d left the apartment, Ellie and Dougal had been cheerfully arguing whether they should get takeaway, or reheat the previous night’s leftovers.
Now she could hear Ellie gasping in the background, as if trying not to cry. ‘Take some deep breaths, Ellie, and tell me what’s going on.’
‘Okay.’ Her voice was still strangled, but she was speaking coherently. ‘I just did that interview. The one with that arsehole, Andy Stiles. He wasn’t – well, from the start it was clear he wasn’t onside. And then . . . he showed a clip.’
‘A clip? A clip of what?’
Honor knew what she was going to hear even before the girl told her; oh, not the precise details, but their significance. Honor had always had a sixth sense about these things. Somehow she always knew when a client screwed up. When they’d done something career destroying, something that signalled the beginning of a dramatic downward trajectory. This was one of those moments, she could feel it.
Still, she did her best to reassure Ellie. That was her job.
‘This is what we’re going to do. Firstly, you’re not going to do anything, Ellie. You’re going to go home and have dinner with Dougal. You’re going to watch that crime show you wanted to watch, make yourself a cup of herbal tea and go to bed. And tomorrow morning you’re going to do the CNN interview as planned.’
SUZANNAH: DECEMBER 2018
MARY AND I MADE THE TREK UP TO THE MAILBOX EARLY IN THE morning to avoid our ever-diminishing press retinue, the excited dogs racing ahead of us and then back again, barking joyfully. Mary chased them for a bit, but quickly ran out of energy and trudged behind, complaining about the distance, the heat.
The night before, Chip and I had waited until we were alone to discuss, not the import of Chip’s disclosure, but the substance. I had begun with the obvious question: Why didn’t he tell me? And his answer was just as clichéd: he had been afraid.
‘We’d been seeing each other, off and on, for a couple of years. It never meant anything, to either of us. I didn’t want a permanent relationship, and there’s no way she would ever leave Dougal; her life with him is too easy. He adores her; and I think she actually loves him, in her own way. Neither of us wanted more. It was like . . . it was just an itch being scratched. And when I told her it was over, and about you, about the baby, it was nothing. Truly. She didn’t even look upset. She basically just shrugged, for fuck’s sake. She poured us both another drink and made a toast. She was pleased for me. For us.’
‘But what if it meant more to her than you realised? Maybe she’d thought the two of you . . . had a future. I mean, if I hadn’t fallen pregnant?’ I had to work hard to stay calm, to shake off the feeling that there was something he wasn’t saying.
Chip seemed to sense my distress and took my hand. ‘You know, there’s nothing between me and Honor. And there’d been nothing, even before you told me about the baby. We hadn’t really been together for months.’
And I believed him, of course I did. There was no more reason for Chip to be lying now than there was for him to be faithful five months earlier. I knew that his past shouldn’t matter at all, that it was unreasonable of me to expect it. There was no place, no justification, for sore feelings on my part. Honor and Chip were history. I could tell myself that, but I still felt a sharp pang of jealousy. There was still the fact that Honor and Chip shared a history. That Honor knew him in ways that I didn’t. And perhaps never could.
Mary had discovered her second wind and overtook me, making it to the mailbox first. She pulled out a handful of envelopes and ran back, the dogs at her heels. I shook myself out of my anxiety about Chip – right now there were bigger things to worry about, to focus on. Mary handed me her catch, panting loudly. There were a couple of utility bills, a catalogue from an online pet shop for Mary, and a small envelope, addressed by hand. I gave Mary her missive from PetCo and considered the plain white envelope, sensing the nature of its contents, reluctant to open it.
I had been receiving anonymous letters ever since my arrest. The online commentary had been horrifying enough, but physical mail was worse. Not just the almost reflexive expressions of fleeting outrage, actual letters – composed, addressed, stamped, posted – were so much more deliberate, effortful, and far more threatening.
Most of these letters were so full of bile and rage and an almost visceral hatred that it was hard not to feel afraid, not so much for myself, although that was a part of it, but for a world that contained such a concentration of ugly feeling.
It wasn’t until we were back in the house, the breakfast mess cleared away, Mary happily absorbed in her catalogue, that I worked up the courage to tear the envelope open and pull out the single sheet of paper within. The message was typed and printed in a regular font, rather than the usual mad scrawl or the painstakingly retro newspaper cut-outs that I’d come to expect.
The Canning girl is a liar. Check out Aphroditeblue.com.
