Back in the world of newspapers, it would make a great story if Greg grabbed a picture of Jay welcoming the dealer at the door. And then, when he left the house, Max would pounce on him and ask Jay why a known dealer was visiting him. How the fuck will I know it’s the dealer, Max had asked Claire.
‘Just call me as soon as he goes in. Don’t let him know you’re there, and get a picture from inside the van. Then call me, describe him. Jay can’t have many visitors with shoulder-length peroxided hair, head to toe in leather and riding a Harley Davidson, for fuck’s sake.’
Max wondered how Claire knew Jay’s dealer. She knew that to get exclusives her boss would have some dodgy contacts; maybe she’d come across him in a club and he had tipped her off he’d be making a visit, and would be paid handsomely for the information. With no police on hand to search him, he couldn’t be arrested – and he was probably the type who craved celebrity himself.
And so Max had waited, and waited.
She reflected on Lucy’s insistence that she should not contact Hartley to tell him about the text she had received from Bridget. She could see Lucy’s point of view. If Hartley thought enough of Lucy, if he really knew her, she shouldn’t have to prove her innocence. Fuck him, Max thought as she looked over at Jay’s house. Then again, he had made Lucy happier than Max could remember ever seeing her sister.
A bit like Luke, she thought with a wry smile as she remembered yet another text that had come from him this morning. She had deleted it without reading it. God, that had hurt. But what was the option? Tell him Lucy had warned her off because she was bound to fuck everything up like always? No, she had shut out memories of bad stories she had covered as a trainee – the smell of burning bodies after a horrific train crash near York, all those death-knocks, calling at the homes of parents whose child had just died to ask for a comment – so she sure as hell could block out Luke. It was only fair on Luce. She couldn’t resent her sister for protecting Luke – after all, Lucy had always put Max first. The least she could do was return the favour by putting Lucy first if this meant so much to her. Max tried to brush the thought away but she couldn’t shake the feeling of hurt that Lucy had assumed she would mess things up with Luke.
Max’s thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of her phone in the pocket of her brown Paul Smith cords. It was Sheri.
‘Awright, darlin’?’
‘Tickety boo. What’s up?’
‘It’s been a week, Max, can we do it now? Please, I need the money bad.’
If Max left the photographer here, Claire would still get her picture – and she could always phone Jay’s agent for a comment. Meanwhile, Max would have another, potentially brilliant, story.
‘OK, I’ll have to clear it with my boss to leave the job I’m on. But it should be fine so I’ll be at yours in half an hour.’
ONCE, TWICE, THREE TIMES A BLOODY LADY
It was all so bloody tiresome being nice all the time. Smile at this, laugh at that, don’t ever say a mean word about anyone. How insanely dull. But it had to be done, Bridget reminded herself many times every day. She would not lose Hartley this time, even if it meant a personality bypass in the process. There was, of course, nothing wrong with Bridget’s personality – people admired her for her honesty and humour. But she would be Snow White for a few months if that’s what it took to get a bloody ring on her finger.
That bitch Lucy had, by all accounts, been sweeter than sweet. Claudia had chirruped on like a deranged nightingale about how lovely Lucy had been and how she simply couldn’t believe she would be behind the photographer incident. Bridget wondered if Claudia was having a dig at her; perhaps she suspected Bridget had played a part. Doubtful, given that Bridget had been sure to keep up the saintly act in front of Claudia too. It was imperative that Hartley saw what a good friend she was and that she hadn’t minded in the slightest that her very best friend had welcomed Lucy into their group.
‘Oh yes, I gather she was a lovely girl,’ Bridget told Claudia. ‘I can’t quite believe what she did. Poor darling Hartley.’
Bridget’s plan seemed to be working, albeit much slower than she would have liked. She had caught Hartley at just the right time. He was vulnerable and a little lonely and had welcomed Bridget, his fellow newly-single friend. But he had seemed wary at first of being anything more than friends. Bridget had been sure to let him think romance was the last thing she wanted too. But she had sensed a slight change in him over the last few days. Bridget had arranged dinner at the Ivy Club with Claudia and Charles – double dating, just like the old times. If there was a book to be written on sweetness and light, Bridget would be the author after that night. She asked Charles all about his deadly dull job as a trader and complimented Claudia on everything from her nails to her last-season Mulberry raincoat. When, a little merry at the end of the evening, she took Hartley’s hand while leaving the restaurant, he responded by tightening his grip. And when he dropped her off they kissed on the lips. Bridget wondered if he had read the magazine she had left at his house. She had popped in to drop off a batch of delicious home-made cookies for him to try. (Her baker friend had made them but acting like a cross between Little Bo Peep and Nigella Lawson was her game plan.) And before leaving she had left several magazines, telling him they were for the waiting room of the Balmyle Foundation – often there were a few homeless types who popped in for a cup of tea, wasters that they were. This might cheer them up, she had told Hartley. And she had carefully left one of the magazines open at an article on the benefits of being a dad before the age of thirty-five. Subliminal messages, subtle prodding in the right direction was all he needed.
When she dropped off the cookies, Hartley had told her over coffee that he was glad she had been around.
‘You’ve been lovely to me, Bridget, a real rock. Thank you.’
‘Oh darling Hartley, what are friends for?’
‘You seem somehow different from before, Bridge. I don’t know. More gentle, perhaps.’
Bingo! Bridget had been waiting for this opportunity. The key was to make him think that she was never really as bad as he had imagined, that it was somehow in his head.
‘Perhaps you are right, Hartley. But also, maybe you saw in me what you wanted to see when we dated. Sometimes, when we want a relationship to end, we make ourselves think our partner is not right for us…’ Bridget left the thought hanging in the air like a wisp of smoke meandering to the ceiling, before cutting in. ‘Who knows, sweetie? So long as you know I am always here for you.’
Hartley smiled back at Bridget. Indeed, she did seem so warm, so giving compared to the Bridget he remembered. Perhaps she was right. Maybe she hadn’t been so bad. She was so sweet to her friends, so keen to make everyone happy. She was always asking how he felt, how his mother was bearing up in Scotland alone. Hartley knew it made a great deal of sense to be with Bridget. But sense did not equate to love, the kind of raw emotion and passion he had experienced with Lucy. But look what that had brought him – utter devastation. Bridget had either changed or he had misjudged her.
Hartley had been a wreck after Scotland. He was still at a loss to explain what had happened. He felt so lonely and hated the prospect of having nothing but his own thoughts and company. So many times he had wanted to pick up the phone and call Lucy, to ask her what had happened. He had called once but hung up when he heard her answer message. Every day he hoped desperately to see her name flash on his phone. He longed to hear her voice.
He was thankful Bridget had been there for him when he was down. She reminded him that Lucy hadn’t contacted him to explain the situation. She didn’t say it unkindly, pointing out that poor Lucy must be mortified. After all, the evidence pointed so clearly towards her. Hartley had to admit Bridget had a point. Even when the story about Lucy’s background had broken, Bridget hadn’t judged, telling him that perhaps she was just embarrassed about her past – even though it didn’t make her a terrible person. Hartley had read the article with an overwhelming sadness
. He didn’t care what Lucy was or what her family had, but the girl staring up at him from the newspaper seemed so remote now. They had shared so much during their time together and yet Lucy had never told him she and Max had different fathers, or so many other things. Perhaps he never really knew her.
A few days before the story appeared, Hartley had kissed Bridget. Poor lonely Hartley needed a woman in his life and it wouldn’t be long before he wanted more than a kiss. Then there would be no going back.
THE SHEEKEY GIRLS
Lucy groaned when Amy told her she had booked J Sheekey in Covent Garden for dinner. It occasionally boasted celebrity diners – and if there was one thing Lucy did not want it was to be in the vicinity of waiting paparazzi.
‘Nonsense,’ Amy had told her in the cab. ‘The fish is the best in London and I am not hiding you away. Look at you!’ Amy couldn’t believe the transformation in her friend – she looked beautifully untamed with her back-combed hair and black eyeliner and her metallic dress showing off every inch of her body. ‘You’re looking hot, Luce. Make the most of it. You’ve done nothing wrong, remember that.’
Lucy shrugged her shoulders and smiled back at her best friend – next to Max, of course.
They had met at Oxford and formed a tight bond during the three years they studied English. Both girls had worked hard. Amy had a strong work ethic, which Lucy admired.
Lucy had loved their nights in, drinking wine or watching movies, and the times when Amy had shown her pictures of Kashmir. She had been blown away by its beauty and Amy promised that one day she would take Lucy to the beautiful north-west region on the Indian subcontinent, which she described with its mountains and waterfalls as being like heaven on earth.
Walking into the restaurant, Amy giggled and whispered to Lucy over her shoulder, ‘You do realize every man in here is staring – and not at me.’
Even the men on a romantic night out with other halves couldn’t help but look as the girls were shown to their table.
Lucy laughed. ‘Aims, they probably all fancy you, you fool.’
Amy always looked wonderful with minimal effort. Tonight’s tight-fitting, black-velvet trousers made her legs look fabulous teamed with her impossibly high black-patent Gucci boots. A tight black-cashmere polo neck adorned with a string of chunky pearls accentuated her petite, girly frame.
‘You don’t think I’m too underdressed?’
‘Enough modesty, Amy. You are sex on legs tonight; lap it up, girl. And anyway, we are going clubbing after this. Then we’ll probably both feel overdressed.’
As their drinks arrived, Lucy noticed her friend looked troubled and asked if everything was OK.
Amy smiled, a little sadly.
‘Is it James? Has something happened?’
‘I love him,’ Amy said, ‘I really do, but I’ve too much living to do to be a mum and wear floral dresses all day. I’m worried that’s what is expected.’
It was an odd thing to say, from nowhere it seemed.
Lucy looked at her friend. Amy was naturally stunning – the kind of girl who could wake up, pull on jeans and a T-shirt and still look amazing. She had translucent skin with big brown eyes and almost impossibly glossy black hair. Lucy knew James was proud of Amy and her achievements at work. But she also knew he would dearly love her to give up work and concentrate on breeding a new generation of de Vosses. And Lucy understood why that scared Amy; there was something of the free spirit in her that wasn’t ready to be tamed.
James’s background was poles apart from Amy’s. He came from a long line of famous men; there had been many poets, barristers and politicians in the family through the centuries. James, a politician himself now, had often told Amy she had no need to work but she had insisted on continuing her career as a charity campaigner. Her job was to raise awareness about STDs – how they were spread, how to tell if you had one, how to get help and the like. She was in charge of a small team whose job was to come up with ideas for posters, TV and radio advertisements and increasingly clever viral-marketing campaigns. She also took part in workshops aimed at trying to help people come to terms with the sexually transmitted diseases that a dose of prescription pills would never clear up.
She loved her work, both the challenge of the creative side and feeling she was making a difference, no matter how small.
Amy was tracing the tip of her right index finger around the rim of her glass. When she spoke her voice seemed far away. ‘Sometimes I dream of travelling to Africa and working with people who desperately need help. Sometimes I just dream of travelling the world, going everywhere I can, for a very long time.’
Tonight, Lucy knew how Amy felt. She had a desire to let go, be unleashed and live life without barriers.
As Lucy thought of what she could say to make her friend feel better, Amy looked around the bustling restaurant.
‘Oh my God,’ Amy whispered over her cocktail menu.
‘What?’
‘Bloody Kirk Kelner is over there… and he’s staring right at you.’
EXCLUSIVE: BILLY’S IN THE BROWN STUFF
Max couldn’t have hoped for a smoother ride with the Sheri story. She was still pinching herself at the result.
She had explained to Sheri that Billy Brown could be caught out with a phone call but she would have to wait a week or two to make the call so that what she told him sounded authentic.
Max wondered if Sheri had left the flat since the last time she saw her. She was dressed in the same pink tracksuit, only it was even baggier on her pathetic frame than before.
‘Nice outfit,’ Sheri said, taking in Max from top to toe. ‘Paul Smith?’
‘You’ve got it.’ Max felt embarrassed. Sheri’s life was consumed by labels and guest lists. Here she was, with no proverbial pot to piss in, eyeing up Max’s cord suit. On the one hand, Max had everything crossed, hoping that her plan worked so Sheri could net a tidy sum for the story. On the other hand, she knew it would only feed the lifestyle that was destroying her, which was a depressing thought.
‘Are you sure he didn’t know who you were?’
‘Positive. I wore one of Envy’s wigs that night – all my extensions are fallin’ out. I looked half bald, so I had to. Anyway, when I saw him come out of Sketch he was all over the place – a right mess. The bouncer had fuckin’ knocked me back cos I wasn’t on the list. Bastard. His mate who’s normally on the door lets me in for a little favour, if you know what I mean.’ Sheri winked at Max, her pallid skin wrinkling beside her eyes. ‘Whatever. Doesn’t matter cos I spotted Billy, right? And I said, “Mate, you want to jump in a cab with me?” And he just followed like a puppy.’
Sheri’s hands were trembling as she reached for a rolled-up £20 note on the coffee table. Chopping a line on the mirror, she looked up as if realizing for the first time what she was doing.
‘Shit, you don’t mind, Max, do ya?’
Max had seen it plenty of times, she just hated the effect it was having on Sheri. ‘No, not at all.’
‘The dealer’s given me an extra week’s credit – I assured him I’ve got a big story in the bag.’
Kneeling on the carpet, Sheri bent over the table, the note in her nose, hoovering up two fat lines. She straightened up, wiping her nose.
‘Right, so we gets back here and he’s babbling like a crazy person. I puts on some porn – hoping that would get him in the mood and it seems to do the trick. We’re kissing and he says he feels sick so I take him through to my bedroom, give him a glass of water. He’s going on about how he’s only ever cheated once before and I have to promise not to tell anyone. Of course, I say, “Sure, honey, my lips are sealed.” He livens up at this and says, “Not too sealed, I hope,” and he pulls me on top of him. He couldn’t get enough of my tits… mind you, compared to that scrawny cow of a wife, Becci, I suppose they are a treat. So I climbs on top… and there’s no need to lie about this one, Max, he really is hung like a donkey –’
The coke seemed to have hit Sheri, who was a
nimated now, her eyes wide and staring at Max.
‘OK,’ Max interrupted, ‘I believe you, Sheri, but in the absence of hard evidence, let’s make the call to him and then, if that works, I’ll get all the details.’
Sheri nodded obediently, sipping from a glass of water.
‘Right, call from my phone,’ Max told her. ‘The number comes up withheld so there’s no way of him tracing it or phoning back.’
Max put an earpiece with a tiny mic inside it into Sheri’s ear and pressed record on her Dictaphone.
‘OK, so you remember what to say?’
‘Yep.’
After a few seconds Sheri waved her hand excitedly in the air, signalling Billy had picked up.
‘Oh Billy, it’s, erm, Sheri ’ere. You might not remember… last week you came back to mine.’
Max had turned the volume on her phone to full so she could hear what Billy was saying.
‘Oh, right. How’d you get my number?’ He sounded guarded.
‘You gave me it,’ Sheri lied, knowing he wouldn’t be able to remember half the night. ‘Anyway, I won’t keep you long, but I have somefing I have to tell you. My period, it was late when I slept with you… and it’s still not here.’
‘What? You said you were on the fucking pill.’
Bingo! An angry Billy Brown hadn’t given a moment’s thought to his reaction, so consumed was he by anger and shock.
‘I am, darlin’,’ Sheri replied, giving Max the thumbs-up. ‘I am, but accidents happen.’
Scandalous Page 18
