by Karen Swan
‘Actually, Harry, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
Harry angrily dragged red weals across his speech and spun around to face her.
‘Jesus, Kate, can you not see that I’m racing against the clock here, trying to get this wrapped up? We’ve got to leave in three hours.’
‘It’s important.’
Harry looked at her, his eyes flashing. ‘It always is, with you.’
‘You have to drop the case against James. You’re not going to win it.’
‘Says who?’
‘The papers are painting this action as capricious. It’s doing serious damage to your reputation pursuing it. You’re being portrayed as a spoiled, self-indulgent bully. You’ve lost the public’s sympathy, Harry. They don’t care whether James did or didn’t sell that information to the papers. They just don’t want you to win.’
‘I care! It’s got nothing to do with anyone else but us. I want the truth!’
Kate paused. She sincerely doubted that. ‘Well, if that’s the case, then I think I can give it to you.’
Harry stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I think I’ve worked out how the information was obtained.’ Kate swallowed hard. ‘And it wasn’t from James.’
‘What?’ He was furious. ‘How do you know?’
Kate walked across the room and stood in front of the stone fireplace.
‘On Christmas Day, when you – when you went diving, I just wanted to get away from all the photographers. They were everywhere. I couldn’t sit by the pool, and all those stupid girls were out on the beach, so I couldn’t go there . . .’
Just as well, Harry thought to himself, as he remembered his Christmas present to himself.
‘. . . So I drove into town, and I saw a little girl as I parked the car. Her family were in church and she was outside on her own. I was a bit worried about her.’ Kate shrugged. ‘We started talking and she was curious about the baby . . .’
Harry’s eyes narrowed.
‘. . . I told her we were having a baby girl.’ She paused, trying not to be intimidated by the look on his face. ‘I even told her the names we liked.’
‘You did what?’ He jumped up.
‘She could only have been six or so, Harry. It didn’t cross my mind that . . .’
‘You stupid cow!’ he hollered. ‘If any of the reporters saw you together, they probably only had to buy her a lollipop to find out what you were talking about.’ He ran his hands through his hair and started pacing the room. ‘Jesus! I cannot believe you were so bloody stupid. How could you trust her? You can’t trust anyone! Haven’t you realized that yet?’
Kate hung her head. ‘I’m sorry. I . . . I’ve just been in such a state. There’s been so much going on, what with Emily and James; and I was just so excited about the baby and I couldn’t really share it with . . . with you . . .’ She flopped her hands to her sides. ‘My head was elsewhere. It was a lapse of judgement. I’m sorry.’
Harry stared at her, his eyes like slits.
‘Who else knows about this?’
Kate shrugged. ‘No one. I only put two and two together this morning in the shower. I’d forgotten all about her. She only popped back into my head because I was going over baby names again and I remembered how she couldn’t pronounce . . .’
‘No one must find out about this,’ he interrupted. ‘It changes nothing. We’re carrying on as before. White’s going to carry the can for this.’
‘But Harry! He’s done nothing wrong.’
‘I want him ruined, Kate.’
‘You said you wanted the truth.’
Harry flashed his eyes at her. ‘Bollocks to that! I’ll be damned if I’m going to play at being gentlemen now. He’s on the ropes. This is my chance.’
Kate slapped her hands against her thighs in frustration. ‘This has got nothing to do with the baby at all, has it? You couldn’t give a damn whether he is or isn’t speaking to the press. This is just a vehicle for you, an opportunity to hit back at him.’
‘So what if it is? Why the hell shouldn’t I? Look what he’s been doing to me!’
Kate crossed her arms. ‘You mean the blackmail? Being in cahoots with Cress?’
‘That’s right!’
‘Because of that story you told me – the boy who fell?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hillier?’
‘Yes!’
‘Yes what?’
Harry paused, confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, which one are you being blackmailed over? The story about the boy who fell? Or the story about Hillier?’
Harry stared at her, frozen.
Kate dropped her voice. ‘Because they’re not one and the same, Harry. They’re two entirely different stories. You know full well that the boy who fell was Julian Abingdon.’
Harry still said nothing.
‘So why did you tell me it was someone called Hillier? Why have you put him into an entirely different story? Why are you trying to throw me off the scent with half-truths? What is it you don’t want me to know about him?’
Harry shifted weight. ‘Hillier. Abingdon. Whatever. So I got the name wrong. It was a long time ago.’
He shrugged.
‘I don’t think so.’ Kate shook her head. She wasn’t going to be deterred. ‘Something is going on with Hillier. And Cress is involved. I saw his name on her texts.’
She watched the high colour drain from his cheeks. ‘You’re lying to me. You lied to me to peel me away from my friends and family so that you’d be the only person I had left. And it’s worked, hasn’t it? I mean, just look at me!’ She threw her arms up in the air, indicating their lavish home. ‘Following you around the world – dashing across borders before your latest sex scandal sees your visa denied, carrying your baby, living your lies, hating your enemies, dovetailing my career to pursue your feuds.’
He watched her, so sure, so right, the synapses of her brilliant brain skipping from one truth to another, untangling his web, dismantling his defence.
‘But I’m not the enemy, you know,’ she said more quietly, taking his silence for acquiescence. She moved over to him and placed her hands on his chest. ‘Yes, you’ve lied to me. But I still love you. I’m on your side. But you have to trust me. I can’t help you if you don’t trust me. I’m your brief. I . . .’
‘No, you’re not.’
She paused for a beat. ‘I know. I know I’m your girlfriend and the mother of your unborn child, but I’m also still your legal counsel . . .’
‘No. You’re missing the point.’ His voice was flat.
Kate stared at him.
‘I took a call from Nicholas Parker yesterday,’ he said levelly, though she could see a spark flicker in his eyes.
‘And?’
‘They’re stepping down as my legal representatives.’
‘They’re what?’
‘They think I’d benefit from a new team, a fresh campaign.’ Harry paused. ‘Makes me sound like a fucking politician, don’t you think?’
Kate’s hands flew to her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe they’ve let you go. You’re their biggest asset.’
‘And their biggest liability it would seem. The mauling I’ve been taking in the press hasn’t done their reputation any good either.’
‘Even so . . . I’ll speak to Parker, Harry. I’ll sort it out. ’
‘No you won’t.’ Harry regarded her coolly. ‘He asked me to pass on a message to you too.’
Kate swallowed hard. ‘Which was?’
She saw his eyes dance. ‘You’re fired.’
Going against James’s direct orders, Cress refused to stay in bed and hopped into the car that she had arranged to take her and Tor over to Harry’s apartment. The party to celebrate Harry’s screenplay deal with Dreamworks was being hosted there tomorrow night, and she hadn’t even had time to check out the décor yet. This was no time for lying about in bed. A couple of painkillers would have to do now what a lie-d
own could do later. The show had to go on – now more than ever.
Tor was sitting opposite her, tapping her thigh impatiently and transferring all her agitation at James to the deplorable state of LA’s traffic.
‘You seem hot and bothered,’ Cress observed laconically. It was clear Tor was the one who needed support this morning.
Tor looked annoyed. ‘Well, of course I am. The Bonham’s couriers will be waiting. I specifically said I’d meet them there at 10 a.m. You can’t very well keep a five million pound masterpiece hanging around on the pavement.’
Cress said nothing, but the smile hovering at her lips showed she didn’t believe that excuse for one second.
‘Besides,’ Tor continued, trying to prove her friend wrong; she knew exactly what she was thinking: ‘This is going to be the first time I’ve seen the apartment. What if it hasn’t worked? It’ll be a disaster. I’ll be devastated.’ She threw her hands into the air, dramatically. Cress was still staring. ‘So I’m nervous.’
Just then her tummy rumbled and she clapped her hand over it, realizing she still hadn’t had a chance to eat yet. Cress’s headache had deferred breakfast and then with James . . . well, her mind hadn’t been on food.
She shook her head with disgust at herself. She couldn’t believe he’d done it again. Snared her, fooled her. What kind of an idiot was she to keep falling for his sexy smile and thoughtful paintings?
Traffic started moving and they pulled on to a freeway that appeared to be every bit as wide as Wales. Tor closed her eyes, trying not to freak out at all the overtaking on both sides and at Cress’s scrutinizing stare.
‘Just tell me what he did this time,’ Cress said quietly.
Tor opened one eye. It was useless trying to lie to Cress. She was the master liar, after all. She’d blackmailed Harry Hunter, for heaven’s sake.
‘He gave me a painting I’d wanted. One I saw at the auction.’
‘Did you accept it? Please say you didn’t do anything stupid – like decline it?’
‘Of course I declined!’ Tor screeched, making Cress wince – the painkillers could only do so much.
They sat in silence the rest of the way, Cress massaging her temples while Tor dozed off some jetlag. She’d had a dreadful night.
They pulled up outside the apartment block fifteen minutes later, and the Bonham’s couriers were only just pulling up ahead of them, having been caught in the same traffic quagmire.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Tor exclaimed, bounding out of the car, relieved to have some distance from Cress and her penetrating questions. Sympathy wasn’t helpful right now.
The Bonham’s boys smiled, as Tor handed over her passport and they verified her ID. She looked at the cargo. It was huge. The painting was triple-wrapped in linen and boxed in a double-framed crate that made it almost twice its actual size.
Cress went ahead, entering the nine-digit security code and unlocking the doors, but she stood back to let in Tor, who was practically frothing at the mouth to see it all. She ran past and felt a rush of adrenalin as she walked in. Throughout the project, she’d been working off photographs and architect’s drawings, creating mood boards that looked great as a presentation but gave her no real idea as to whether it would actually come together in the space.
But immediately she walked in to the vast open-plan space, she knew she’d pulled it off. Ever since Harry had first mentioned getting the Reynolds at the dinner in Cornwall, she’d had a hunch to put a severe gunmetal grey on the walls; and looking around now, she knew she’d been spot on. The triple-aspect arched French doors meant there was more than enough light flooding in, and the scheme looked brooding, clean, dynamic and masculine. A white Barcelona chair and footstool – apparently he had one in his London flat – also helped to refract the light, and white leather shutters were folded back against the walls.
She walked over and sat down at the black crocodile-skin desk, running her hands over the gleaming hide. If you didn’t have someone to love, this was surely the next best thing.
Tor flitted around the space, appraising the 300-year-old sculpture of Artemis she’d had shipped over from the Sotheby’s Garden Sale in Sussex and fine-tuning the position of the status photographs and publishing industry awards Harry had sent over.
It worked. It really worked. And her heart gave a little soar as she heard Cress’s gasp as she followed her in.
‘Holy cow, Tor!’
The couriers whistled as they walked in with the boxes too.
‘Nice. Whose place is this?’ one of them asked.
‘Harry Hunter’s.’
The courier grinned and shook his head. ‘Of course, the golden boy’s. He’s got it all, hasn’t he?’
He’s certainly got something, Tor thought to herself, as it struck her again what fool’s gold it was.
‘Right. Where’s this baby going?’ asked the other courier.
‘Over there, please,’ Tor said, indicating the wall behind the desk. Everything was ready for it. The space had been measured and the lights positioned accordingly. Tor stood with her hands clasped beneath her chin as the men skilfully opened the crate and lifted out the painting. Once again, it knocked the stuffing out of her. It had a handsome pathos that was intriguing and absorbing. It was impossible to walk past it. It positively shone.
The two women watched it lifted into position and straightened. Cress smiled at her and patted her on the shoulder.
‘A job well done, girl,’ Cress praised her. ‘Summershill Interiors is well and truly flying now.’
Her mobile rang and she turned away to speak to Mark, who was down at the pool with the children. Tor quickly got on the line to speak to hers and check they were wearing sunscreen and not splashing any celebrities, before handing the phone back.
When she turned around, the men were waiting for her attention.
‘And where would you like this one?’
‘This what?’
‘This painting. The . . .’ The courier checked his paperwork. ‘The Death of Orion.’
Tor frowned at him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. We haven’t bought another painting.’
The man checked his paperwork and shrugged. ‘It says here it’s to be delivered to this address, today. Look, it’s addressed to Harry Hunter.’
Tor looked at the clipboard. It did indeed say the painting was to go to Harry. ‘But we didn’t buy this.’
‘Well, someone did. Maybe it’s a gift.’
‘Shall I get it out for you to look at?’ the other courier asked. ‘Maybe that will remind you.’ And before she could reply, the two men levered open the crate. They were super-keen to complete the delivery and knock off before the roads became completely impassable.
They lifted out the painting and Tor was stunned to find herself staring at an epic depiction of a white-robed goddess standing proud on a cliff, her bow raised, the shot arrow sailing through the flaming sky towards a man swimming far out in the ocean. It was the mythological painting she and Anna had derided at the auction. What on earth was it doing here?
‘So you do know it then?’ the courier asked, seeing the recognition flit across her face.
‘Yes, I uh . . . Yes.’ She couldn’t help but frown at it.
‘Yeah, it’s not my taste either. Still, it’s a famous one this, the hunter hunted. It’s showing Artemis, the goddess of the chase, mistakenly killing her lover, Orion the hunter. She was tricked into it by her jealous brother Apollo, you know.’
‘I . . . uh, I didn’t know actually. You’re very knowledgeable.’
The courier’s chest swelled with importance. ‘I take an interest in what I’m carrying. I don’t just deliver sacks of potatoes.’ He looked at Tor. ‘So where would you like it?’
Tor looked at them, dazed, trying to make the pieces of the puzzle fit.
‘Um, put it on the desk please. ’
They put it carefully down and he handed her the clipboard.
‘OK, if you
could just sign here, here, here and here.’ She signed for the painting as he made a feeble attempt to chat Tor up. ‘You going to watch the awards?’
‘Yes, I’m going to them, actually.’
Their eyebrows shot up.
She shrugged. ‘Part of Harry’s team. Cress here is his publisher.’
The courier whistled. ‘Well, we’ll look out for you on the red carpet. Make sure you don’t wear too much,’ he added with a wink.
They shut the door behind them, and Tor and Cress stared down at the Victorian monstrosity.
‘What’s going on, Tor?’ Cress asked, perplexed.
‘I don’t know,’ Tor replied, equally baffled. ‘But it must be a gift for Harry.’
‘From Kate? The studio?’
Tor shrugged.
‘Nah, it must be an admin error. It’s pretty hideous,’ Cress said dismissively, beginning to walk around the room again. ‘I doubt you could even flog it on eBay.’
‘Mmmmmm.’
‘Just put it down over there. He can look at it himself. He’ll be by later to check this place out.’
Tor propped it up, facing the wall.
‘What’s that?’ Cress asked, moving towards it.
Tucked into the back of the frame was an envelope. Tor bent down and pulled it out. ‘It must be a note saying who it’s from.’ She chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t think you’d want to put your name to something in as poor taste as this.’
Cress took the envelope from her and looked at it. She could feel the tissue inside as she pressed her fingertips together.
Quickly, she began to open it.
‘Cress. That’s private. I don’t think you should . . .’
Cress pulled out the red-edged card and read the elegant italics she knew would be written there:
Freedom is but the distance between the hunter and the hunted.
Tor, who was peering over her shoulder, gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth.
‘It’s not a gift at all,’ Tor said finally. ‘It’s a threat.’
Cress stared at the writing. ‘This is from the same person who sent me the note in London – telling me to bring out the manuscript.’ She looked up at Tor. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
