Players

by Karen Swan

  ‘Oh yes. Of course,’ she giggled. ‘I guess he would be, wouldn’t he? No wonder I haven’t seen him. My studio’s practically in the boiler room.’ She wrinkled her nose as though it was a dingy bedsit on the Old Kent Road, even though the smallest studios in the building still commanded upwards of £500,000.

  They nodded, already bored – it looked like another no-show today.

  ‘Hey, I don’t suppose I could give you my number to pass on to him – you know, when you see him?’

  ‘He doesn’t really stop to chat, if you get my drift,’ one of them said.

  ‘Oh, yes, I see.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying, right?’ And she skipped down the steps and towards Chelsea Bridge, her brown vintage satchel swinging on her shoulder, her hair catching the breeze.

  If she was more intelligent than she looked, she also looked more beautiful than she felt. Harry hadn’t been near her for weeks. The stream of excuses had been endless – pre-production meetings in LA, research trips for the next title, awards ceremonies, book readings, nightclub launches, chat shows, boutique openings, honorary degree ceremonies. He’d even stopped in his endless quest of trying to get her to go out to places with him. She kept telling him she wanted respect, but what she really needed was more time.

  She inhaled deeply as she strode over the arc of the bridge, lost in thought and oblivious to the double-takes and honking car horns. She’d been making herself indispensable, giving him all the things the other women didn’t even get a chance to try: cooking his meals, giving him packed lunches when he went off to write in the British Library (the only place he could work); ironing his shirts and shagging him senseless.

  And it had been working. Jeremy, his butler, had said she’d put him out of a job (not with the last bit, clearly), and even he had raised his eyebrows at this relationship’s unusual endurance. So when Emily had asked him to give her a key to the Kensington house so that she could surprise him for his upcoming birthday, he had broken his employer’s cardinal rule and given it to her – a gold-dipped one! The very fact that she even knew about it told Jeremy that Mr Hunter had discussed it with her – a most unusual step. That in itself was tacit approval.

  But Emily wasn’t really going there to arrange a birthday surprise. Something – or someone – had changed it all, and she knew she needed to protect herself. Time was running out. Emily was living in his apartment, but he’d spent less than a week with her there in the past month. All the other nights, he’d stayed at his club. It was ‘more centrally located’, he kept saying. But he scarcely made up for it when he was with her – just a few weeks ago he’d been like a lifer let loose in a brothel, practically chasing her from room to room. Now? Well, she’d never have believed he could be so . . . polite, sexually.

  The fact was, she didn’t share his life, only his bed. He hadn’t even mentioned Kensington to her. As far as he was concerned, she didn’t even know it existed. Despite her best efforts to be more than the others – to stand out – she was still nothing more than his illicit thrill. And now he was slipping away from her.

  A rickety Routemaster coughed phlegmatically next to her, its route impeded by the solid chain of traffic, and she jumped on, gripping the smeared handrail tightly as she climbed the steps to the top and took a seat right at the front.

  She looked down from her perch and watched London dance in its new autumn colours. Ginger leaves chased each other along the pavements, leaving the stripped trees to gently shiver against the streaky skies. The sun had lost its power but none of its personality, and it threw long shadows on the ground and shimmering sparkles on the water as pedestrians ambled by, enjoying the new-season feeling of being cosy and wrapped up.

  The journey took nearly forty minutes – Chelsea, South Ken, Gloucester Road – but Emily was in no rush.

  She jumped off at Kensington High Street and started walking up Church Street, moving past the boutique windows without even glancing at all the temptations they had to offer. She wove deftly through the crowds, coming to a small, cobbled one-way lane with a deli on the corner and scores of office workers queuing from the counter and out the door.

  She strode on until the lane opened out suddenly into a leafy square surrounded on all sides by grand red-brick mansions with ornate mullioned windows and shiny black double doors. But she didn’t stop. She walked through it, and turned right up the hill, heading towards Notting Hill and Holland Park, where the houses were bigger still. Here the houses were rendered Regency and set well back from the road, with magnolia trees still in bloom – as though Nature had reserved this little nicety just for this tiny, wealthy pocket – and imposing electric gates keeping out the riffraff.

  Harry’s pile was set right on the crest of the hill and she could already tell that the rooms at the top would be afforded the most commanding views of London. And to think she’d thought those were the USP of the riverside apartment . . .

  She stood at the keypad by the entrance gate and entered the code Jeremy had given her. P-U-S-S-Y. She sighed at the predictability of it all. There was a momentary pause and then the solid black gates silently, smoothly, swung open.

  She gasped at the sight before her. The garden was like a mini Versailles, with clipped, trimmed, practically brushed box hedges planted in curves and symmetrical sweeps around the lawn. A twinkling granite path led up to the steps where, at the top, sat the biggest lemon trees she had ever seen. To the far side sat Harry’s favourite car, the blue Maserati, and the Range Rover.

  She climbed the steps and rang the bell. No one answered. Jeremy had said as much. Harry had sent the housekeeping staff on to Verbier to get the chalet ready for his winter sojourn, but still – it didn’t hurt to double-check.

  Taking the key out of her pocket, her heart galloping, she opened the heavy door and stepped into the hallway, looking around for the control pad.

  One.

  Two.

  Three . . .

  Jeremy had said it was just behind the Magritte. She hadn’t asked for further details, expecting a single impressive spotlit painting on the wall. Tada!

  But looking at the museum-standard gallery stretching out in front of her, she couldn’t tell the Magritte from the Manet or the Hirst, or the Freud or all the others either.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven . . .

  She shut the door and walked quickly down the corridor, scanning the perimeter of each painting. Jeremy had said she’d only have twenty seconds to disengage the alarm before police helicopters and an armed response unit would be scrambled.

  Eleven.

  Twelve.

  Thirteen . . .

  Where was it? Where was it?

  Fifteen.

  Sixteen.

  She was beginning to properly panic when she suddenly saw the glint of the LCD display. She ran over and swiped the card Jeremy had given her, beads of sweat popping up at her brow. She looked at the numbers. The pips had stopped at nineteen.

  Emily leant against the wall and tried to gather her wits. She had come in legitimately, she told herself. She had done nothing wrong. She was just at her boyfriend’s house. There was just one thing she needed to get and then she could go again. No big deal.

  She walked through the hallway into the kitchen, her boots tapping on the marble floor. It wasn’t as she’d imagined at all. She’d supposed he’d have more of the sleek, minimal bachelor style he had going on in the riverside apartment, but this was heavier, warmer. Triple-thickness granite worktops encircled the room, dissecting mahogany Clive Christian cabinetry, with imported antique delft tiles lining the walls. She counted a wine fridge, three sinks, four ovens.

  The drawing room was even more impressive, the size of Claridge’s ballroom, but with fewer chandeliers and better parquet.

  She wondered where to start. The house was huge, far bigger than she’d imagined, and it could be anywhere. She checked the library – more mahogany cabinetry,
lots of Tiffany reading lamps and a Stubbs on the wall, but no sign of what she wanted. It wasn’t in the apartment. It had to be here.

  She went through the bedrooms – all twelve of them immaculately left, as though ready to accommodate any unexpected visits by large parties such as the European Commission, say or the Olympic Federation – but nothing.

  She found Harry’s room right at the very top of the building and accessed by a private lift system. It had to be his. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. The room was round, housed in a tower not visible from the street, with curved glass walls encasing it on all sides. It was like being in the lamp room of a lighthouse. A telescope stood in the middle of the room, and she could see that the roof folded back like an observatory, so that he could watch the stars – or his more delectable neighbours.

  The eight-foot bed had clearly been custom built and was carved in walnut, the footboard housing a flat-screen TV that slid up at the touch of a button. There was no art or curtains hanging on the glass walls, just London pulsing around him in concentric ripples. She stood at the wall and looked down over the smart slated rooftops and realized he really was the king of the castle. Master of all he surveyed. His wealth, success, achievement and power surpassed anything she had imagined. She realized she had done well to hold on to him this long.

  Emily walked across the room into the bathroom and dressing room, and opened the wall of tobacco leather-faced wardrobes. Rails and rails of tweed jackets, cord jackets, linen and seersucker blazers hung there, just waiting to be chosen, each hanger lined with tissue paper and the shoulders covered with muslin. There was scarcely a suit to be seen. His shirts were bespoke, preferring a cutaway collar and double cuffs, and the stacks of cashmere jumpers looked like a Pantone colour chart.

  She went to close the door when she noticed one of the cubbyholes wasn’t filled with jumpers but front-faced. There was no handle, but when she pressed against it, a door sprang open.

  Eureka! A laptop was inside, on idle, sitting on top of a plastic Fortnum’s bag. She peered inside at the yellowing papers. She gave a little, sad smile. She couldn’t resist dropping to her knees and booting up the laptop.

  God, it was so fast. Hers took half a day to get going. Almost instantly it requested a password. She tried ‘Harry’.

  No.

  Hunter?

  No.

  What about Harold? Was he a Harold? Apparently not.

  What could it be? ‘Pussy’ didn’t work, nor Maserati.

  And then it occurred to her. What had brought him all this? She typed in ‘Scion’.

  Bingo. She was in. She scanned through the emails and then the movies. It didn’t take long to find the file she was looking for. She felt her heart break a little as she saw it. A small part of her had hoped that she wouldn’t find this, that coming here today would prove nothing more than paranoia. But as she pressed return and their first night of raw, dirty, insatiable sex popped up on the screen, he confirmed her hunch. It wasn’t enough that he was trying to use the paparazzi as his witnesses. He was going to use this to blackmail her back too. She’d suspected as much when she’d found his homemade collection in the apartment. Why should she have been the only one to get away?

  She watched their beautiful bodies on the screen, dispassionately. But she couldn’t stomach more than a minute of it before inserting the USB flashdrive into the port and transferring the file. She sat on the floor while it saved down, her heart pounding with pain and relief. Then she took out the flashdrive and deleted the file.

  She’d done it. She was in the clear. She had got what she’d come for and covered her back in the process. But where did it leave them? How could she stay with him after this? Because she still wanted to, in spite of everything.

  She logged off, put the memory stick into her satchel, grabbed the Fortnum’s bag and stood up. She took one last look at the room, the intimate sanctuary she knew he was never going to bring her to. She turned to walk away, but something caught her eye. A twinkle.

  What was that by the bed? Something was winking at her in the carpet. She walked over and picked up an earring. It was beautiful. A heart-shaped emerald surrounded by diamonds. A love token.

  She dropped the earring back to the floor and looked around with fresh eyes. She hadn’t thought to look for the other woman here. Even though she’d suspected as much, she’d assumed she was the one who had her feet under the table. She thought the nearest anyone got was the apartment she’d appropriated.

  She walked back into the bathroom and looked in the Smallbone cabinet. There wasn’t much – a Guerlain moisturizer, some Clinique lipstick, Lancôme mascara, Chanel powder – but it was enough. She checked the other wardrobe and found a few Marchesa gowns and some Dolce & Gabbana suits hanging there too. An Hermès whip was propped up in the corner.

  Whoever she was, she had eclipsed Emily’s efforts by quite some distance. If anyone was playing the wife, it was she. Emily was nothing more than the mistress.

  She gulped as hot tears of humiliation ran down her cheeks, everything so clear now. He was out of her league, always had been. She was just a child playing with the grown-ups. It had all been a game to him. Just a frisky, kinky game. She had meant nothing after all.

  She got into the lift and pressed to go down, wiping her tears away angrily. He had played her for a fool. Taken her at face value, the dumb blonde.

  She ran down the spiral staircase, her hands clasping the handrail as she tried to see through the tears, down one floor, then another and then the other, until eventually, dizzy and breathless, she reached the marble hall.

  She stood at the Magritte, wanting to punch it out of its frame and shock him the way he’d shocked her. But she’d never be so reckless. Revenge was a dish best served cold. She knew that better than anyone.

  She leant an arm against the wall and tried to think clearly. She couldn’t go back to the apartment. It would be tonight of all nights that Harry would come back, full of charm and sexual mischief, treating her like his best girl in the world.

  She swiped the card over the alarm and the pips started to beep, and she fled to the door as hurriedly as when she’d first come in. She’d go back to her flat. She needed space to collect herself. To regroup. Think how best to play this.

  Emily shut the enormous doors behind her and stumbled down the steps, out of the gate. It had started to rain. She felt a desperate need to get back to her own flat and hide. She checked her purse. She only had ten quid on her, but at this time of day, traffic would still be quite light and she could be home in under ten minutes. An orange light beamed over the top of the hill, and she flagged it down, passing off the tears as raindrops.

  She collapsed, sobbing, on to the leather seat and began rummaging in her satchel. It had been so long since she’d gone home, at least four months – did she even have the keys on her? Don’t say she’d have to go back to Battersea after . . . Her shaking hands found them. Thank God.

  Roadworks in South Ken held them up and it took over fifteen minutes to get to the flat, so she only had enough to tip the cabbie thirty pence. She hiccupped apologetically and tried to explain, but he drove off without a word of thanks. What would she have said anyway? ‘I’m sorry, but I’m Harry Hunter’s girlfriend. I’m not used to carrying cash.’ It sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous.

  It was raining hard now, the sky ominously dark, thunder rumbling in the distance, and she ran to the door, holding her bag above her head. She fiddled about with the keys, trying to fit the key in the lock, but the rain was cold and stinging on her back. By the time she did get it in, she was wet through, her bag sodden.

  She shut the door behind her and leant against it, momentarily shocked out of her tears by the state of the shabby hall. She’d become so used to Harry’s master of the universe opulence, she’d completely forgotten how – well, how tiny this little flat was. Still, it had always been a useful bolthole and her parents – who never used it – were signing over the
deeds into her name, as her twenty-first birthday present. All her friends already had impressive apartments in South Ken and mews houses in Chelsea, and this somewhat undermined her party scene status as one of the gorgeous new girls about town, but it wasn’t bad for a freebie – and at least she was on the property ladder.

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve and checked the post. There was a horrendous amount, spilling on to the floor, most of it covered with dusty and muddy footprints, caused as the other residents trod over it on their way out and in. She actually couldn’t believe they hadn’t bagged it all up and chucked it away. She scooped up as big an armful as she could manage and staggered up the stairs. She’d have to come back down for the rest in a minute.

  She unlocked the door, her satchel hanging from the crook of her elbow, her jeans clinging to her thighs, and pushed it open with her bottom. She tried to put the letters down on the table but they just slid over, the polythene wrappers of all the catalogues giving momentum so that they ended up in a heap on the floor.

  She sighed and went back down to get the rest, just dropping it carelessly on to the kitchen floor when she got back. She pulled off her boots and beret, and walked through the tiny hallway into the bedroom, feeling her body begin to recover from the shock of the day’s discoveries as she found sanctuary in her little flat. The whole thing probably only measured 800 square feet, and it was far from grand, but she loved it. The first thing she’d done when she’d moved back from Switzerland was to paint everything celadon and have white louvred shutters fitted to the windows. The floorboards beneath the old rotten sisal flooring had proved to be pretty decent – if a little draughty in winter – so she’d stained them with a dark varnish and thrown down some sumptuous sheepskin rugs. But it was the view that she loved best of all. It was pretty, not impressive like Harry’s status skylines, but overlooking the well-kept gardens and hardwood conservatories of her flush neighbours, and she had loved looking out at it when she’d been working on her tiny terrace in the spring, sitting at her small round blue table, feeling like Audrey Hepburn in Gregory Peck’s apartment in Roman Holiday.