by Jessie Keane
Oh Jesus, she thought.
He was narrow-hipped and broad shouldered, his skin swarthy and so much coarser than hers. There was black hair on his chest and it feathered down the front of his hardmuscled body. His nipples were dark as chocolate drops. Crazily, she found herself wanting to kiss them.
‘You’ve got some bloody nerve, I’ll say that for you,’ he snapped out, and then he was on top of her, pushing her thighs open.
Clara writhed, trying to knee him in the balls.
Marcus twisted away then grabbed her wrists in one hand above her head, keeping her there, immobile. Pinned, helpless, Clara let out a cry of surprise as he eased his cock inside her. He pushed forward, frantically.
‘You’re such a bastard,’ she said, half-laughing, half-gasping because this was something new, this was something strange. Now wasn’t the time to think of poor old Frank’s rare night-time attempts at copulation, or of the sexual desert that had been her marriage to Toby, but think of it she did. And this was completely different.
‘Oh God,’ she moaned as he thrust furiously into her.
‘Finally! Something that shuts you up.’
Clara felt herself opening, softening, and then he released her wrists, cupped her breasts in his hands, roamed further, touched her, caressed her. She felt a sensation building, an entirely new sensation, and suddenly she was arching her back, and screaming, unable to stop herself, as the exquisite feelings pulsed through her.
‘Jesus,’ she cried out, and then he shuddered too, and she watched his face, saw him bite his lip, saw that quiver of extreme pleasure shake him, take him over.
Finally they lay still, like exhausted adversaries. All too soon Marcus detached himself, sat up on the edge of the bed, glancing back at her.
Don’t go, she thought. But she was too proud to say it.
‘Well, that’s the marriage consummated,’ he said, his eyes moving down over her body.
‘Yeah,’ said Clara, sitting up on the opposite edge of the bed. She felt strange, not herself – weak, somehow, her breasts tingling, her eyes filling with emotional tears. She reached down, picked up her ruined wedding dress. ‘What am I supposed to wear now?’ she asked.
‘There’s some stuff in the wardrobe,’ he said, getting up, putting on his trousers.
The blonde’s stuff?
She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know the answer.
‘I’ll see you later,’ said Marcus, pulling on his shirt. He picked up his socks and shoes and his jacket, and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
He hadn’t uttered one single word of affection, not a word of warmth. No ‘sweetheart’, no ‘darling’. No ‘best beloved’. Her third wedding was following the pattern of the first two; it was going to be a loveless wasteland.
Best beloved.
That was what Toby had called Jasper. Clara sat there on the bed and all at once she had it: she reached for her bag, rummaged in there past the pan-sticks and the comb and her violet eye shadow, pulled out Toby’s contacts book and slid her finger down the alphabetical leaves at the side.
She flipped it open at B. And there it was: an address and phone number.
BB. Best Beloved.
She’d found Jasper.
84
The party was still going on. She could hear and feel the heavy thudding of the bass through the floor as she got up from the bed and went over to the wardrobe.
Fuck Marcus Redmayne. If he thought she was going to cower up here like little wifey, firmly put in her place, after that, then he didn’t know her at all. She rummaged among the garments there, wrinkling her nose at the blonde’s flashy taste in outfits. Finally she pulled out a geometric-patterned black-and-white shift dress and yanked it on. It was too tight on the chest, too loose on the hips, and too short, but she didn’t care. Angrily she tugged on her white sandals and went off downstairs again.
‘You all right?’ It was Jan, rushing up and looking at her like she might be in need of gas and air.
‘I’m fine,’ said Clara. ‘Shouldn’t I be?’
Clara’s eyes were scanning the dancing crowds for Marcus. And there he was. With the blonde, who looked angry. They spotted her at just about the same time as she spotted them, and she saw the blonde’s eyes go to the dress she was wearing, saw her mouth tighten, saw her say something. Although something churned in Clara then – something she refused to acknowledge as jealousy – she waved airily to her husband and his companion, and set off for the bar with Jan trailing after her.
‘He looked mad as hell when you went upstairs,’ said Jan, having to shout in her ear to make herself heard over Ray Charles’s dark-brown voice singing ‘I can’t Stop Loving You’. It was a real smooch number. But Marcus and the blonde weren’t smooching, they were arguing.
Well, good, thought Clara.
‘Gin and tonic,’ she said to the barman. He poured the drink for her, and she downed it in one. ‘Another,’ she said.
‘Easy,’ said Jan.
‘What’ll you have, Jan?’ asked Clara.
‘Same, please. I thought he was going to beat the crap out of you, to be honest. The way he looked.’
‘Well, as you can see, I am unbeaten,’ said Clara, downing her second drink. What was it they said? Bloody but unbowed. Yeah, that was her. That was her entire life, right there.
Actually, she felt quite strange. Quite different. Sort of energized, almost glowing. She was aware that Marcus was watching her. And the blonde was, too. And more than anything, she was suppressing a strong desire to go over there and kick the blonde straight up the arse. Cheeky mare, staring at her like that.
‘Who the hell is she then, this “Paulette”?’ Clara asked Jan. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Sure I do. Surprised you don’t. Marcus Redmayne’s been keeping her for years. In some style, I heard. Got her a flat, a horse, even a fucking French poodle.’
Clara’s heart sank. She wished it wouldn’t do that.
‘Yeah. And I guess she’s pissed as hell that he’s gone and married you,’ Jan went on. ‘Word is, she’s been trying out the M word on him for as long as anyone can remember. Hey, did you know the old Bill came and saw me again the other day, about Sal?’
Clara’s attention snapped back to Jan. ‘What did they say?’
‘Nothing much. Just checked my statement again.’
‘Fuck! Is that all they’ve got?’
Jan let out a sigh. ‘They said investigations were ongoing.’
‘That means they haven’t got a clue.’
‘She didn’t deserve that,’ said Jan gloomily.
‘No. She didn’t.’ Clara had liked Sal. She was common as muck, but gritty. Had she lived, Clara thought they would have become friends. She had admired Sal’s in-your-face toughness, her refusal to kowtow. Now, all possibilities were gone. Sal was dead.
‘Hey! You,’ said a female voice over the tail end of Ray.
Clara and Jan turned as one and stared at the blonde who was standing in front of them. It was Marcus’s blonde, the one whose dress Clara was now wearing. The blonde was looking it up and down. Then her eyes fastened on Clara’s face.
‘That’s my dress,’ she said.
Clara nodded. ‘I know. Marcus said to help myself from the wardrobe upstairs, so I did. He ripped my own dress off me, so rather than come down here stark naked I had to put this dish-rag on.’
Clara heard Jan take in a whooping breath and start choking on her gin as she said that. The blonde’s eyes grew wide. ‘What did you just say?’ she demanded.
‘Think you heard.’
The blonde was shaking her head. ‘You don’t even love him, do you?’
Clara gave a smile. ‘He wanted my clubs and I wanted his clout and his money. So everyone’s happy.’
‘You’re a cold-hearted cow.’
‘It has been said.’
‘I’m going to smack that stupid grin right off your fucking face,’ said the blonde, and surged forward.
‘No you’re not,’ said Marcus, appearing at her elbow and yanking her back, away from Clara. He glared at his new bride. ‘Stop winding her up, will you?’
‘Me?’ Clara’s mouth opened in innocent surprise.
‘Marcus, fuck off. Let me at her,’ raged the blonde, struggling to get free of his grip.
‘You ought to keep that in a cage,’ said Clara, watching the blonde in fascination. ‘I’ve seen chimps with more selfcontrol. What was her name again? In case our paths should cross.’
‘I already told you. This is Paulette,’ said Marcus, as Paulette started to scream swear words at his wife. She writhed and struggled, and dropped her clutch bag, which opened on impact, spilling out a Tampax, a small bottle of French perfume, a broken-toothed comb stuffed with dark-rooted blonde hairs, and a shower of coins.
‘You’ve got to admire that vocabulary,’ said Clara as small change rolled in all directions and settled on the floor. Just like it had when young Henry stole the pound note from her purse. Just like it had when they’d found poor Sal’s butchered body in that disgusting hole she lived in. Something nudged at her brain then, but it was there and then it was gone.
‘Bitch! Cow! You want to watch your step!’ Paulette threw over her shoulder as Marcus snatched up the bulk of the items and marched her away, toward the club exit.
Jan was nearly choking, she was laughing so hard. ‘I thought she was going to rip your head right off your shoulders,’ she giggled, gathering up the coins from the floor.
Clara took the coins off Jan and put them in the staff tip box. She wasn’t smiling. She’d already dismissed Paulette from her mind. She was thinking about Henry, and about David and Jasper; and she was also thinking that if the Bill didn’t shift themselves and get some answers then she would get to the bottom of what had happened to poor Sal, and to Toby, her best friend in all the world, if it killed her.
85
Someone was knocking at the door but Jasper Flynn couldn’t wake up; couldn’t face the day. The sunlight was coming through the curtains and he knew he’d have to get up sooner or later, but right now? He didn’t want to. With shaking hands he reached out to the bedside table and with sore, aching eyes he peered at its surface.
There was a little coke left, misting the wood grain like talcum powder. He was going to have to stir himself at some point today, if only to get to his dealer. He snatched up the fiver, rolled it unsteadily into a cylinder and inhaled the last of the dope. Then he lay back, dropped the fiver, and then . . . ah, bliss.
Bastard banging at the door, but did he care? He felt better – lighter than air. Gone was the rage and the depression and the pain that had sapped him, robbed him of all strength and purpose, ever since Toby’s hideous death. He couldn’t think about that, he refused to think about it.
These good feelings wouldn’t last long, he knew that, but for now . . . ah, fuck the world. He felt fine.
Someone was rattling the letter box now.
‘Jasper! You in there? Open this bloody door.’
It was a woman’s voice.
Maybe he would get up. Maybe he would answer it. He felt a little stronger now. Slowly Jasper pulled on his grey silk robe, the one Toby had given him for his last birthday, the last present he would ever receive from his lover . . . Ah, God, don’t go there, don’t think about it, he told himself.
The coke thrumming through his brains, he fastened his robe and stumbled out into the hallway. ‘All right, I’m coming,’ he mumbled, and shot the bolt back and opened the door.
She was standing there.
‘Oh for fuck’s . . . ’ moaned Jasper, thinking that this was too much, this was insult on top of injury. Toby’s wife, for Christ’s sake. That fucking bitch was standing there. All right, he’d known Toby would have to appear straight to get on in his business, but when Toby had said he was going to marry some bit of skirt, Jasper had hit the roof. He’d been mad with jealousy. Demented with it. And now she was here.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he demanded.
Clara pushed past Jasper and stepped into the hall. She noticed that his eyes were swivelling like he was drunk or something, his pupils were massive. He was swaying on his feet. His blond hair was dishevelled.
‘Sorry, did I wake you up?’ said Clara. She glanced through the open bedroom door, saw the disordered bed, the rolled-up fiver, the dust on the bedside table. Jasper was a cokehead.
‘You did, as it happens,’ said Jasper, pointedly closing the bedroom door with a slam.
‘It’s two in the afternoon.’
‘So?’
‘Can we sit down? Talk?’ said Clara.
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. And how did you get this address?’
‘Out of Toby’s contacts book, of course. Best Beloved. BB. That’s you. That’s what he called you, wasn’t it? Come on, for God’s sake, talk to me. We both loved Toby.’
Jasper’s face twisted in a sneer. ‘You didn’t love him. He wouldn’t have married you at all if he hadn’t been forced to.’
‘I loved him as a friend. He was my best friend. I know that’s very different to what you had with him, and I’m sorry. Losing him that way . . . it must have been horrible for you.’
Jasper’s face lost some of its truculence. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms over his skinny chest and stared at her. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’ he asked.
‘Do you know anything about it? The fire? What happened that night?’
‘How would I?’
‘You weren’t there? Only I know that you two sometimes met when I was busy round the clubs. Were you there that night?’
Jasper gulped. Clara could see this was painful for him. ‘I was there at eight. We had dinner. I went home at about ten. He was alive then.’ A glint of tears shone in Jasper’s eyes. ‘He was alive, and he was well, when I left him. We were talking about meeting up the next day. He kissed me goodnight in the hall and your sister came in and he pulled away, which made me mad. We argued. I’m ashamed to say it, but we did. About that and about you, of course. I hated that he’d gone down that route, trying to lie to the world. I gave him a very hard time about it. It all seems stupid now.’
Clara kept quiet; let him speak. So they’d argued. Had Jasper become so upset that he’d lost all reason and killed the object of his adoration?
‘But then,’ Jasper gasped, stifling a sob. ‘The fire. I didn’t know anything about it, not a thing, until I showed up at the house the following day and found it burned to the ground. Some people who lived in the road told me what had happened. That he’d . . . oh Jesus, that he’d died.’
‘So you left at ten?’ Clara was eyeing him closely.
Jasper’s mouth dropped open. ‘What, you think I would do a thing like that? We argued a lot. But we loved one another. I only wish to God he’d never set eyes on you, never seen you as a solution to his problems. I hated that he went home to you, that you were his wife, and I was only a bit on the side, a nothing. It’s true we had a fiery relationship. Oh shit.’ Jasper realized what he’d just said and clamped a trembling hand over his mouth. Tears spilled out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Then he tried to gather himself. He dropped his hand and stared at her. ‘I would never hurt him. I don’t know how you could even think that.’
‘I don’t think anything, Jasper, I’m trying to make sense of it, that’s all,’ said Clara, wondering if he was telling the truth. If he was into drugs in a big way, who knew what lies he was spouting? Who knew what might go on in that fried brain of his? ‘The insurance people wouldn’t pay out, you know. They said the fire had been started deliberately. They talked about accelerants.’
‘Was it you then?’ snapped Jasper.
‘What?’
‘You had the most to gain by his death, didn’t you. The insurance and everything. And it wasn’t a proper marriage at all. Maybe you wanted to get him out of the way so that you could get your grasping hands on everything he ha
d.’
‘No,’ said Clara firmly. ‘Not true. I wouldn’t hurt Toby, any more than you would. You’re talking rubbish. If I’d wanted to do a thing like that – and I never would – I would have been a damned sight more subtle. No accelerants, for a start. Because someone used them, the insurance company are saying I can go and fuck myself, they’re not paying a penny. They’re sure it was started deliberately.’
‘Maybe Toby started it?’ said Jasper, rubbing a hand over his brow. It was obvious the hit from the coke was wearing off now, and all this talk of Toby’s death was exhausting him.
‘But why? Toby loved that place as much as I did.’
‘Then someone else. But who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, will someone find out? Please?’ Jasper gave a hitching gasp and wiped at his tear-streaked face. ‘Whoever did this, I want them to suffer. I want them dead.’
86
‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Marcus when she got back to the Calypso.
Clara looked at her husband with surprise. After the wedding reception had ended last night, she’d slept alone; he hadn’t come near her again. Then she’d got up, washed and dressed, had a bit of breakfast and gone off to see Jasper in a taxi.
Now she was back, and none the wiser for her visit, and Marcus was sitting in the main body of the club with all his boys, including weedy little speccy-four-eyes Gordon, gathered around him, and she walked in and got both barrels, straight between the eyes.
‘Visiting a friend,’ she said, and walked on past him because that was all he was going to get. He didn’t own her, for Christ’s sake.
‘Don’t do that. Don’t wander off alone,’ said Marcus.
‘What, you think Sears is going to jump out of a bush and grab me?’ asked Clara with a laugh.
She didn’t feel like laughing, but she had to maintain a front. It had taken a lot of bottle to walk out of the door this morning, knowing that Sears had it in for her. And she wondered about Sears and the house fire that killed Toby, too. Had he been behind that? It was possible. He’d had some sort of weird fixation on her, and she’d been married to Toby. Maybe Sears had killed him, wanting him out of the way to clear a path to her. The idea made her shake with rage.
