The Last Kiss Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘I need it now.’

  The toddler was starting to sprint towards the other end of the corridor.

  ‘Shit,’ whispered Sid. ‘Ollie, come back here.’

  ‘Mummy, I need the toilet now.’

  ‘I’ll get him,’ said Abby, setting off after the child. ‘Bloody hell. He’s like Usain Bolt.’

  As she scooped him up, she couldn’t resist pulling him close. She felt a soft wash of maternal instinct flood over her and started to smile.

  ‘You cheeky thing,’ she whispered.

  A piercing scream ripped into her ear. She held the little boy away from her. He was red in the face, his tiny features scrunched up in pain.

  ‘What’s wrong, poppet?’ she gasped before realising that the clasp on her bracelet had scored a long red scratch down his plump little arm.

  ‘Come here,’ said Sid, taking the child from her.

  ‘I think my bracelet must have caught him,’ Abby stuttered.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Sid replied briskly.

  Abby had no idea if she really meant it.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly,’ said Sid less sharply.

  Abby felt hot and her breath had grown ragged.

  ‘I should go,’ she muttered, but Sid was so busy fussing over her child that she didn’t even notice.

  She stabbed the button to the lift, but when it didn’t come immediately, she took the fire exit. As she emerged on to the street, her dress felt tight around her neck. She sank down on some stone steps next to the office, emotion rising in her throat and spilling out in loud sobs.

  For such a long time she’d felt numb, as if her emotions had shut down completely and she was just existing on autopilot. But looking back at the time and effort she had thrown into work, into the exhibition, Abby knew that she had simply been keeping a lid on a simmering pot.

  A suited man glanced at her uncomfortably before walking on. A second passer-by, a woman about her own age, stopped and asked awkwardly if everything was all right.

  ‘Just getting divorced,’ laughed Abby almost hysterically. The girl nodded with embarrassment and smiled weakly before moving on.

  Abby’s tears shuddered to a stop and she looked down at her trembling hands, her eyes drawn to the simple gold band on her finger. She had removed her engagement ring weeks ago; it was a symbol of the heady excitement and possibility of the early days of their relationship, and clearly, whatever magic that had held had been used up long ago. But the wedding band felt different, like it was part of her, something she had built and invested in, and even though her marriage had failed, that ring had still been important to her.

  Her fingers touched the metal of the band. She twisted it around for a few moments and then removed it, putting it in the zip pocket of her handbag.

  ‘I should go,’ she told herself out loud, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  She heard a muffled sound coming from her bag, and for a moment she thought it was her wedding ring, come to life and struggling to get out. Realising it was her phone, she pulled it out and pressed answer.

  ‘Hello?’ she sniffed, trying to disguise the distress in her voice.

  ‘Is that Abby? It’s Elliot. Elliot Hall.’

  ‘Elliot. How are you?’ she said with surprise.

  ‘Pleased that my journalism skills have managed to track you down.’

  ‘What do you want?

  She winced, realising how rude that sounded.

  ‘We could start with lunch,’ he replied, and suddenly Abby started to feel a little bit better.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘I just want to say how thrilled we were with your piece in the Chronicle,’ said Abby, allowing a waiter to place a napkin on her lap with one fluid flick of the wrist. ‘I think Stephen wrote to thank you properly.’

  ‘He did. Much rather it had come from you, though,’ smiled Elliot, taking a sip of the expensive wine he had ordered.

  Abby smiled nervously. She still didn’t know whether it was one of her better ideas agreeing to come to lunch with Elliot Hall. A solid morning of internet snooping, unfortunately carried out after she had agreed to meet him at London’s fashionable and impossible-to-get-into Pont restaurant, had revealed that her lunch companion was a terrible womaniser. An interview in Harper’s profiling London’s ‘40 most beautiful under 40’ had referred to him as ‘the Don Juan of the Dorchester’, and the endless Google Images snaps of him with his arm around pretty girls, and a Facebook page littered with photographs of parties and mini-breaks, each apparently attended with women more beautiful, tanned and skinny than Abby would ever be, had confirmed that they might have a point.

  ‘How did you get a table here at such short notice?’ she asked, looking around the room and recognising at least three celebrities.

  ‘Special number,’ he smiled as he filled her glass with water. ‘Now, I suggest you try the linguine. They melt aged Parmesan over it, then grate truffles on the top. Literally the best starter I have ever had. I don’t like to have it too often, though, in case it spoils it, so I keep this place for special occasions.’

  ‘Right, yes,’ said Abby nervously. From the moment she had arrived, she had tried to be as professional as possible, shaking hands rather than kissing him on the cheek, steering all conversation back to the exhibition. A little voice in her head was telling her to relax. That it was about time she had some fun with someone interesting and clever.

  But the fanciness of the restaurant and the price tag of the wine was making this feel suspiciously like a date, something Abby hadn’t been on for a long time with anyone other than Nick, and the whole thing was making her feel as jumpy as a box of frogs.

  They ordered, and Abby told herself that it was only lunch. One she hoped to God Elliot was picking up the bill for, otherwise she was going to have to sell all her worldly goods at the next local car boot sale in order to pay for it.

  ‘Well, I’m flavour of the week with my editor,’ said Elliot, handing his menu back to the waiter. ‘I think he’s even ordered a copy of The Last Goodbye for his wife, although I hope there’s no hidden meaning in the gesture. It’s been rumoured for months that he’s having an affair with someone in ad sales.’

  He smiled again, his orthodontically perfect teeth reminding Abby that not all men were created equal.

  ‘So what’s the next big exhibition I can look forward to?’ he said, meeting her gaze and not letting go. ‘You’re a brilliant curator. I get invited to a lot of these things, and Great British Explorers was the best I’ve seen in ages.’

  ‘I wish everyone agreed with you,’ sighed Abby, grateful for his words.

  Elliot frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She was desperate to offload her problems, and Elliot Hall seemed like the sort of capable, can-do person who would know what to do about them.

  She told him about the scene in Stephen’s office and about how Christine Vey seemed to think the RCI could manage quite well without her.

  She expected him to be sympathetic, but his expression was bullish.

  ‘Well, let her,’ he said, as their starters were placed before them. ‘You’re overqualified for that job, Abby. You’re experienced, commercial, you’re hot.’

  She wasn’t sure in what context he had used that last word, but it still gave her a little thrill.

  ‘The RCI exhibition was a high-profile hit,’ he continued. ‘Now’s the time for you to go out and find yourself another job, take the next step up. You might have to sit tight for a few months until the right opportunity comes along, but this is a blessing in disguise, I’m telling you.’

  Abby looked at him. She knew that other people were looking at him too, women especially. Elliot had that star wattage that made people stare, and she felt uncomfortable just sitting in his glow.

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. Not for me. I separated from my husband recently. I have bills to pay, overheads, so I hate the insecurity of not being in w
ork.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Abby shrugged.

  ‘I don’t have the luxury of taking a few months out to consider my future, though I might not have any choice. The kinds of jobs I’m looking for, that I’m qualified for, are few and far between, and when people get in, they tend to stay there for life.’

  ‘I’m sure my father knows a few dealers, gallerists . . .’

  She appreciated the gesture, although she wasn’t sure she was the type to get recruited by the fancy-pants galleries around Hoxton or Mayfair, no matter who had recommended her. She didn’t have the right accent, the clipped RP vowels, and although she had often been complimented on her prettiness, she knew her looks were of the quiet, unremarkable sort. That her tidy brown hair and small hazel eyes were a far cry from the oddly beautiful girls with their choppy haircuts and Helmut Lang trouser suits or the blonde Sloaney show ponies who worked in the city’s top galleries.

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ she smiled. ‘Truth is, I’ve really enjoyed working at the archives. Okay, it’s like living in a cave sometimes, but I like digging out dusty old photos, bringing them into the light and finding the stories behind them.’

  ‘Then why don’t you come and work for me?’ said Elliot bluntly.

  ‘Sorry?’ She felt her face flush with embarrassment and looked into her drink.

  ‘Me. I could do with a researcher,’ he repeated.

  ‘Your researcher?’ she laughed incredulously.

  He flashed her a half-smile and she felt a little more confident.

  ‘Actually, I think you’d be perfect. You’re obviously good at finding interesting stuff. You’d just bring it to me and I can work on an angle, then you can help me fine-tune the details as the story unfolds.’

  She allowed herself to consider it for a while, imagining herself as a glamorous newshound striding through a buzzing newspaper office, getting important phone calls from shadowy contacts and writing wild exposés that would make the front pages of papers the world over.

  ‘So what are you working on at the moment?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘See? I can tell you like the idea,’ said Elliot, putting down his fork.

  Abby laughed.

  ‘Well,’ he said more cautiously. ‘This week I’ve been looking into the mysterious world of Dominic Blake.’

  She felt her bubble of good mood pop, but Elliot didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘You know how much my editor loved the Last Goodbye story. Well, he asked me to have a poke around.’

  ‘Elliot, you know how unhappy Rosamund Bailey was about it.’

  ‘Rosamund is a dignified, probably too cynical old lady who doesn’t want her private life splashed over the newspapers, and I can understand that. But it’s Blake I’m interested in. His story is fascinating. I’ve only had a quick dig around, but there’s a possibility he may not have died of natural causes.’

  ‘What do you mean? Murdered?’ she asked, aghast.

  ‘It’s pure speculation at this point, but I’ve been looking into his background. We know he was an explorer, of course, but that’s not all he was known for back in 1961. I pulled some files down in the paper’s cuttings library, and his name pops up again and again in the society gossip columns.’

  ‘A man after your own heart,’ she smiled.

  ‘Cheeky. Anyway, reading between the lines, it appears he was squiring a lot of socialites and heiresses around town, possibly some of whom were already married.’

  Abby couldn’t believe he had found all this out in such a short space of time.

  ‘And what? You think a jealous husband got to him?’

  Elliot lifted his glass and smiled.

  ‘Doubtful. Blake disappeared in the Amazon jungle, remember? That’s a long way from Mayfair. I imagine the cuckolded Earl of Whatnot would have preferred to run him over crossing Piccadilly or something.’

  Abby grimaced. ‘So why do you think his affairs are relevant to his disappearance?’

  ‘Well, ladies like that, married or not, they’re not going to be a cheap date, are they? Expensive restaurants, hotel rooms, little gifts, it’s all going to mount up. Our hero wasn’t from money – he went to Cambridge on a scholarship, his father was a middle-ranking career soldier turned grocer after the war – but for his lifestyle, he seemed to need an awful lot of it. For a start, he’s listed as the co-founder of Capital magazine. Setting up a magazine isn’t cheap. My family knows that better than anyone. His expeditions, his playboy lifestyle. It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘And you have a theory . . .’

  ‘Drugs,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Blake spent a lot of time in South America – Bolivia, Colombia, Peru – just at the time when drug trafficking was exploding in the area. They were clearing huge swathes of the rainforest for cash crops – it was just that some had a higher cash value than others.’

  She looked at him wide-eyed.

  ‘You think Dominic Blake was involved with drug-running?’

  ‘It would explain why he kept going back to that part of the world, and remember, it would have been much more straightforward to walk through an airport with drugs in those days. It was easy money really.’

  Abby frowned, then shook her head.

  ‘It just seems . . . wrong. It doesn’t seem to fit.’

  Elliot shrugged. ‘Maybe. All I’m saying is we can’t get carried away by the romance of that photo. The facts are that Dominic Blake was living the high life with no visible means of support. That money had to be coming from somewhere. And he was spending a lot of time going back and forth between Peru and Colombia and London.’

  ‘And this is the story you want to write?’ said Abby, feeling herself bristle. ‘That Dominic Blake was a drug dealer?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. The story I want to write is how and why Dominic Blake disappeared. And to know that we have to know a bit more about him. Because the answer to his death is right there in his life.’

  She had to admit that what he was saying made sense.

  ‘The answer could be something as simple as getting lost and sick in the jungle.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, settling back into his chair.

  ‘I can’t get involved in this, Elliot. I feel as if I know Rosamund now.’

  ‘Imagine you are Rosamund Bailey,’ said Elliot slowly. ‘You’re old, you’re wise, but you never knew what happened to the love of your life. Wouldn’t you want to find out? Wouldn’t you want someone younger, more dynamic, someone with twenty-first-century technology, resources and money to help you find out the one thing that has eluded you, tormented you, for fifty years?’

  ‘Elliot, you should be on the stage,’ she replied more playfully.

  ‘I’m serious, Abby,’ he said.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll do it.’ As she spoke, she felt a rush of excitement, and something else – an unfamiliar sense of freedom, of abandon even. She hadn’t done anything impulsive for years. It felt good.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Elliot, offering her his hand. She took it, and felt a current of complicity run between them.

  ‘Welcome aboard, partner. You won’t regret it.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was a fine morning as Abby walked up the hill, the sunlight slanting through the trees to her right, laying zebra stripes of shadow across the graveyard behind the railings. All she knew about Highgate Cemetery was that Karl Marx was buried there, but it looked overgrown and abandoned, with headstones leaning at crazy angles and the odd ivy-trailed angel peeping out from the undergrowth.

  Don’t think I’d want to walk through there at night, she thought, crossing the road. And I wouldn’t want to live overlooking it either. She glanced up at the Victorian flats running at right angles to the graveyard; she supposed they preferred the view of tombs poking out from the trees to that of another building blocking their view of London. And what a view, she thought, turning to look
as she reached the crest of the hill. The whole city was laid out there below her, looking surprisingly flat and curiously peaceful from this distance. She supposed that was why Rosamund Bailey had decided to move here. After a lifetime fighting her way through the choked streets of London, this comparatively sleepy backwater would seem like the countryside.

  Catching her breath, Abby crossed the cute little square in front of her and walked up to the first house on the left, knocking on the red front door.

  She wasn’t exactly looking forward to this – she wasn’t a naturally confident person – but if she was going to start this new career as a researcher, she needed to jump in at the deep end. She was raising her hand to knock again when the door swung open.

  ‘Abby,’ said Rosamund, beckoning her inside. ‘Come in, come in.’

  She was led along a dark corridor towards the back of the house, where it opened on to a large kitchen.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Rosamund, gesturing to the rustic table. ‘I was just making tea, and there’s some cake as well if you fancy it. Not home-made, but I have my book group coming round this evening, and they get very tetchy if there are no carbohydrates on offer.’

  Abby almost sat on the cat that was curled up on the chair. It sprang off with an angry meow.

  ‘Harold, shoo.’

  ‘Lovely, thank you,’ she said, sitting down.

  She rummaged in her tote bag and pulled out a large hard-backed envelope.

  ‘The photograph,’ she said with embarrassment. ‘It’s not an official one so you can’t sell it or anything. But it will go nicely in a frame.’

  ‘I won’t sell it,’ Rosamund said, putting a hand gently on top of the envelope.

  She picked up her cup of tea.

  ‘I assume the exhibition did well. I saw the piece in the Chronicle.’

  Abby was waiting for a caustic remark. Rosamund had got a name check in Elliot’s Great British Explorers article. It had only been a passing mention, but it had gone against her express wishes, and Abby didn’t think she was the sort to take it lying down.

  ‘You don’t work for the press any more, do you?’ she said after a minute.