by Louise Voss
But afterwards, I felt dirty, ill at ease in my skin. I’m not like Kath, who has embraced this side of herself as if it’s the true her, what with the drugs and the cheating and all the stuff she gets up to with these men. I know she had quite a repressed upbringing and it sounds as if her sexual relationship with Clive has been far too vanilla. Now she’s like a girl who wants to gorge herself on every flavour in the ice-cream parlour.
Maybe I’m becoming addicted to it like her. Because a couple of days after an encounter that leaves me feeling tawdry, I get the itch again. That’s why I’m going to this party with her. It’s not just because I promised and I know I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t go.
It’s new. It’s different. It’s exciting. And God knows, my life lacked excitement until recently.
‘At the price we’re being charged for this evening, I can’t believe that they won’t have a few condoms lying around. I bet they’re everywhere, in bowls on tables like sweets,’ I say, draining my second glass of Dutch courage Prosecco. There’s a tremor in my voice, like when I have to speak in public. ‘I hope you’re right, I hope they are sexy. Imagine if we walk in and there’s creepy Greg Stainsbury playing pocket billiards and drooling.’
Kath laughs at the idea that the dishevelled, square chemistry teacher with a comb-over would ever think of attending an upmarket swingers’ party. ‘In his lab coat with those awful scuffed Cornish-pasty shoes of his,’ she agrees. ‘We’d demand our money back. Instantly.’
The doorbell rings and we both jump. ‘Cab’s here!’ Katherine says, looking out of the window.
34
Amy
Friday, 26 July
When Amy woke up, after a journey home from Epsom the night before that had encompassed buses, trams, trains and several frustrating directional blunders, the first thing she saw was her helmet lying upturned like a beetle on its back in the corner of the room. She burst into tears, the full impact of what she had done finally sinking in. It felt like a bereavement – whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see were her Triumph’s chrome curves and the warmth of its leather saddle, like her own second skin.
She sat in bed with her arms around her knees, sobbing and bereft, for a full ten minutes. It was as if Becky and the bike had merged into one huge loss and, at that moment, Amy felt like giving up. When the tears finally stopped she took a shuddering breath, and got up.
Giving up now just wasn’t an option.
Right at the back of her wardrobe she found a suit with a short skirt she hadn’t worn for five years, not since she last worked in an office. It was a little tight around the waist and hips, but not embarrassingly so. She paired it with sheer stockings, heels, and more make-up than her face had seen since she went to speak at that conference about digital start-ups two years before. Looking in the mirror as she put her hair up, she didn’t recognize the woman gazing back at her.
‘Too corporate, Boris? I don’t want to look like a legal secretary.’
Amy added a quirky silver-and-beaded Aztec necklace and switched the medium-height heels for her absolute killer heels, the black patent six-inchers. She’d have to take a pair of flat pumps for the journey, though.
‘That’s better,’ she said, putting on far more lip gloss than she would usually contemplate. ‘More tarty, but still professional.’
An hour later, she was on the Tube, clutching an A4 printout with directions on it, the sharp points of her stilettos digging into her ribs like daggers through the sides of her bag. She got out at Regent’s Park and headed south, glad at every step for her ballet pumps. It was another cloudless summer’s day, and sweat prickled at her armpits. It had taken her fifty-five minutes by public transport, for a journey that would have taken her twenty on the bike.
Outside a tall, imposing, Georgian terraced house in Devonshire Place, she switched her pumps for the stilettos, powdered her nose, then rang the bell below a brass plaque bearing the name ORCHID BLUE EVENTS. Her heart was racing, mostly because she still didn’t know exactly what she was going to say. Excuse me, I’m enquiring about one of the sex parties you threw. She noted the company didn’t advertise what it did on the plaque. Orgy organizers. Once again, she felt stunned by her discovery of what Becky had been doing before she vanished.
The door buzzed, and somehow that made Amy feel more nervous than if someone had quizzed her through the intercom. She stepped inside, her heels clicking briskly on the tiled floor, and walked up to the first floor.
When she reached the office, Amy was relieved to see a lone young girl sitting behind a reception desk. Rather than the bored insouciance of the confident PA, this girl, although stunningly beautiful, appeared more rabbit-in-headlights terrified than Amy herself felt. She only looked about seventeen, and might as well have had WORK EXPERIENCE tattooed on her flawless forehead.
‘Can I help you?’ she squeaked, her nerves immediately putting Amy at ease.
‘I’m a prospective client, and I’d like some information please,’ she said, smiling at the girl, who didn’t smile back, but immediately started ferreting in her desk drawer. She pulled out a large glossy cardboard folder and handed it to Amy, gabbling in a stream of consciousness at her:
‘Take a seat please our MD is out at the moment but she’ll be back soon and she approves all the applications there’s a form inside for you to fill in if you want to but we’ll also need some photos although since you’re here we could take them here if you want and we need some proof of ID and a deposit on membership and the next party is on Thursday if you’re based in London or there’s one in Cheltenham—’
Amy held up a hand to stop her. It sounded as though she was parroting every bit of information imparted to her when she’d started that morning – because surely she had only started that morning. It made her want to smile, that the girl wouldn’t meet her eyes. Perhaps she was imagining her, Amy, naked in a mask at one of the parties, writhing around. ‘Thanks! I’ll just read this lot, if that’s OK, and yes, I’d like to wait for your MD. What’s her name?’
‘Mariel Freestone. She won’t be long. Um, would you like a coffee?’
Amy accepted the offer of coffee and studied the cover of the glossy file. It was midnight blue, with an artful shaded orchid, photographed to look like genitalia, the way Georgia O’Keeffe used to do in her paintings, and the slogan ELITE CASUAL DATING under the company name. Inside the file were pages of glowing testimonials, arty photos from the parties, an application form and a direct-debit mandate.
Amy started filling in the application form, and had just paused at the ‘Occupation’ box when the door opened and an intimidating-looking woman in her early fifties – or mid-sixties with a lot of work done – walked in and dropped her big green Marc Jacobs bag on the reception desk.
‘Hello, Auntie Mariel,’ said the girl. ‘Someone to see you.’
‘Miss Freestone while we’re at work, darling,’ she replied, her tones clipped and businesslike. She came over to Amy and held out a hand weighed down with large, odd-sized gemstones set in gold. ‘Mariel Freestone. How may I help you?’
Amy got up and shook her hand. ‘I wondered if we could have a little chat, about membership?’
Mariel Freestone looked at her watch with a flourish. ‘I’m afraid I have another meeting in twenty minutes – I just popped in here to pick something up – but if it’s quick …’
‘I’ll be quick,’ Amy said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Coffees, please, Gemma,’ instructed Mariel, leading Amy into a room off the side of the office.
‘Kettle’s already on,’ Gemma said sulkily.
It was a beautiful high-ceilinged room, stuffed with antique office furniture and a huge Gabbeh rug on the floor. Orchid Blue Events must be doing very well, thought Amy, taking a seat in a shiny leather wingback armchair opposite Mariel’s desk.
‘So, you’re hoping to join?’ Mariel scrutinized her so thoroughly that Amy blushed. She paused, still teetering on the verge of lyin
g. But when she opened her mouth, she thought it would just be so much simpler to tell the truth.
‘Actually – no. But my sister recently has.’
‘Oh?’ This came out very frostily, as if Mariel was bracing herself for some sort of complaint.
‘I believe she attended an Orchid Blue party in London with her friend Katherine, not long ago – a month, perhaps?’
Mariel tipped her head to one side and made a moue of displeasure with her coral-painted lips. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t understand why you’re here.’
Amy took a deep breath. ‘She went missing, a week ago. It’s really important that I find out who else was at that party.’ She had decided not to mention Katherine’s death, sure it would make Mariel slam the door on their conversation quicker than you could say ‘PR disaster’.
Mariel shook her head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But of course, you must understand that I cannot possibly divulge our client lists – they are strictly confidential! We have a duty to our clientele. Why on earth are you here and not the police? Surely, this is a police matter?’
Amy followed Mariel’s gaze over to a filing cabinet in the corner. Interesting, she thought. Bet the lists are in there. How old-fashioned. Maybe they didn’t keep them on a computer for fear of being hacked.
‘The police aren’t taking Becky’s disappearance seriously because she sent an email saying she was going away. It’s fake, but they haven’t yet accepted that. They will, of course – but I’m aware that every single day counts, if someone has Becky. I have to find her. Please help me!’
Amy’s voice was rising, and she actually reached forward across the desk as if to grasp Mariel’s skinny freckled wrist. The woman snatched her arm away, with an expression of disgust on her face.
Shit, Amy thought. She’s going to think I’m a nutter. ‘Sorry,’ she said, sinking back down again. ‘I’m desperate.’
Mariel stood up. ‘Please, no need to apologize. I’m sure this must be an unbelievably stressful time for you. I do hope your sister is found safely as soon as possible.’
She was like a politician with a nonstick coating, issuing bland platitudes.
‘I’ve got a far better chance of doing that if you would help me,’ Amy said bleakly.
‘I will be happy to help you, Miss … Coltman –’ Mariel looked at her name on the application form to remind herself – ‘but you will have to go through the proper channels. I would be obliged to divulge my client lists to the police, but not to anybody else. So I’m afraid that you will have to insist on their help, and the request will have to come from them. If you’re not actually intending to join –’ she looked again at the half-filled-in application – ‘then please excuse me. I need to leave now for my next appointment.’
Amy wondered what the appointment was for – nails, hair or Botox would have been her first guesses. She gritted her teeth. ‘I understand,’ she said, standing up to leave just as Gemma came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits. ‘Thank you for your time. I might just drink my coffee in the reception area, if you don’t mind?’
Mariel pursed her lips at her, but nodded, and Amy took a mug off the tray. The coffee was tepid and bitter, with the grounds still floating on the surface, but Amy sat in reception and sipped at it, trying to work out what to do next. Mariel picked up her cavernous handbag again and breezed out with a little wave at Amy, as though they had just enjoyed a girly lunch today.
Gemma stared shamelessly at Amy. ‘So, did she say you could join then, or what?’
‘She said I could, sure,’ Amy replied nonchalantly. ‘I just need to finish filling in the form.’ She put down her coffee and spent the next few minutes completing the form, all bar the direct-debit mandate. Her mind was whizzing through all the ways she could think of to get Gemma to let her look in that filing cabinet: bribery, violence, appealing to her better nature? Then she had a better idea.
‘I’ll post it back to you,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got my bank card with me, and I don’t know my account number and sort code off by heart for this direct-debit thingy, so I’ll have to look it up when I get home. Is there a loo up here I could use?’
Gemma’s face lit up – at last, some information she felt confident in giving. ‘Out of this door, turn right, up the four stairs to the mini-landing, it’s on there,’ she said.
Amy stuffed the form in her bag and left, with the taste of the unpleasant Nescafé coating her teeth and her heart banging in her chest. She found the toilet and checked that it was unoccupied. Then she went back to the landing and found what she was looking for, mounted on the wall near the lift.
A ‘break glass in case of fire’ alarm.
She paused, looking for cameras, listening for footsteps, but could see and hear none. With one brisk jab of her thumb she broke the glass, and an alarm immediately started screaming. She dashed straight back into the toilet and locked the door. Over the din of the alarm, she heard anxious voices and doors opening, feet pounding past her from the offices on the floors above.
‘Is it a drill? It’s not Wednesday!’
‘Can you smell smoke? I’m sure I can.’
‘Don’t run!’
‘Where’s the assembly point again?’
‘Across the road – come on, hurry!’
The first batch of voices faded, replaced by another batch, presumably workers from the floor above. Amy hoped against hope that Gemma wasn’t so thick as to have stayed put. She had to time this right – if she left it too long, the fire brigade would be here. If she came out too soon she might bump into someone. She forced herself to count to twenty slowly, put her pumps back on and her bag across her shoulders, then opened the toilet door and ran back into the Orchid Blue suite. The door was wide open – good old Gemma.
Amy dived into Mariel’s office and straight across to the filing cabinet, which, thankfully, was also unlocked. The contents were in hanging files in date order, with the party venue also helpfully annotated. Amy silently thanked whoever Gemma’s predecessor had been for being so organized. She snatched JUNE 2013 HOLLAND PARK out of the cabinet and frantically flicked through it – it seemed to be the most recent event, and the most local to Becky. Much of its contents was paperwork relating to the hiring of waiters, payment of florists, providers of finger food. For a moment, she thought there wasn’t anything in there about attendees, and then she found it: a heavily annotated printed list of names, mostly ticked off in black pen, some crossed through. In her haste she had to read the list three times before she spotted either Becky’s or Katherine’s name – but then she did. There they were, ticks next to them both.
It was the only concrete evidence she had of Becky’s movements in the past few weeks; with the sight of those few typed symbols on a sheet of paper, something fresh and hopeful leaped in Amy’s throat. Becky had been there, on that date, just four weeks earlier. Someone else on this list might well be the cause of her disappearance.
‘What the HELL are you doing in here, get out, now!’
Amy leaped up, clutching the sheet. Over the din of the alarm she hadn’t even heard the arrival of the burly fireman in full breathing apparatus.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gabbled, ‘I got locked in the loo and then when I finally managed to get out, everyone had gone, and I was just about to when I remembered I had to get this file that I’ve been working on, the boss would kill me if there was a fire and it got destroyed …’
The fireman wagged his heavily gloved finger at her. ‘Don’t you know any of the basic fire-safety rules? Never stop to collect anything, leave the building immediately.’
‘Sorry,’ Amy repeated. ‘It’s my first day here. Is there a real fire, or is it just a drill?’
But the fireman was impatiently waving her out, and she decided it was better not to draw any more attention to herself. As she ran down the stairs, she took out the list to fold it up and put it safely in the pocket of her handbag. Just as she rounded the bend in the stairs to the ground floor, glanc
ing again at the list, she saw something that gave her such a surprise she almost missed her footing and fell the rest of the way – a name she hadn’t spotted before in her haste to find Becky’s and Katherine’s.
‘Oh, my God,’ she breathed.
35
Becky
Saturday, 29 June
We fall silent as the black taxi creeps closer to our destination through rush-hour traffic. It takes ages to get there. The venue is a massive private house in Holland Park, cake-icing exterior, wrought-iron railings and black front door with huge brass knocker – it’s a private house, or members’ club, I’m not sure which. I feel utterly intimidated as we climb out of the cab and survey the two large bouncers lurking in the entrance. I smooth my tight skirt down over my thighs and swallow hard. My hand is sweaty from clutching the shiny invitation.
A beautiful hostess with a clipboard, gimlet eyes and wide fake smile meets us inside the front door, and we proffer our invites. ‘Welcome!’ she chirps, already looking over our heads to see if there is anyone more interesting arriving. We give her our names, and she ticks us off. Then she holds out two velvet-covered boxes. ‘Phones, cameras, iPads – all gadgets in this one, ladies, please. Strictly no photography.’ She taps a sign on the wall above her head with a lacquered talon: ANYONE TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS WILL IMMEDIATELY BE EJECTED. NO EXCEPTIONS. ‘And take a mask,’ she orders, holding out the second, bigger box.
‘No photography – that’s a relief then.’ I am sounding slightly hysterical as we drop our phones into the box and select masks. Mine is feathery, and Kath’s white and sequinned. We giggle as we put them on. The hostess rolls her eyes, very slightly.
