The Vanishing Point

by Val McDermid

  ‘Which might have something to do with being your boyfriend.’

  Scarlett gave me a dark look. ‘That might have raised his profile, but he is actually good, you know.’

  ‘Even when he’s off his face?’ A small test of our incipient friendship.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Now the old belligerent Scarlett came leaping out of the cave.

  ‘About half of the times I’ve seen Joshu, he’s been high. You’ve spent too much time round people who abuse drink and drugs not to see that for yourself.’

  ‘So he uses. That doesn’t make him a junkie. He likes to have fun. That doesn’t mean he’s hooked.’

  This wasn’t the time or the place to point out to Scarlett that I wouldn’t have Joshu anywhere near any child of mine, with his drugs and fake guns. But I had made my point. If we were going to be mates, it was as well that I’d got my reservations out in the open sooner rather than later. At least Scarlett knew now that she could rely on me to be honest with her, even when she didn’t like what I had to say.

  We turned a corner that day. I only wish I’d had a clearer view of the road ahead.

  11

  Once I’ve finished the interviews, I generally don’t see anything of my clients until I’ve completed the first draft. When I have queries, I email or phone them. It was different with Scarlett. Five days after we were done talking, she texted me to say she was in town, could she come round to mine?

  I never let clients into my life. They don’t know my address, they don’t come to my home. They are professional acquaintances and they stay in my professional sphere. But Scarlett had blown a hole in her barriers to let me in. The least I could do was to return the favour. So I texted the address back and put a bottle of mineral water in the freezer to chill.

  She turned up in the red Mazda sports car. My house is the end one of a grimy yellow-brick terrace in what barely scrapes by as Hackney. The car stuck out like a pickled onion on a cream cake, but Scarlett had the good sense to stuff her hair in a snood and cover her eyes with a pair of tinted glasses. Not big, outrageous ‘look at me’ sunglasses but understated specs that made her face look different. She made it up the path without dragging anyone’s attention away from the car.

  Once inside, she made no secret of the fact that she was curious. While I made tea, she poked around downstairs, checking out the CD collection, the books and the pictures on the walls. ‘Nice,’ she offered in final judgement as she wandered back to the scrubbed pine table that occupies the dining-room end of the open-plan space I live in, trailing a miasma of Scarlett Smile, the sweet floral signature fragrance the perfumiers had created for her.

  ‘A bit different from yours.’ I poured boiling water into the mugs and stirred the bags around.

  ‘Tell you the truth, I didn’t have a bloody clue when I moved into mine. Half the décor I inherited from the bankrupt geezer I bought it off. The other half, Georgie organised.’ She gave a half-laugh. ‘Nobody I knew ever had “interior décor”.’ She used her fingers to signal quotation marks in the air. ‘You just slapped a bit of paint on the walls. Or picked up some wallpaper off the market. So I’m learning as I go along. This here—’ She gestured at my lemon walls, stripped boards with their blue-and-white striped jute rugs and pale wooden cupboards and shelves. ‘I like this. I could live with something like this. I like coming into people’s houses and seeing what they’ve chosen. I’m learning all the time, Steph. I’m getting the hang of stuff that people like you take for granted.’

  I’d never really stopped and considered how much people in Scarlett’s shoes missed out on. It’s not that I’m posh. My dad works for an insurance company, my mum’s a primary school secretary. But Scarlett was one of Thatcher’s illegitimate kids, the workless underclass. The rest of us, we’re too busy taking the piss or patronising or judging to stop and wonder why people suddenly thrust into the spotlight have such crap taste. When you did bother asking, the answer was uncomfortable.

  Scarlett broke the seriousness of the mood. ‘Got any biscuits? I’m starving.’

  I found the remains of a packet of chocolate digestives that Pete had been working his way through the previous evening. ‘You’re in luck. I don’t usually keep biscuits in the house. It’s too tempting when I’m working at home.’

  ‘Where do you work, then?’ She looked around vaguely, as if she’d missed something.

  ‘I had the loft converted about five years ago. I’ve got an office up there.’

  Scarlett took the offered cup of tea and sat down, stretching out her legs under the table as if she belonged. ‘You live here all by yourself, then?’

  ‘Pretty much. My bloke often stays over but we don’t live together.’

  ‘Why not?’ She stirred sugar into her tea and smiled to soften the question.

  I sighed. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’ I thought about it. ‘I like my own space too much, I think. I’ve lived on my own for a long time and I don’t want to give that up.’

  ‘Sounds like you don’t love him,’ Scarlett said.

  I laughed awkwardly. ‘That’s what he says. But it’s not true. You can love someone without wanting to spend every minute of your life with them. Like Joshu with you. He loves you, but being free to do his own thing matters to him too. I’m a bit like that, I suppose. But my bloke, Pete, he’d like us to live together and for me to give up work so I can devote myself to him. Which I definitely don’t want to do.’

  Scarlett pulled a face. ‘Too right. I see what you mean, about having your own space. And I suppose if Joshu was around twenty-four seven, I’d get stir crazy. It’s going to be weird enough when the baby comes along.’

  ‘How are you feeling about that?’

  ‘Pretty cool. You know? It’s like I spent all my life watching people fuck up with their kids. I’m the greatest living expert on what not to do to your kids. I’m gonna be a good mum. I’m gonna bring this kid up proper. And nothing’s going to stop me.’ And I believed her.

  She delved into her shoulder bag, pulled out a scrunched-up bundle of pages torn out of various brochures and catalogues, and spread them out on the table. ‘This is the cot I’m having,’ she said, flattening a brightly coloured photograph and pushing it towards me. As she went through her purchases, it dawned on me that she probably didn’t have anyone else she could do this with. The girls she went out on the razz with didn’t have the attention span; Joshu didn’t seem bothered about the practical details of their life as parents; and she had no matriarchal family figure to turn to. I was the nearest thing she had to an auntie or a big sister. I couldn’t help feeling that, if I was the answer, Scarlett was definitely asking the wrong question, since I’ve never felt I had a maternal bone in my body.

  Still, watching her enthusiasm was infectious, and in spite of myself I began to engage with the debate over buggies and car seats. We were flicking back and forth between cot mobiles when the alarm on her phone went off. Startled, Scarlett began to gather her papers together. ‘Ah, shit,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m modelling maternity wear at some charity do up Knightsbridge. Scummy mummy meets yummy mummies.’ She shoved the papers in her bag. ‘This has been great. I’ve had a fucking fantastic time.’ She stood up, hand in the small of her back, groaning. ‘Bloody back. This doesn’t get any easier.’ She gave me a hug. ‘Can I come again?’

  I returned the embrace. ‘Of course you can.’

  We were halfway down the hall, nattering about when we’d see each other again, when the front door opened. Pete took a step inside then stopped dead. His face gave nothing away. That was never a good sign. Scarlett stepped back and somehow in the narrow hallway I managed the introductions. Pete grunted in response, but Scarlett either didn’t notice or didn’t care. ‘You got a good one there, mate,’ she told him as she squeezed past him to the door. ‘You want to take care of that one. See you, Steph.’ And she was gone, leaving only a whiff of Scarlett Smile in the air behind her.

  It would be fa
ir to say that Pete wasn’t best pleased by my new best friend. He seemed affronted that I would want to be pals with someone I’d come to know through ghosting them. No, that’s not quite true. If it had been a politician or someone else with status and power, he’d have been happy to include them in our circle. But all he could see was the Scarlett Harlot and all that went with that image.

  ‘People make judgements about us by the company we keep,’ he said patiently, as if he was explaining to a child. ‘I don’t want them misjudging you because you’re choosing to be with her. Everybody knows she’s racist and homophobic and thick as a brick—’

  ‘And they’re wrong. That’s not who she is. It’s who she’s chosen to portray.’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter whether they’re right or wrong. What matters is how people view her. They think she’s a contemptible slapper. And that should be enough to keep you away from her. You’ve got nothing in common with her, Stephanie.’

  ‘I like her.’

  ‘I like Reginald D. Hunter, but I don’t want him in my kitchen.’

  ‘Who’s the racist now?’ I tried to sound light-hearted, but Pete didn’t see the funny side.

  ‘Don’t try to be clever,’ he said, going to the fridge and taking out a bottle of beer. ‘I’m only thinking of you.’

  I knew that was a big fat lie. He was only thinking of himself. Concerned that people would judge him because of the company I kept. But I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. It would only end with bad feeling and I hated to see the hurt in his eyes when he was upset. ‘I’ll make sure your paths don’t cross in future,’ I said.

  Evidently I hadn’t managed to sound conciliatory enough. ‘The easiest way to make sure our paths don’t cross is not to invite her here again,’ he grumbled, walking past me and settling down on the sofa, remote in hand. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming over,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some spaghetti carbonara.’

  He grunted. ‘That’ll have to do then. Come here and give me a cuddle before you get stuck in. It’s been a long and weary road, getting this mix right.’ And that was that. Looking back, I wonder whether he thought I’d agreed to dump Scarlett. It never occurred to me that he’d read me so wrong.

  12

  While I was working on the first draft, Scarlett and I met up once or twice a week. Mostly we got together for lunch in town, but she did come back to the house a couple more times. By now, we both knew we were going to be pals. But there was business to be done too. The plans for the wedding were rattling on, including the selling of the exclusive stories. In spite of Georgie’s entirely reasonable protestations that I wasn’t a journalist, Scarlett had insisted I was the only writer she would talk to. So as well as sorting out the book, I had to write a big magazine piece and a newspaper special about the bloody wedding.

  It was like wrestling cats. Neither Scarlett nor Joshu seemed to have the slightest interest in talking about their love, their wedding or married life and parenthood. In the end, I drove out to the hacienda when I knew they’d both be home and corralled them in the Western-themed living room, where I forced them to give me enough quotes to cobble something together.

  While I played at being a journalist, Scarlett was reading the first draft of the book. We were up against it now, since Stellar Books wanted simultaneous publication with the wedding. Thankfully, Scarlett liked what I’d done, only asking for a few minor changes where I’d misunderstood what she’d been trying to say in her Scarlett Harlot persona. By the week of the wedding, the book was at the printer and the articles were with their respective publications. I had fulfilled my end of the professional bargain.

  That only left the personal stuff. My invitation had been for both Pete and me. I’d dithered over whether I should even tell him about it. He’d probably be working. And he wouldn’t want to come anyway. In the end, I decided not to mention it. I realise I was taking the coward’s way out, but I just wanted to enjoy the day without feeling crap about myself. I knew there would be lots of photos in the press, but I reckoned I could stay out of the front line. Nobody would be interested in me when there was a whole raft of C-list slebs to choose from.

  The happy couple were dressed to the nines. Scarlett’s dress was a miracle of designer finesse. Although she was almost eight months gone, so artfully was the ivory silk dress cut and styled, the pregnancy barely showed. A froth of lace and gold thread surrounded her head in an extravagant halo, turning her into a Yes! magazine madonna. Joshu had cleaned up nicely too. His morning suit fitted perfectly, his hair was neatly barbered and he appeared to be drug-free. I wished for his sake that his family had been there to see how beautifully turned out he was. Mind you, given his adamantine conviction that his mother would not be happy till she saw Scarlett stoned in the street, it was probably as well they’d stayed away.

  The ceremony itself was surprisingly dignified. They’d opted for a non-denominational service with a spiritual dimension. The readings were genuinely moving, the music had not been mixed or juggled by Joshu, and because they held it in the morning, before most of the guests had started drinking, nobody disgraced themselves in public. I was amazed; the media were disappointed.

  By the end of the evening, the hotel ballroom wasn’t trashed, though the majority of the guests were. The groom included. Scarlett had spent most of the wedding reception sprawled on a banquette with a cushion rammed into the small of her back. She’d held court, graciously air-kissing everyone who wanted to stop by and be snapped with her. But I could see that she was starting to wilt.

  I found Joshu in the bar with a gaggle of his buddies. His tie dangled from his collar, his coat was slung over a chair and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He was the very picture of ruined debauchery. It was clear there was no prospect of calling on him to rescue his wife from her hangerson. I left him to it, wondering if this would end up being the impetus for the first of many marital rows. At least he wouldn’t ruin the honeymoon.

  There wasn’t going to be one.

  Well, not for a while anyway. Scarlett’s pregnancy was so advanced no airline would touch her as a passenger. And neither Scarlett nor Joshu could conceive of a honeymoon that didn’t involve intercontinental air travel. The plan was that they’d have a quiet couple of days at home. The honeymoon would have to wait until the baby was old enough to make it to the Maldives. So it wasn’t like Joshu was strictly necessary for this part of the proceedings.

  My next best option was George. But he was nowhere to be found. I did eventually stumble on Carla, his assistant. She was fawning drunkenly over a minor soap star but she unpeeled herself long enough to reveal that George had left hours ago. She did, however, have the details of the car service that had been detailed to take the newlyweds home.

  I called the driver and told him to be outside in five minutes. I sidled along the banquette next to Scarlett and leaned over to mutter in her ear. ‘I think you’re about to turn into a pumpkin. I’ve ordered the car.’

  She turned and kissed my cheek. ‘I love you, Steph,’ she said. ‘Come on then. Since my husband’s neither use nor ornament, you’d better keep me company.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning . . .’

  ‘Aw, come on, Steph, it’s my wedding night and I can’t even get pissed. The least you can do is come home and have a laugh with me.’ She pulled a pitiful face and whimpered like a puppy.

  And so Scarlett ended up sneaking out of her own wedding reception with her ghost. We giggled all the way back to Essex, cheerfully ripping into the wedding guests, their outfits and the more outlandish bits of behaviour on display. But by the time we got back to the hacienda, Scarlett was definitely running out of steam. She could barely get out of the back of the limo, and under the security lights she looked drawn and frail. She threw her arm round my waist for support and together we hobbled inside. I tried to get her to go straight to bed, but she just groaned and subsided on to one of the sofas
. ‘I need to get out of this bloody frock,’ she complained. ‘But I can’t be arsed.’

  I went off to the kitchen to make tea. When I returned, she’d crawled out of the confines of her dress and was half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa in a sheer silk slip, the kettle drum of her belly tight against the material. ‘What a day,’ she sighed. She held her left hand up to the light and admired the big chunk of gold on her ring finger. ‘Mrs Patel.’ She sniggered. ‘They’d love that back in Holbeck.’

  ‘Holbeck?’

  ‘Leeds’ answer to the Lost Continent. Where I grew up. Where half the population are British Asian and the other half think the BNP are too bloody left-wing. You know what, I think I’m going to stick to my own name.’

  ‘Did you miss your family?’

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Did I tell you, my mum tried to get in touch? The publicity must have penetrated her drunken haze. Either that or my sister put her up to it. Thinking there was maybe an earner in it for them. Luckily, the only number she’s got for me is Georgie. When push comes to shove, there’s nothing like having the posh gits on your side. They totally know how to put the fear of God up the lower orders. He menaced the living shit out of her. Told her he’d set the five-oh on her and all sorts. So she backed off. And I’m not sorry. I’d have spent the whole bloody day wondering when it was all going to go off.’

  I yawned. ‘Fair enough.’ I stood up. ‘And now I’m heading for home.’

  ‘Aw no, Steph,’ Scarlett protested, pushing herself upright. ‘You can’t leave me all alone on my wedding night. That would be so wrong.’

  I laughed. ‘Can you imagine what the red-tops would make of that? “Scarlett Harlot spends wedding night with ghost.” No, I’d better get back.’

  ‘No, seriously, Steph. I don’t want to be alone in the house tonight.’ All at once, the frivolity had dissipated. Scarlett was deadly serious. ‘I feel like shit and I don’t want to be alone.’