by Karen Swan
‘Yes, I know,’ Kate said, watching him as he raked a hand through his hair. ‘I spoke with him a short while ago.’
‘So you know then?’
Kate nodded. ‘What did he say?’
‘He’s trying to get an injunction against them, but he doesn’t think it looks good.’ He crossed the room and stood at the windows, staring at the beach goddesses dispassionately. ‘He doesn’t think we should go back till all this has been sorted. Thinks it’s better if we stay away from the UK.’
He shrugged and turned back to her. ‘But fine. We can just go straight up to LA from here. I’ve got masses to do there before the ceremony anyway.’ He walked over to the desk and picked up his BlackBerry.
‘What about the baby?’ Kate asked.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ he said dismissively, scrolling through. ‘Fallon’s got contacts at Cedars-Sinai. We’ll just transfer to them.’
Kate frowned. She couldn’t believe he was so calm about it.
‘No. I mean – how do you feel, now that you know it’s a girl?’
‘I know more than that. I already know which girl.’
Kate looked at him quizzically. What? ‘Who are you calling?’ she asked, frustrated and confused.
He held up a hand again as the line was picked up.
‘It’s me,’ he said darkly. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at? . . . Of course I know . . . Am I supposed to care? . . . No, never did. I was acting on the advice of my briefs . . . Yes, that’s right, she is . . . The whole thing was a sting, babe. We read you like a book. Saw you coming a mile off . . .’
‘Harry, what the hell are you doing? Who are you talking to?’ Kate cried, rushing forwards and trying to grab the phone from his hands. ‘Hang up!’
But he caught her by the elbow and held her back with a single outstretched arm.
‘. . . Your claims won’t wash when I show the evidence I’ve got that you were very, very willing . . . what evidence? . . . There’s a tape in my possession which shows you in a few compromising, but rather athletic, positions . . . What? . . .’
He let go of Kate and marched across the room, banging keys on the laptop. He always left it on and carried it everywhere with him – ready for when inspiration struck.
‘You’re bluffing . . .’ he said, although Kate could see from the way he bit his lip that he was the one bluffing. ‘You don’t have the brains to do something as clever as that . . .’
But as the file programme came up, he could see with his own eyes that she did. He pressed the disconnect button and looked up at Kate, the blood drained from his face.
‘Harry, tell me! Tell me what’s going on!’ Kate cried frantically.
‘I don’t believe it. She’s wiped the tape,’ he whispered. ‘She’s stolen the fucking evidence.’ He paced the room, his hands in his hair. ‘This can’t be happening.’ He wheeled round to face her.
‘Emily’s sold the story?’ she whispered.
‘The News of the World are running it tomorrow. Kate, it’s going to destroy me. They’re calling me a child abuser. They’re running a campaign to have me put on the sex offenders register.’
Chapter Forty-four
Cress curled a cold hand around her glass of vin chaud and stared into the log fire, feeling the blood begin to flow again. It hadn’t been the most successful Christmas ever, chez Pelling. Everyone – including Cress – had bitterly missed Greta, after Cress desiccated the turkey; and despite having thrown thousands at the children’s presents this year, the day had lacked warmth somehow. So when Tor had phoned, inviting them up for New Year, Mark had actually packed within the hour, embarrassingly eager for the company of people other than his wife.
She watched Tor place the mince pies on the hearth to keep warm. She was needed here at least. For all Tor’s public festive cheer, Cress had found her crying in the pantry, and when she came down for breakfast each morning she put her swollen eyes down to hay fever from the Christmas tree. No one was fooled.
Mark and Monty had retired to the local pub to watch the overly hyped Vegas fight on the big screens. It was downright perverse that Hugh wasn’t with them, and Cress knew the boys felt their depleted number as much as the girls did.
‘I wonder how Kate is,’ Tor mused, watching the flames leap.
They all missed her, even Cress, though she’d never admit it. There was no doubt Monty was lost without her. Tor had been stunned by his appearance when he’d arrived on Christmas Eve – ‘We’ll be each other’s makeshift family,’ she’d suggested – like the ghost of Christmas past. But to his credit, he’d been anything but a misery. He’d carved the Christmas roast and chased the children in the garden, and flown the stunt kites on the beach. He’d even been over to see Lily to try to discuss things rationally, but that had been a less successful endeavour. This was Billy’s first Christmas away from home, and although her mother was staying with her, Lily couldn’t be comforted. The revelations seemed to have dredged up all manner of trauma and she was more often than not plastered by lunchtime.
‘I wonder if she’s showing yet,’ she went on.
‘Humph! More than you know,’ Cress muttered, grabbing a copy of Grazia magazine from her bag and tossing it to Tor.
Tor took in the cover, showing Kate, bikini-clad and pregnant, frolicking with Harry by the pool in Barbados.
Tor winced. ‘She’s really not coming back, is she?’ Tor asked forlornly.
Cress shook her head. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’
They heard the front door slam.
‘That’s it. Wake the kids,’ Cress muttered, rolling her eyes. ‘You’ve had a few then?’ she said sarcastically, as the boys trooped in, looking flushed and rather the worse for wear.
‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ Mark retorted coldly, a supportive arm around Monty. ‘We’re supposed to get drunk. Anyway, Monty needed a few beers. He’s had yet more shit news.’
Monty hiccupped and swayed a little, finding an armchair and collapsing into it. He dropped his head into his hands, looking utterly depleted.
‘It’s just one thing after another with this character,’ Mark said contemptuously, handing over the newspaper they’d found in the pub.
Tor leant forward and looked at the headlines.
‘Oh God,’ she muttered.
‘Hunter Teen Sex Scandal’ ran the headline, alongside a picture of an old school photo with a pupil in uniform, ringed, and Harry, also ringed, standing with the teachers further along the line.
‘Oh, he didn’t!’ Cress whispered. ‘The stupid bastard.’
Tor stopped reading, midway through a paragraph, and gasped. ‘She was fourteen!’
Cress stared at the schoolgirl in the picture. She was stunning, familiar.
She read the text: Emily Brookner . . . Cress frowned and tried to remember where she’d seen – no, met – her before. She’d definitely met her.
The girl at the Oxford Union? Yes – that was it. She had said she was with Harry.
Cress bit her lip and felt her blood cool as the events of that night rushed back. She may have come with him, but – thanks to Cress’s ambush – she hadn’t left with him.
No wonder she wanted revenge.
‘Oh, poor Kate. This is the last thing she needs,’ Tor said sympathetically. Despite Cress’s straight-talking on the matter, she still didn’t have her friend’s savvy about Kate’s role in the Tatler affair.
Cress rolled her eyes at her.
‘No. I know you’re cross with her, Cress, but look at things from her perspective: the poor girl’s pregnant with his child, has had the sex of her unborn baby revealed to the world, been photographed in her bikini’ – Tor’s particularly forceful tone at this point revealed how completely beyond the pale that last point was – ‘and now finds out he was having a fling with a girl he’d first seduced as a schoolgirl! It’s not an auspicious start, let’s face it.’
Monty slipped down further in his chair, his skin grey.
‘How long am I supposed to put up with this for?’ he mumbled. ‘It’s like torture. I can’t even go to the pub without seeing a newspaper that has a picture of my wife cavorting with him on the front of it.’
Mark squeezed his shoulder hard, as if trying to aspirate his friend’s anguish.
‘Come on, mate. You’ll get through this. Kate’ll see sense. You’re ten times the man Hunter is,’ he said venomously, his eyes on Cress.
Tor looked at the clock. It was ten to twelve. They weren’t on course for a happy New Year. She took a deep breath.
‘Right, I think we should play a game, folks. The bells are about to ring and we can’t see in the new year on a downer. Next year is going to be the year it comes right for all of us. So let’s try to buck up and have a good night, OK?’
Monty watched her – she, who had lost more than anyone – feeling suddenly ashamed of his self-pity, noticing how her eyes were still puffy from this morning’s furtive tears.
‘We’ll play Who Am I?’ she continued, tearing up pieces of paper, and he sat forward to help her. They smiled at each other, knowingly; Cress and Mark groaned, but everybody wrote down some names and chucked them into an empty ice bucket.
Tor laughed as everyone stuck the pieces of paper to their foreheads. The boys had deliberately upped the ante – sportsmen and politicians were always killer. Cress had Idi Amin taped to her head. She’d never guess it in a million years.
There was a knock at the door. Tor got up to answer it just as the bells started to chime.
She opened the door and looked into the darkness. She was still surprised by the absence of streetlights around here.
‘Hello?’ she called, unsure. Was it just kids larking about?
‘Hi.’
A figure stepped forward. It was James. He was wearing a dark overcoat and carrying a lump of coal. No wonder he’d been hard to see.
‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped, too surprised to be angry and more worried that Mark or, worse, Monty might come out.
‘First footing. I wanted to bring you luck for the New Year,’ he said, proffering the coal.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said uncertainly, reaching out to take it. But he grasped her hand in his and held it fast.
The minutes passed and they said nothing. All that had happened in Cornwall hung in the air, but for some reason her brain could only recall the good bits. Kate who? Amelia who?
There was a low cheer from the drawing room and the door began to open. ‘. . . And get some more booze while you’re there . . .’
He squeezed her hand tightly.
‘So good luck,’ he said, stepping back into the darkness. His eyes moved up to the piece of paper still gummed to her forehead and an infectious smile broke out. ‘You’re going to need it.’
Tor’s eyes widened in horror. She’d completely forgotten about that.
James laughed and winked at her, and then he was gone. She shut the door and pulled the piece of paper off, recognizing the distinctive hand.
She looked down and cringed.
‘Miss Piggy’.
Cress!
Chapter Forty-five
Tor smoothed her skirt over her thighs nervously and looked around. She’d never been to an auction before, but it was exactly as she’d expected – well, fewer women in furs possibly, but certainly the patrician pinstripes and brooched cashmere coats were in abundance. And in contrast to Marney’s school photo, which showed unfeasible numbers of golden-haired children, most of the heads here were grey – as though dipped in moonlight – and the air was as heavy with Elnett as with cologne. The atmosphere was clubby. People were stopping at each row, shaking hands and air kissing, exchanging pleasantries in French, Spanish, Russian, as well as the ‘airhairlair’ brigade, discussing their winter sun breaks and the poor shooting season – in fact, everything but the goodies they’d come to bag today.
Tor looked back down at her catalogue. The oil Harry wanted – a small Reynolds – was the sixty-third and final lot. He already had an impressive eighteenth-century art collection, and he’d been keen to come here and bid on this himself, but his lawyers had advised otherwise, at least until they had quelled the anti-Harry hysteria which was surging following the News of the World’s exposé. Tor had been calling his office all week, trying to get a figure for his highest bid, but hers clearly hadn’t been priority calls and she had no fixed budget. Was the sky the limit?
She wished Cress had come with her, but a call from Richard and Judy had come in, and she had gone to the studios instead. The Wrong Prince had been number one for three weeks now, and to be honest, Cress was almost as much in demand as the mystery author anyway. Her profile during the Tatler hunt, Harry’s latest (and worst) sex scandal and his impending Oscar nomination (which, although not formally announced for another two weeks, was the worst kept secret in Hollywood), and now as the gate-keeper of the identity of the author of The Wrong Prince, meant she titillated the viewers on numerous fronts – had she ever been Harry’s lover? They worked so closely . . . What was he really like? Had she seen him with young girls before? What was she wearing to the Oscars? How did she feel when she first saw The Wrong Prince? Why was the writer hiding?
Tor looked back down and studied the catalogue.
‘Heavens, Tor, is it really you?’
Tor looked up.
‘Laetitia! Fancy! How are you?’
They kissed without making physical contact. Laetitia was looking ‘appropriate’, as ever, wearing a honey tweed suit with a nipped-in shooting jacket and wide-leg cuffed trousers. A pair of chocolate brown ballet pumps, a camel 2.55 Chanel bag and a violet pashmina accessorized perfectly, and Tor felt like an office worker by comparison, in her narrow catalogue-bought navy skirt and man’s striped shirt.
‘On your own?’ Laetitia said, her head cocked to one side as she took in the empty seats on either side of Tor.
Tor nodded. ‘Would you like to join me?’ she offered, hoping desperately Laetitia wouldn’t take her up on it.
Laetitia’s eyes briefly widened in horror. ‘That’s sweet, but I’m with a group just at the front there. We always come to the fine art sales together, then go on to Fiorelli’s for a spot of lunch afterwards.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Tor said weakly.
‘But I can certainly stop for a moment. It’s been so long, hasn’t it? In fact, when was it last?’
Tor stopped to consider. ‘Um, I guess it was Cornwall, in August.’
‘Gosh, yes!’ Laetitia exclaimed. ‘An absolute lifetime. So much has happened since then!’ She leaned in confidingly. ‘I suppose you’re just the person for asking after Kate Marfleet, aren’t you? How’s she bearing up?’
Tor shrugged lightly. ‘Actually, I don’t know. I’ve not seen her in a while.’
‘Really? That does surprise me. You always seemed so – tight. Well, it’s simply super news about the baby. Guy and I were so thrilled when we heard – well, read about it,’ she said, correcting herself with a knowing smile.
Tor didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to give Laetitia a single snippet of information. The woman was vile.
She felt Laetitia’s eyes scrutinize her. ‘Of course, you’ve been through the wringer too, what with the Tatler escapade. Poor you. I couldn’t believe it when I read the things they wrote. I mean, I know the two of you were very touchy-feely at dinner, but it was clear that Harry had no real interest in you. I must say I just couldn’t believe it when the papers wouldn’t let it go that you were The One.’ She tittered to herself, Tor so stunned by the stream of veiled insults that she didn’t even know where to start responding.
‘Besides, it was all in such poor taste given everything that had happened with Hugh. He was such a lovely man. So lovely.’
Tor nodded but didn’t speak.
‘And I expect you can imagine, Guy and I felt your loss more keenly than anyone. We felt so guilty.’
Tor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Guilty?’
‘Yuh, it was such a shock when the policewoman answered his phone. I’ll never forget it.’ A steadying hand flew to her heart, as if the tragedy had been hers, and not Tor’s.
Tor stared at her, hearing the din fade to silence. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to explain.’ Her voice didn’t sound like her own.
Laetitia stared at her. Tor looked odd. ‘Well, because, when he didn’t turn up, we began to worry and ––’
‘Turn up?’
‘Yes. The night he . . . when he was coming over . . .’
‘To you?’
Laetitia nodded. ‘Didn’t you know?’
Tor shook her head. ‘He didn’t say he was going to you.’
‘Oh,’ Laetitia said shortly, clearly miffed that her supporting role in the entire saga had been overlooked. ‘Where did he say he was going?’
Tor ignored the question. ‘Why did he say he was coming over?’
‘I’m not sure. Guy took the call and said Hugh would be staying in the guest suite. Of course, if we’d known he’d been drinking, we never would have allowed it. But then, when he didn’t arrive, we rang and . . .’ she faltered, ‘. . . and the police answered.’
Tor tried to blink back the tears, but they fell anyway, and for the first time, she saw genuine concern cross Laetitia’s face – not because she was sympathetic to Tor’s plight, of course. Rather, it wouldn’t do for other people to think she’d driven Tor to tears.
‘Oh heavens, Tor,’ she whispered. ‘I really didn’t mean to make things worse for you.’
Tor smiled and wiped the tears away, smudging her mascara. ‘You haven’t actually. You’ve made them better.’
Laetitia frowned as much as her fresh Botox top-up would allow. ‘It doesn’t look like it.’
‘I know,’ Tor laughed lightly, sniffing and wiping her eyes again. ‘I know.’
They sat in silence for a minute, while Tor sniffed and intermittently giggled, and began to completely freak out Laetitia.
‘Well,’ she said finally, feeling an acceptable amount of time had passed since first making Tor cry. ‘It’s been simply lovely to see you but I’d better get back,’ she said, waving breezily to the clique who had turned in their seats and were staring.
