Players

by Karen Swan

  Tor fell silent.

  Cress took a deep breath. ‘Well, it just seems curious to me that in the face of such enormous tragedy, your story with James hasn’t yet played itself out. Usually an event of that magnitude is an absolute end point for a relationship.’

  Tor sighed, defeatedly. ‘Oh, I don’t know why it keeps dragging on. It shouldn’t be so hard – in a population of 60 million – to keep away from one man. Should it?’

  ‘No. It shouldn’t,’ Cress agreed. ‘You shouldn’t have to feel like you’re swimming against the tide just to keep someone out of your life.’

  Tor nodded, pleased that Cress had seen she was right. ‘Precisely. Thank you.’

  ‘Which suggests to me that perhaps he’s supposed to be in it,’ Cress went on, nailing her point with a satisfied smile.

  Tor narrowed her eyes crossly. ‘Oh Cress, let’s be realistic. This is not Mills and Boon, it’s Battersea, and a happy ending here is getting your child into the nursery of your choice, not . . . not love conquering all!’

  Chapter Forty-eight

  You’ve come a long way, baby, Kate thought to herself as she watched Keira Knightley being powdered and Dame Judi Dench being primped. Mobiles were going off like fireworks on November the Fifth, and there was so much egoism in the air, you could practically chew on it.

  The year’s Hollywood elite had gathered here for the Academy Awards nominees’ photograph, just before the annual nominees’ lunch, and Kate was intrigued by the tense atmosphere and frosty body language. Even the entourages were jockeying for position, with one of the Best Actor PAs complaining about the lighting and a Best Director’s right-hand man demanding body-temperature triple-purified oxygenated water for his boss.

  Kate blew out her cheeks and stepped back from the set. Even with the air-conditioning on full blast, the heat from the lights was intense. She shrugged off her wispy pistachio cashmere shrug and smoothed her pink silk dress over her bump, feeling conspicuously like a hippo.

  Harry hadn’t been near her for weeks. The combination of his new book deadline for Cress (which he had missed two weeks ago), the forthcoming Oscars, the stress of the News of the World case and his action against James was really getting to him. And by his own admission, when he’d turned her down the other night in bed, he wasn’t one of those men who found pregnancy sexy. He hated the way her nipples had darkened, and had started finding fault with her, saying she had begun to ‘waddle’, and that her ankles had thickened.

  She looked down at her tummy, which was satisfyingly prominent now, entering rooms a couple of seconds before her and demanding to be acknowledged in conversations. She was carrying well, she thought. High and in front. She still had her waist (from behind), and none of it had gone on to her bum yet. Still, that appeared to count for nothing. It seemed to be the tummy Harry had a problem with, and she was growing more anxious by the day at his increasingly distant attitude towards the baby.

  Her mobile buzzed and she picked it up. It was Monty. She’d taken a couple of photos of her bump in the mirror and sent them on to him – at his insistence. Ever since the newspaper coups at Christmas, he’d started calling regularly, just to ‘check up’ on her. She hadn’t told Harry of course. There was no need to. But it was comforting to have him back in her life, even if it was just a ‘How’s it going?’ every week. He’d wrong-footed her with his forgiveness for her behaviour following the fall-out of their marriage.

  ‘It’s a boy!’ said his text. Kate smiled at the irony. Thanks to the Sun, everyone in the western world now knew she and Harry were having a girl.

  Hearing a ‘hurrah!’ and a small round of applause, Kate looked up and saw Harry clapping, his eyes dancing, as Amelia Abingdon, looking utterly radiant in a lemon chiffon babydoll, picked her way daintily to the centre front gilt chair, which was awaiting her pert little bottom.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, everyone,’ she said sweetly in her plum voice, one hand resting on her bump by way of explanation.

  ‘You’re worth the wait, Amelia,’ Harry said from his spot immediately behind her. Although he was ‘only’ up for Best Adapted Screenplay, and would usually be positioned somewhere in the shadows at the back, he was every bit as much a leading man as the Best Actors and had been given a suitably prime spot. From the look on his face as Amelia settled herself, allowing him to peer down at her ample décolletage, her pregnancy didn’t seem quite as unattractive as Kate’s.

  ‘Right, everybody,’ the photographer called. ‘We’re good to go. Mike, just test the light-stop behind E6 for me, please.’

  Kate waved at Harry, but he was too engrossed in conversation with Keira to notice. Kate sighed and, grabbing a bottle of water from the catering table, walked out of the studio.

  ‘I’m just getting some air,’ she said to a black-suited security guy. The Academy took the security of their Finest incredibly seriously, and there were people with buzz-cuts and walkie-talkies all over the place.

  She pushed open the doors and went and sat on the steps, overlooking Hollywood Boulevard. Her bump was too big to sit forward now, and she leant back against the wall, feeling as if she was in a Coke advert as the sun beat down and kids on skateboards raced past.

  Even in February it felt like summer and Kate placed a protective arm over her bump. Across the street, she could see a woman coming out of her condo with three little girls. She watched the woman bend down and speak to the biggest child for a moment, then go back into the building. The eldest two sat on the stone steps, waiting, playing on their Nintendos, calling out something to the younger girl, who was untangling a skipping rope and singing to herself. Kate watched the three sisters, and thought about all the things she’d teach her own little girl – French knitting, clapping games, playground rhymes and cat’s cradle. Would this baby be an only child? Harry didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about having more.

  She could feel something pushing forward into her consciousness. What was it? She squinted through the sunlight, and shaded her eyes, just as the sun goddess herself came and sat down next to her, a vision in primrose.

  ‘It’s Kate, isn’t it?’

  Kate looked into Amelia’s smiling eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mind if I join you? I was suffocating in there. They’re still fannying about with the lights. I just need a couple of minutes of fresh –’ she took in the slow crawl of traffic – ‘well, freshish air.’

  She took a swig of water. ‘It’s been bothering me where we’ve met before. Was it at Rick Stein’s last summer?’

  ‘Yes. I’m impressed.’ The memory that had seemed momentarily to be of importance sank back unasserted into the ether.

  ‘Well, I remember a rather memorable conversation we had.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘About a certain man-whore.’

  Kate laughed. ‘Quite! You said we’d all have tales to tell about him.’

  Amelia smiled. ‘And now you do. Have you been together long?’

  Kate rubbed her tummy and smiled. ‘Since the summer.’

  ‘Ah, so it was that imminent. It did sound like something was brewing,’ Amelia smiled. ‘Well, congratulations.’

  ‘And you,’ Kate said, nodding towards Amelia’s bump. ‘You’re disgustingly neat.’

  Amelia shrugged and rolled her eyes. ‘James has got me on a macrobiotic diet.’

  Kate tensed, her antenna up. She’d clean forgotten about their relationship. Obviously, she was too late in her pregnancy to fly now – that was why she hadn’t been with him at the GMC hearings – and Kate hadn’t seen them together since the launch in Norfolk, so she didn’t automatically think of them as a couple. She kept thinking about him in connection with Tor . . .

  She must want something.

  As if reading her mind, Amelia cleared her throat. ‘Actually, it’s funny to have run into you today. There was something I was hoping to speak to you about.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Kate said levelly, ready to put her work hat on and drop the temperature
several degrees.

  ‘It’s about James. He’s terribly unhappy, you see.’ She heard Kate snort, but went on. ‘That GMC hearing really shook him. He always saw it as the one thing in his life that was untouchable. I wondered whether you and I could intervene and try to get the boys to sort things out once and for all.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt that, Amelia. Things have gone too far.’

  Amelia paused for a moment. ‘But why does Harry hate James so much?’

  ‘Why does Harry hate James?’ Kate snorted. ‘You mean why does James hate Harry so much, surely? His breach of confidentiality is just the latest in a series of persecutions.’

  ‘Persecutions? What has Harry been telling you?’

  ‘Enough. Everything. Don’t forget I’m his lawyer too. He’s told me about events that go way back to their school days. I know what I’m talking about, Amelia.’

  ‘You have known James for a long time, Kate, and we both know how important his career is to him. Even putting aside the man’s sense of honour, you can’t ignore his ambition. Do you really think he’d engage in a tit-for-tat that could ruin everything he’s worked for? His relationship with the palace – his family’s connection with the royals? Even though he’s been cleared, things may already be beyond repair.’

  ‘He broke his Hippocratic oath to try to hurt Harry, Amelia. Harry said he would. Months ago, he told me James wouldn’t stop until he had broken him. And he was right.’

  ‘Wouldn’t stop what?’

  Kate looked at her. ‘James is blackmailing Harry,’ she said curtly.

  Amelia laughed out loud. ‘I don’t think you believe for one minute that James is actually capable of that.’

  Kate spun round. ‘On the contrary, I think he’s perfectly capable of it. He has proved to me time and again that he is a skilled liar, only out to protect his own interests.’

  Amelia stopped laughing and swallowed. She knew exactly what Kate was referring to. James had told her everything.

  ‘Well, with what would James blackmail him? They’re scarcely in each other’s lives. How could they hold any incriminating information about each other?’

  ‘It’s something from the past. Something that happened at school.’

  Amelia stared at her, her voice rising. ‘At Eton?’

  ‘Yes. There was a boy there – Hillier – who died. He fell off the roof one night. Harry was up there with him but no one except James ever knew that he had been there when he fell. Then when Harry’s contract came up for renewal, Hillier’s name was suddenly mentioned and the threat was made to go public about his involvement, unless he signed with a much smaller firm – a firm far too small for someone of his calibre. It was humiliating for him. James was the only person who could have supplied Hillier’s name. He’s behind it all. He’s the one trying to ruin Harry. Not the other way round.’

  A couple of tourists up the street spotted Amelia and were pointing, beginning to take pictures of her on their phones. Amelia stood up slowly, choosing her words carefully.

  ‘Harry’s lying to you, Kate.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Amelia looked down nervously to the ground, aware that the gathering crowd had broken into a trot.

  ‘He is. And I can tell you why I know he is: because one vital piece of information in that story is wrong.’

  Kate frowned. What could Amelia possibly know about all of this?

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The boy who fell was not called Hillier. His name was Julian Abingdon.’

  Kate looked up at the mention of his name.

  ‘Abingd–– ’

  Amelia’s voice was tight but she was looking straight at Kate. ‘He was my cousin. Check the records. It’s all there.’

  Kate swallowed, horrified and confused.

  Amelia’s hand had started inching towards the door as the crowds ran towards her.

  ‘If I was you, Kate, I’d ask myself why Harry deliberately gave you the wrong name. He knows full well it was my cousin that fell. And he also knows James would never use my cousin’s death as leverage against him. If what you’re saying is true and he is being blackmailed by someone – and I can well believe he’s a man with enemies – that story is not the reason why. But – I don’t know – maybe that boy is.’

  Kate couldn’t find the words to respond, but she heard the door swoosh shut, just as the fans descended upon the steps, calling for Amelia and holding out Hollywood maps and tour books for autographs. The security guard immediately stood in front of the doors, and Kate wondered how she too would be able to get back in again. Would she have to call Harry to come and get her?

  She flinched at the thought, and shook her head in bitterness at how much she had come to rely upon him. Six months previously, she wouldn’t have recognized herself. She’d lost her independence in every way. Her career now existed in name only, and was dependent upon Harry’s patronage; she had lost her friends, her family and left her home and country. Their entire life was lived on his terms, with his money, and seemingly, through his lies.

  To hell with the nominees’ lunch, she thought suddenly, anger beginning to pulse through her. She had to get her head straight, had to get the facts straight. She got up from the baking pavement and skipped down the steps to the waiting stretch.

  ‘Take me to the library, Christophe,’ she said into the speaker, as she slid along the gleaming back seat.

  Ignoring the grand cuvée on ice, she poured herself a glass of mineral water and stared out of the window. She dealt with cover-ups and alibis and full-blown fabrications on a daily basis, and her gut told her Amelia wasn’t lying. Which meant Harry was.

  But why? And how much? Was he lying outright, or merely playing games with the truth? She hadn’t forgotten Cress’s text the night of the Oxford debate. She had clearly seen Hillier’s name. Amelia was right – somehow this Hillier chap had to be involved in this. And somehow, so did Cress.

  Eight hours later, as Cress picked up her mail from the hall console, ready to leave for the airport, she was excited to see a hand-written stiffy in the pile of typed bills and automated junk mail. She took the letter opener from the study and opened it carefully, enjoying the crisp slice through the tissue-lined envelope. Such a rare treat, she mused, pulling out the red-edged card.

  The message, in an elegant black italic hand, was stark, plain, succinct.

  And terrifying.

  Bring the manuscript to Los Angeles.

  His time is up.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  ‘Just press one of these buttons and I’m at your service, madam,’ said the butler, after he’d shown Cress around the suite. ‘Should I unpack for you?’

  ‘No, no, that’s quite all right, Robert,’ Cress said quickly. She didn’t want anyone else – not even Mark – rifling through their belongings. And Greta could do the children’s. She certainly wasn’t being paid just to look pretty. ‘Just tell me, which one’s the front door again?’

  They were standing in a large travertine hallway, with five burr walnut doors fanning out, pentagonally, around them. It was like being Alice in Wonderland. She felt completely disoriented.

  Robert smiled and stepped forward. ‘This one, ma’am.’

  ‘Right, got it,’ Cress said, although she didn’t.

  ‘Shall I bring through some tea?’

  ‘Smashing. I’m gasping.’

  As Robert left through the correct door, Cress tried two more before finding the one that led to the master suite. It was vast. She and Mark each had a separate bathroom, and the bed was so big, she was sure they could go days in here without ever bumping into each other – much to his delight, no doubt, she thought dryly.

  The whole suite had been done up in Ralph Lauren blues and whites, with huge shells and corals on minimal black consoles, and pristine white sofas in every corner, making Cress wince at the very thought of the muck and grime that accompanied the children like shadows.

  Wa
lking across the carpet, which was so soft she could have sworn it was a cashmere blend – hmmph, Tor had been wrong about that after all – she grabbed the white linen hanging bag that had Valentino emblazoned across the front in strict black letters.

  She unzipped it and took the dress out, shaking out the creases so that leaves of tissue escaped silently from the crimson folds and floated to the floor. Suspended on just its padded silk hanger, it still hung ghost-like, in a womanly silhouette, the embonpoint expertly crafted to lift and shape, the waist to whittle, the hips to smooth. It was classic and dramatic and Mark would love it. God knows, Valentino would have to do for her marriage what Relate did for others.

  She adjusted her watch to local time and turned her laptop on, jumping into the steam shower while it booted up. She could literally feel the aeroplane’s grime dislodge from her pores, trying to cleanse, to purify, to atone. Grubbiness was a feeling that dogged her now – as though all the mud-slinging with Harry had begun to stick on her and stain her. She felt toxic, the almost constant headaches symptomatic of the drug that was really poisoning her: her own ambition.

  This was the price she had to pay for her greed, her lust for power. With this new note . . . his time is up . . . his time is up . . . It provoked the unspoken question. Was hers, too?

  She emerged fifteen minutes later, her skin glowing and her hair slicked back as neat as a pin – she looked polished but she still felt grimy.

  Robert had set out the tea as if she was the Queen. Stiff pyramid-shaped tea-bags from Fortnum’s were set out on their own tiny individual ceramic trays, with protractor-cut cucumber sandwiches and fondant-coloured madeleines arranged on a cake-stand.

  She muttered to herself, grabbing one, as she scanned her emails. ‘And to think I would have been happy with PG Tips and a packet of hobnobs.’

  She clicked on a new message from Rosie.

  Located a Bridget Hillier on electoral register in Bern. Still looking for Amelie. Will put searches on birth, marriage and death records there.