by Nigel May
As they lay together Jemima allowed Tommy to wrap his arm around her and hold her close, resting her head on the swirls of damp, dark chest hair that decorated his strong pecs. Her energy erased, she fell asleep in his arms.
The soft tender glow of their love-making was still there when Jemima woke up. Unlike Tommy. She was alone in the bed. The air in the room was no longer yellow and was tinged with the first murmurings of dark. She guessed she had been sleeping for quite a while, a fact confirmed when she looked at her watch next to the now wilting bougainvillea on the bedside table. How quickly it had turned from a joyous thriving bloom picked from the beauty of one of Antiparos’s narrow cobbled streets just a few hours ago to something that now looked a touch sad and in need of some loving to save it.
Jemima called Tommy’s name. There was no answer. Rising from the bed she wrapped a brightly coloured sarong around herself and slipped a pair of flip-flops onto her feet. She wandered out onto the balcony that joined their room and looked down onto the beach below. A few people ambled up and down it watching the sun slowly descend over the horizon but there was no sign of Tommy.
A rumble of hunger came from her stomach as she contemplated where he could be. Love-making was hungry work. Maybe Tommy had gone downstairs to fetch some food. The guesthouse they were staying in was small, almost boutique, and the owners, a middle-aged Greek couple and their twenty-something daughter, had informed the Hearns that they could order food any time they liked. Maybe Tommy had a surprise in mind. She’d head downstairs to find out.
Replacing her sarong with a Karl Lagerfeld dress that hung loosely across her frame, Jemima grabbed the spare room key – Tommy obviously had the other – and headed down to the ground floor of the guesthouse. There was no sign of any of the other guests who occupied the three other rooms alongside Tommy and Jemima’s on the first floor.
She looked into the dining area to see if Tommy was there. He wasn’t. It was empty. She’d ask at Reception.
When she arrived there the desk was empty too but she could hear a faint noise coming from the small office behind the Reception area. She strained her ears to hear a little clearer. The noise was a series of moans, and despite her tender years and somewhat naïve character, Jemima knew exactly what they were. Somebody was having sex.
She smiled to herself, eager to find Tommy and tell him what she’d heard. But as she started to move away curiosity took hold of her. Moving behind the Reception area she tip-toed closer to the origin of the sound. The small office door was slightly ajar. Unable to stop herself, she peered inside.
The guesthouse owners’ daughter was bent over a table, her naked ass cheeks exposed as a man, his trousers and underpants around his ankles, stood behind her sliding his cock into her from behind. He slapped her backside lightly as he fucked her. It was Tommy.
Placing her hand over her mouth to silence a horrified scream that wanted to burst forth, Jemima said nothing and ran back to her room. She sat on the bed and cried. She saw the flower again, wilted, a little ugly and now somewhat pathetic on the table. She couldn’t help but feel the same.
By the time Tommy returned to their room twenty minutes later the flower was thrown in the bin, out of sight, and Jemima was pretending to be asleep on the bed once more.
When Tommy woke her up he made no mention of his visit downstairs. Jemima made no mention of her sordid discovery. For the moment, just like the wilted flower, that ugly episode would stay hidden away from view.
19
Now, 2015
* * *
Amy’s journey back to London after her visit to Manchester was a bittersweet one. She was glad to be heading back to the sanctuary and solitude of her own flat, even if she hadn’t yet found her husband. To be momentarily away from all of the reminders of her past life. Of things she’d thought she’d understood and loved. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore. If the last few days had taught her anything it was that her life with Riley had not just been a tissue of lies but a huge paper ream of dishonesty.
Her conversation with Lily Rich had left her broken and deeply angry, stripping her of her strength to continue with her search in the northern city. She needed to regroup her thoughts before deciding on her next move in Manchester. Riley making a living behind her back was one thing but making whoopee behind it was a whole different ball game. Finding solace in the arms of another woman. Especially one whom she’d trusted. For a day Amy had just lay on the bed at her hotel and cried, angry at Riley, angry at Lily ... angry at herself. How had she let that happen? Her husband crawl between the sheets with another woman. Had she not been enough to satisfy him? A thousand questions had flooded Amy’s thoughts as she journeyed back to London. If Riley had written the letter and wanted to be with her then why would he include Lily in his list of suspects? Someone who could blow any chance of a reunion right out of the water? His tryst with her could have remained a secret. Amy would have had no reason to track her down. As it was, her meeting with Lily may have been the result of chance but she would have been compelled to find her eventually as she trawled through Riley’s list of suspects.
Lily must have had a reason for wanting Riley dead. Otherwise he wouldn’t have listed her. After Lily had confessed to sleeping with Riley, Amy had been unable to think rationally and had left the restaurant they were eating at faster than you could say ‘adultery’, the destructive force of the revelation finally hitting home. She’d tried phoning Lily afterwards in order to hear her explain further, wanting to know just what had possessed her to sleep with Riley. Why would she do that? Was there more to it than just lust? What self-respecting woman wouldn’t want answers about why her husband had strayed? She left a message but Lily never returned her call. But their time would come, Amy knew that.
Amy’s thoughts were full of Genevieve too. She was hiding something; that was for sure. Behind that icy cold, hardened exterior, something red hot and dangerous was bubbling away. Amy just had to work out how she was going to get to it.
Back in the comfort of her own London front room, Amy unfurled the letter once more and read it again, trying to comprehend why Riley had written it. It sounded like Riley, it looked like Riley’s writing, but the question still remained as to whether it was really from him or not. And if it wasn’t then who would write such a thing? And where was her husband?
Did any of it now make any more sense knowing what she’d learnt in Manchester? Amy wasn’t sure.
‘I’m so sorry. Sorry for it all. Sorry for what will happen. Sorry for making you relive it. Sorry for deceiving you. Someone knows the answer, someone wanted me dead. Tommy, Adam, Lily, Genevieve, Grant ... none of them can be trusted, they all had their reasons for wanting me killed.’
Tommy wanted to recoup the money he’d lent, Adam may have had some gangland involvement, Lily was sleeping with Riley and Genevieve was harbouring some secret. Amy was sure. And she knew that Riley and Grant were not exactly bosom buddies.
‘Someone’s in the know. There’s more I could say, but can’t ... it’s so weak. So pathetic. So many secrets and lies. God, I hate myself for doing this to you, Amy. I should leave you alone, but I can’t.’
Amy didn’t know what to believe any more. But she knew she couldn’t stop until the truth was hers – whatever it turned out to be. But Amy, for the first time ever, was flying solo. Those she cared about were no longer by her side. Her very being was like a cobweb eager to trap the truth. But any web, no matter how mighty, was only as strong as its weakest strand. Amy just prayed that hers was strong enough.
20
Then, 2007
* * *
A blanket of sadness smothered itself across the Manchester church.
‘And so it is that we lay the bodies of both Ivor and Enid Barrowman to rest. May their souls be forever united in the love they shared on Earth. We ask you, Lord, to give your strength to their only daughter, Amy, and to see that she may follow in the rightful path and journey that Ivor and Enid took while the
y walked among us.’
Amy was aware that the words were being spoken. She could hear them clearly and understand every syllable but yet each and every one of them failed to register in her brain. How had it come to this? Just a few short days ago she had been joking with her father that he spent too much time at work with his undertaker colleagues and not enough time with his ever-loving wife. The same colleagues who were now laying her father to rest for the final time. Alongside his wife; Amy’s mother. At least now they would be able to spend an eternity together. Amy’s world had changed irrevocably in the blink of an eye. Her parents were gone, wiped out in just a few short seconds by a reckless out-all-Saturday-night driver speeding at nearly twice the legal limit and awash with enough alcohol to stock a student union as her parents took a leisurely Sunday morning stroll not far from the estate where they lived. Mercifully they had both died together and almost instantly.
As the daughter of an undertaker, Amy had lived around death her entire life, but the finality of watching her parents being laid to rest was the hardest thing she had ever had to cope with. Thank God she had her rocks, Laura and Riley, with her. Without them she could have willingly easily joined her parents in the afterlife. It was only them who made her realise that she had something to live for.
It had been Laura she had first turned to when the news had come. A slip of a policeman turned up at Amy's door just before noon on the Sunday informing her that he had ‘some terrible news’. It had all seemed such a blur but Amy remembered thinking that Laura was there, by her side, exactly when she needed her, dishing out words of comfort and sweet, hot tea.
She’d helped her arrange the funeral too, organising flowers, cars, hymns. She even told her own parents to send some money to her to help pay for the costs. They didn’t know Enid and Ivor, but were persuaded by their daughter’s kind-hearted motives. She didn’t want Amy to worry about cash.
It had been made easier as the firm Amy was dealing with was the one that her father had worked for, but still, if it hadn’t been for Laura, Amy was certain that she would have broken down once and for all. It was her best friend who had helped her walk down the aisle behind the coffin, supporting her with her firm grasp of undying friendship. Amy was determined to not let her parents down and to give them the funeral their beautiful loving lives deserved and Laura had helped so much with that. She had to remain strong for them and with Laura by her side she knew she could.
Riley was a pillar of strength too. He and Amy had only met two years before but she was pleased that she had been able to introduce him to her parents. Enid and Ivor had adored him, Enid loving his roguish good looks and cheeky boy-next-door charm while Ivor thought he looked like ‘a proper film star from one of those action movies off the telly’. They loved the fact that he made their only daughter incredibly happy. They knew that Amy Barrowman had met her soul mate in Riley Hart.
The Barrowmans had not been rich when they died and it was left to Amy to sort out their estate. Again she had relied heavily on Laura and Riley to help her out. Often she would take herself to bed, tired from the rigours of her life and leave the two of them sorting through mounds of crockery, clothing, documents and photographs they had removed from the flat she grew up in – sifting them into ‘to keep’ or ‘charity shop’ piles. Riley would later join her in bed and she would wake to find him cradling her in his arms while Laura slept downstairs on the sofa.
The months that followed her parents’ deaths would have been beyond unbearable without Laura and Riley. They both gave her love, but in different, equally necessary, measures. With both of them she could see a lifetime of forever. She had no idea what she would do if she ever had to be without them.
If she had known then that she would lose them both in the space of one short evening a few years later then Amy might not have been able to come through the ordeal of her parents’ death in one piece.
21
Now, 2015
* * *
Actor Grant Wilson had always enjoyed being top dog. At school he had always wanted to be the first to touch the sides at the end of the annual swimming races, or be the one who could clear the loftiest of bars in the high jump. He was always striving to be the first to be picked for any team and would do whatever it took to make sure he was. He would even manage to convince the teachers to let him off handing in his homework on time if he hadn’t yet cajoled one of the smart kids into writing it for him. Second best was never an option.
Grant Wilson had one of those faces you couldn't say no to. It was a face was which was frequently splashed across the national TV magazines decorating the shelves of the UK’s newsagents. Grant sold copies. Women wanted to bed him, men wanted to be him. Thanks to his role as Dr Eamonn Samms on British hit medical drama, Ward 44, Grant was one of the highest paid actors on UK telly. It would only be a matter of time before the glamour and megabuck allure of Hollywood came calling. The world was at his feet. But at the moment his feet were chilled to the core ...
Grant Wilson was sitting on the cordoned-off hard shoulder of the far from glamorous M23 motorway. Rodeo Drive it was not. Freezing cold it was. Grant was there filming a scene in which Dr Samms was driving to his latest girlfriend’s house when he witnesses a road accident. Being the dashing doctor he sweeps in to save as many lives as possible, women and children first.
‘I was told I’d find you here. So this is the joy of an actor’s life, eh?’ Amy, her teeth chattering with the cold, had just arrived on the makeshift set and been advised of Grant’s whereabouts by one of the show’s runners.
‘Amy, I’ve been expecting you,’ smiled Grant. Amy couldn’t help but notice yet again just how handsome he was. ‘My agent said that you’d been in touch and that she’d told you where to find me. I don’t normally have visitors on set but I thought I’d make an exception for you, seeing as we’ve been through the same experience ... that night at The Kitty Kat was a fucking nightmare. Like some fucking Godfather bloodbath.’
Amy shivered. ‘I appreciate you seeing me, although I will admit I had hoped it would be at some cosy studio location or at least within the confines of a centrally-heated Winnebago. And yes, I’m here about that night ...’
‘I guessed as much. Listen, we can’t really talk here, can we? Dragging up all that death will only put me off this scene. I’m only here shooting for one more night and then I’m finished until the New Year. Why don’t we meet up at my hotel tonight? We can talk there – that's best.’ It was more of an order than a question.
‘It’s not just about that night. There have been complications since I received ...’ Amy was just about to tell Grant about the letter when a voice boomed across the hard shoulder.
‘Dr Samms – back on set! We need to film the rescue of the first child from the car.’ The voice belonged to a rather officious looking, clipboard-wielding TV type. Amy guessed she was the assistant producer or someone along those lines. She was grateful for the interruption. Maybe she shouldn’t just divulge her news straight away. After all, Grant was listed as one of the suspects. According to Riley, Grant had reason to want him dead, and Amy knew there was no love lost between the two men ever since they’d been at school together. It just so happened that Grant had one of those faces that any woman immediately felt compelled to trust. It was a notion she would have to shift.
‘That’s my call. I have to go, but here’s where I’m staying. I should be finished here by about six thirty-ish – if you want to stay down, book a room and charge it to me. It’s the least I can do for you after you sorted me out with that pixie-looking dealer girl at the Kitty Kat. Your discretion was much appreciated.’
A feeling of deep anger passed through Amy at the mention of Lily. No matter how she tried she couldn’t stop the image of Lily and Riley together from scorching itself painfully onto her brain.
Grant handed Amy a business card with the name of a hotel on it. ‘If you’re not there by half eight then I’ll assume you’re not coming. We can ta
lk properly then. See you later.’
As Amy walked away from the actor, she knew that she’d be there. She had too many questions that needed answering ... and maybe Grant could be the man to supply them. Maybe he could be the one to help her find Riley.
Grant knew she’d be there too. No woman had ever said no to him. Well, not recently anyway ...
* * *
Lily wandered into the study at her parents’ house and dumped her small black, furry rucksack onto the mahogany desk where her father, Adam, sat staring at a bunch of papers. The bag was still wet from where she’d been rained on during her journey home from sourcing more drugs. It was a typical winter’s day outside – wet, windy and wildly cold. A few drops of water fell and pooled onto the table.
‘Will you fucking get that off there, please?’ barked Adam. ‘This is a place of business, Lily. The last thing I need is everything getting soaked by you and your stupid bag. It’s bad enough in this house with your mother erecting her fucking mirrored monstrosities everywhere. This place is looking like a fucking season ticket to the Tower Ballroom in Blackpool.’
‘All right, keep your hair on, Dad. Well, that would only apply if you had some I suppose,’ she sneered, pointing to his bald dome. ‘I wanted to tell you something.’
‘Can’t it wait, I’m busy. If I don’t work bloody hard to earn a crust then who do you think pays for this bloody house and your mother’s extravagant tastes? It’s not her, that’s for sure. Caitlyn’s never done a day’s work in her life.’
Lily raised her eyebrows skywards. ‘Apart from raising me, that is. Being a mother is a skilled job you know. If she hadn’t raised me so well, I’d never have turned out the fine figure of moralistic purity I am today.’ There was more than a dollop of sarcasm running through her words. ‘Where is the old diva anyway, I haven’t seen her for days?’
