Wicked Beauty

by Susan Lewis

  The door was right there. She could feel its pull as though it were the persistent undertow of a tide, telling her that no matter how hard she swam now it was going to carry her away. She turned her back on it, only to find her hand moving up behind her, and her palm filling with the cooling brass of the handle.

  ‘They’re calling you the ultimate wife,’ someone shouted.

  ‘The power behind the throne.’

  ‘She’s our very own Helen of Troy,’ another voice piped up, and everyone laughed, though Rachel wondered which Helen? the Iliad’s or the Odyssey’s. Either way she could never claim such beauty.

  Across the room a commotion was breaking out around the temporary bank of TV screens. Everyone turned to see what it was, then began surging forward. Rachel’s hand tightened on the doorknob. Quickly she turned, stepped back and seconds later she was walking swiftly along a dimly lit corridor, the noise receding behind her like a waning storm.

  She took the back way out, letting the doors swing creakily behind her. There seemed to be no one around. The night air was clear and cool. She inhaled deeply, one hand on her heart as though to steady its rapid beats. Then suddenly she was bent double, throwing up in a gutter.

  She felt better afterwards, though her vision was blurred by tears. She should go back inside, but knew she wouldn’t, because already she was walking to her car. Tim would understand. He’d call on the mobile soon, wondering where she was, why she’d left. If she told him the truth she knew that the celebrations would come abruptly to an end. He’d want to be with her, she knew that, because given the choice, he always did.

  Normally it was a half-hour drive from the school hall, at the heart of their North London constituency, to their town house in Hampstead – at two in the morning it took less than ten minutes. As she passed through the familiar Victorian terraced streets she wondered about the people behind the curtained windows. How many had stayed up to watch the election? What percentage had actually gone out to vote? Scenes such as the one she’d just left were being repeated all round the country. She envisaged them like a starry night sky, random bursts of light and merriment surrounded by a slumbering mass of indifference and darkness.

  Not until she was standing in the kitchen, staring blankly at the answerphone’s flashing green light, did she allow herself to start thinking again. For hours, days, weeks, she, Rachel, the private individual, had been switched off, packed away, put on ice, in order to give full stage to her public persona. Platitudes, homilies, promises and rhetoric had buzzed around her brain and out through her mouth in a ceaseless flow of loyalty and confidence. All that neural commotion. All that persuasive hot air. And now, at last, she could be quiet, take time to think and plan; to deal with the issues that, of necessity, were pushed aside by the perfect publicity machine.

  She wondered if she was going to be sick again. Her stomach felt unanchored; and so did her mind. Both were spinning in a turmoil of confusion that even the stillness of her body and withdrawal from the fray didn’t seem to be quelling. She was breathing too fast, and the sweat on her skin was turning chill. She knew, without looking in the mirror, that her normally olive-toned face would be pale and anguished. Her short, mahogany hair, that had triggered a small craze with its Meg Ryan-ish layers, felt limp to the touch, and she was finding it hard to see. Tiredness was making her emotional. More than anything she wanted to talk to Tim.

  She started as the telephone rang. Then hearing her sister’s voice on the speaker she snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Anna, I’m here,’ she gasped. How wonderful it was to have Anna back in her life after a silly yearlong rift. How on earth had she let it go on so long?

  ‘Rachel?’ Anna cried. ‘I was expecting to leave a message …’

  ‘I came home. What are you doing up at this hour?’

  ‘We watched the results, of course. I was just calling to … The hell with that. Why aren’t you with Tim?’

  ‘I didn’t feel too good. I needed some air.’

  Anna was immediately concerned. ‘Are you OK now?’ she demanded, in the bossy way that Rachel had once resented and now loved again.

  ‘I think so.’ Rachel’s hand was trembling as she pushed it through her hair. ‘Things aren’t … Katherine was there – obviously. I don’t know what’s going on, Anna, but something is.’

  Anna didn’t answer right away, though Rachel knew, because they’d had this conversation at least a dozen times in the last few weeks, that she wasn’t leaping to the obvious conclusion. ‘Have you mentioned anything to Tim?’ Anna finally said.

  ‘No.’ Rachel’s mind was so tormented that it was hard not to drag Anna into yet another analysis of the mysterious phone calls he’d been receiving, both here and at the office; or of his recent edginess that was so much more noticeable in a man who was known for his easy, relaxed manner, especially when stressed. And though she couldn’t exactly accuse him of becoming secretive, there was something he wasn’t sharing with her, she was convinced of it, and she wasn’t sure whether she was more upset by the thought of him holding back, or by the fear of what it might be.

  ‘Are you going to?’ Anna prompted.

  Rachel could feel herself stiffening. ‘I’ll have to, now the election’s over,’ she answered, dread welling up inside her, for there was nothing worse than asking questions you didn’t want to hear the answers to.

  There was a beat before Anna said, ‘I’m sure he’s not sleeping with her …’

  ‘No.’

  Anna paused again. ‘I take it you haven’t told him about the baby yet?’

  Rachel’s head fell forward to rest against one of the glass-fronted cabinets. To be encumbered with a pregnancy now, at least in the physical sense, was truly the last thing she wanted, when she needed her energy and a calm, rational mind. Yet somewhere, just beyond her reach, she adored the total happiness and completeness that came with knowing she was going to be a mother, that she was carrying Tim’s child … Nothing could be more important than that.

  ‘He wants that baby more than anything,’ Anna reminded her.

  ‘He’s very ambitious,’ Rachel responded.

  ‘So are you. The baby won’t change that.’

  ‘But something’s going to change,’ Rachel replied. ‘I feel it so strongly. Maybe the feeling will go when Katherine does.’

  Anna sighed. ‘You’re tired. You need to get some sleep. Everything always looks bleak at this time in the morning.’

  Rachel’s eyes closed as tears threatened to spill out of them. ‘You’re right,’ she finally managed. ‘Everything’ll be all right once we get away on holiday.’

  ‘When do you go?’

  ‘In three days.’

  ‘The Virgin Islands,’ Anna murmured dreamily. ‘What I wouldn’t give.’

  A tightness in Rachel’s throat stopped her from answering, for the very thought of just her and Tim being remote from the rest of the world, and together in a way that these past weeks hadn’t allowed, made her so weak with longing that she could scarcely remember when she’d felt such a need for him. ‘The villa’s quite big, there’s plenty of room,’ she finally managed. ‘Why don’t you bring the girls for the half-term week?’

  ‘Robert’s schedule won’t allow,’ Anna answered. ‘And I have to be here for him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rachel responded, wondering, not for the first time, how much of Robert’s success, as a playwright and director, was actually down to Anna, since she was even more ambitious for Robert than Rachel was for Tim.

  After saying good-night and promising to call in the morning, she put the phone down, unplugged it and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. The earlier detritus of hastily taken showers and wardrobe changes had been magicked away by the redoubtable Lucy, who’d been with them for the past two years as personal assistant to Rachel, and occasional housekeeper to them both. Normally the latter duties were carried out by Winnie, who came every morning, but since Lucy lived in the basement flat and work
ed in the office next to the kitchen, she had become, in a respectful yet almost familial way, such an integral part of their lives that no real boundaries existed any more.

  ‘God bless you, Lucy Ryall,’ Rachel murmured, sinking into the plush indigo and mauve pillows that had been plumped and perfectly arranged on the big, four-poster bed. Gazing up at the diaphanous folds that drifted between the tops of the posts like waves in a friendly ocean, she could feel guilt starting to burden her, but there was just no energy left in her to go back. Maybe she should call to let Tim know she was all right, but she didn’t really want to talk to Gordon or Dennis, his personal aides – or to Katherine, who’d be sure to have taken charge of his phone. However, she should turn on her own phone so he could get through if he tried.

  Dragging herself up from the bed again, she rummaged in her bag for her personal mobile, and had barely switched it on when it rang.

  ‘Darling? Where are you?’ he said. ‘This is the third time I’ve called. Are you all right?’

  She could hear the noise going on around him, and was easily able to picture him, turned away from the crowd, blocking one ear in order to hear her. People would be tapping his shoulders or tugging his arms, but she knew the polite yet firm way he had of making them wait. Quite suddenly her heart was so full that her words came out with a sob. ‘I’m fine,’ she laughed. ‘I just had to get some air, and then I was so tired … I’m sorry. I should have told you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re all right. Everyone’s been asking where you are.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m at home.’

  ‘Do you want me to come?’

  To think he’d leave the celebrations now, at their height, just because she might need him, caused her heart to swell with the full strength of their love. ‘Yes, of course I do,’ she whispered, ‘but you can’t.’

  ‘They can get drunk without me.’

  She smiled. ‘No. Stay there. I just need to sleep.’

  There was a pause before he said, ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Are you?’

  ‘We won,’ he reminded her.

  Knowing that the question had been too subtle to elicit any other kind of response she said, ‘Have you heard from Andrew?’

  ‘Yes, about ten minutes ago. There’s going to be a Cabinet reshuffle.’

  The elation in his voice filled her heart with relief, for it was the call he’d been waiting for, a few words to reassure him that his portfolio was going to change. He’d never been comfortable in Defence, it wasn’t his area of expertise or passion. Nor, with his business and economics background and total lack of military experience, had he ever been welcome. In fact, he’d been sorely resented, to the point that almost every day saw another flare-up as his efforts to drag the Ministry into the twenty-first century and to introduce some much-needed transparency to their murky and shadowy dealings were fought on every front. Thank God it now looked as though that was going to pass to someone better suited to the task. ‘Did he say what’s next?’ she asked.

  ‘No. But we’re meeting on Saturday.’

  Knowing he had high hopes of the Foreign Office, or even the deputy leadership, she said, ‘You’ve served your time, he’ll give you what you want now.’

  ‘I think so,’ he agreed.

  Wishing she was with him, so she could put her arms around him, she pressed the phone in tighter to her ear as she said, ‘I love you, Tim Hendon.’

  ‘Not as much as I love you, Rachel Hendon,’ he murmured.

  She smiled, and was still smiling when a few minutes later she slid between the sheets and fell almost instantly asleep.

  Franz Koehler came awake without a start as the phone next to his bed rang with an early morning wake-up call. Though it was only four-thirty, he was almost instantly alert as he reached for his glasses, then threw back the covers. He was a tall, upright man, with tight, wiry grey hair, a disciplined manner, and sternly handsome features. His pale green eyes, distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses, seemed to bulge to the full roundness of the frames, giving the impression that they could see a great deal more than many would want him to.

  He was in a sumptuous, old-English-style suite at London’s Dorchester Hotel, where he’d spent just one night and was now making an early start back to Zurich. Before going into the bathroom he turned on the TV to check the markets in Tokyo and Hong Kong. No financial news yet, just more about the landslide election. He knew already that Tim Hendon had won, and since he had no interest in anyone else, he went off to shower.

  By five he was downstairs settling his bill as Rudy, one of his personal aides, was pulling up outside in a Daimler. Sliding into the passenger seat as a doorman dropped his bag in the boot, Koehler turned on the radio. More about the election.

  Rudy eased the car away from the kerb and U-turned out into Park Lane. Thanks to the early hour there was almost no traffic; the rising sun was casting a warm, fiery glow over the park. They were in plenty of time to make the flight so Koehler didn’t object to Rudy’s leisurely pace as they clockwised round Hyde Park corner and headed down towards Knightsbridge. He wouldn’t be sorry to leave London; he’d never enjoyed doing business with the Brits, they were too secretive, devious almost to the point of downright dishonest, and yesterday had proved no exception.

  After finally getting an update on the financial news he turned off the radio and they travelled on in silence.

  ‘So,’ he said, as they passed the Royal Barracks and drove on towards Kensington, ‘what interesting sobriquet have you chosen for our friend from the art world today?’ His voice was smooth, cultured, and subtly accented.

  Rudy’s cheerful face broke into a grin. ‘Vincent,’ he answered. ‘As in Van Gogh.’

  A gleam of humour glowed in Koehler’s eyes, then vanished again. ‘Are we picking him up, or is he meeting us at the airfield?’

  ‘He’s meeting us there.’

  Koehler’s owlish gaze moved to the passing town houses and exclusive garden squares. A minute or two later his mobile phone rang.

  ‘Yes,’ he said into it.

  He listened, said nothing, then flipped the phone closed.

  He didn’t speak again, only looked out of the window as they approached the street where Katherine Sumner’s rented flat was located. He’d seen her on the news with Tim Hendon last night, celebrating Hendon’s victory. Not the hardest election battle she’d ever fought, by any means, but it was certainly going to be her last. She’d been quite decided about that, even before going into it, and the phone call he’d just received had told him that she now had absolutely no choice but to remain true to her word: there would be no going back after this, not for her, not for any of them – and for one uncharacteristic moment he wanted to laugh, for the sheer pleasure it was going to give him to watch the smug and superior British Establishment reel in the wake of the scandal that was about to break was, for him, supremely better than sex.

  ‘Mrs Hendon. Mrs Hendon. It’s time to wake up.’

  Rachel’s eyelids flickered.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you.’

  Rachel frowned as the voice penetrated through to a part of her brain that grudgingly received it. ‘Lucy?’ she mumbled.

  ‘There’s a cup of tea here,’ Lucy responded, in her soft Australian tones. ‘Winnie brought one earlier, but you let it go cold.’

  ‘What time is it?’ Rachel said, putting a hand out to block the streaming sunlight as Lucy dragged open the curtains. ‘Has Tim gone already?’

  ‘It’s ten past eleven,’ Lucy answered, her homely features blanked by the sun. ‘There are two men downstairs. They want to see you.’

  Rachel yawned, and forced herself to sit up. ‘My God, how could I have slept so long?’ she groaned, checking the clock. Then registering Lucy’s words she said, ‘What men?’ But before Lucy could answer, her stomach churned so horribly that all she could do was make a dash for the bathroom
with barely enough time to close the door behind her.

  ‘What men?’ she repeated, a few minutes later, dabbing her mouth with a towel as she came back. She looked at the bed, and felt suddenly uneasy, for it was plain that only her side had been slept in. ‘Where’s Tim?’ she said, expecting to hear that he’d slept in the spare room so as not to disturb her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lucy responded, folding back the duvet to air the sheets. ‘The visitors are in the conservatory. Winnie’s making coffee.’

  Rachel’s eyes were on her mobile, as last night’s victory, her suspicions and exhaustion regrouped at the front of her mind. ‘Who are they?’ she demanded, her unease starting to grow. Nothing was quite making sense. Then her heart turned over in fear. ‘Oh my God, has there been an accident?’ she cried.

  Lucy stopped plumping the pillows. ‘I don’t think so. Why do you say that?’ she responded, her young eyes showing as much concern as bewilderment.

  Rachel didn’t know, but something felt wrong. Not that Tim hadn’t come home, because he might have stayed with Gordon or Dennis, but that he hadn’t called to say so. Then she remembered he’d almost certainly have had a lot to drink, so was probably still sleeping it off.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ll be in the office if you need me.’

  The instant the door closed behind her Rachel snatched up her mobile. Its display showed nothing – no messages, voice or text. Her heart twisted with another jolt of unease, as quickly she dialled his number.

  A recorded voice told her his mobile was out of range.

  She clicked off, aware of a rising panic. But it was OK. Out of range could mean out of power. But where the hell was he? Maybe she should try Gordon or Dennis, but if they didn’t know where he was … Frantically she looked round the room. Katherine was the one she should be trying and she knew it, but she was afraid to. Forcing herself to dial the number, she returned the phone to her ear and listened. Five rings, then an announcement to say that Katherine’s mobile was out of range too. Next she tried Katherine’s Kensington apartment. On the third ring a male voice, not Tim’s, answered.