Deadly Obsession

by Nigel May

  The lady in question was Jemima Hearn and she was standing next to Jimmy. She was the last person Amy wanted to see. She knew she’d been caught, as did a grinning Jemima.

  It was Jemima who spoke. ‘That’s right. Jimmy tells me you want a job at Dirty Cash. I think you should follow me to the office don’t you?. Let’s see what the owner thinks of your suitability.’

  Amy felt her heart sink as Jemima Hearn grabbed her roughly by the arm and frog-marched her towards Tommy’s office.

  35

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  As Amy steeled herself to be grilled by the Hearns in the casino office, Grant Wilson was walking down a street on the other side of Manchester without a care in the world.

  It was a crisp, fresh winter’s day. The sky was blue with a snap of frost running through it, leaving him with a feeling of invigoration. There was a spring in Grant’s step. It felt good to be at the top of his game. His work diary was full and he was a man in demand. The last year had been a major one for Grant. He had seen his star rise into orbit. He was on the verge of breaking through on an international scale. The right part, a well-timed meeting and he could be hanging with the Hollywood hot-shots like Cruise and Clooney by the time the next series of Ward 44 had aired. He was in control. Just how he liked it, just as he’d always craved. All of the plates he’d attempted to spin over the past twelve months had paid off. They were all still spinning in joyous harmony. And he was their master. No, Grant felt invincible and the visit to Manchester was adding to that. Nobody could topple him.

  He liked spending time with Amy. It pleased him. She’d been spat out by life over the last year. But as far as Grant was concerned she was better off without that wanker of a husband of hers, whatever the circumstances. Dead or otherwise.

  Grant liked being back in Manchester. His old stomping ground. It gave him the chance to reminisce, to recollect. There was an air of cool about it that the rat race lifestyle of London couldn’t always achieve and Grant was determined to try and re-tread an old path while he was in the neighbourhood.

  Walking up to his destination he stared at the door in front of him and placed his face against the window framed within it. He placed his hands either side of his face to blinker the reflection of the blue sky on the glass. He let out a smile and attempted to push the door. It opened and he walked inside ...

  * * *

  It broke Genevieve’s heart every time she saw her daughter. The relationship between the style icon and her own mother was far from rosy and Genevieve was determined that her bond with her own offspring would be as strong as it possibly could be. At least that had been the original idea when baby Emily came into the world.

  Growing up, Genevieve had often dreamt of what it would be like to become a mother. She remembered how, as a child, she would scan the romance books sitting on her mother’s bookshelf and pore over the words. She would imagine that one day a dashing, Herculean hero would sweep her into his arms and state his adoring love to her. That she would wear a huge fluffy dress of white on their wedding day and that nine months later she would give birth to the first of many beautiful children. But that was just fiction.

  As Genevieve became older, her grasp on the harsh realities of life made her once pure and hopeful mind cloud into a miasma of putrid awakening that life was not as black and white as the pages of her mother’s escapist reads. Of all of the boyfriends she’d had since first sharing a date outside her local chip shop at the age of fourteen, none had measured up. All of them had been dashing, a few could have been considered Herculean, but how many of them had stated their adoring love? In her teenage years the L-word had been liberally used by her admirers, mostly as a way of trying to crawl inside her knickers. But as Genevieve became a success in her own right, achievement and an ever-growing personal fortune had made her paranoid about what people wanted from her. Her twenties had been a period where, as the walls of her own fashion empire grew, so did the barriers of protection placed around her heart. A healthy bank balance and an unhealthy dose of doubt had come hand in hand. She was afraid to let herself be loved.

  As for her youthful flashes of marrying in a huge white fluffy dress ... well, thankfully her drum-tight grip on the fashion world had knocked any such delusions out of the window quicker than you could say ‘meringue’. If Genevieve was ever to marry, it would certainly not be in some fairy-tale monstrosity housing metres of shiny, pearlescent fabric.

  Not that any man had ever made her entertain thoughts of being betrothed. Well, at least not until Riley had come into her life. She may have known that he was married from their first meeting, but the love-making she shared with him was something that even the idyllic romance tales in the pages of her mother’s bedtime reading would have been hard-pushed to describe.

  The sex was electric. Genevieve had been able to feel every nerve-ending tingle with a heightened desire as he’d made love to her. There was a connection as she had looked into his eyes. She could feel it – deep, dark and delicious, a carnal fusion of adventure, danger, power, respect and love. It was a provocative mix. The adventure and danger came from knowing that Riley was cheating behind his wife’s back. The power and respect came from knowing that he was a man who lived life to the full. Like her, he was unafraid to take risks, to achieve what he desired, even if it meant bending a rule or two. She worshipped him.

  The love however, was one-sided. That was something that had become clear on the day Genevieve announced to Riley the ill-timed news that she was carrying his baby.

  His face had drained of all colour as she’d informed him, his usual healthy complexion turning ashen and ghostly white. His horror had been impossible to camouflage and with a crushing brutality he had told her to abort the baby. He would take care of it. There was no asking, it was telling. Riley was prepared to murder their baby in the same calculated, cold-hearted manner he organised a criminal hit on one of his enemies. It was at that moment that Genevieve had made up her mind. She was keeping the baby, no matter what Riley wanted. It was at that moment that she'd fallen out of love.

  This was not how it was supposed to be. A baby was the last thing she needed at such an early, crucial time in her career. Research trips abroad, front rows at London Fashion Weeks and fashionista lunches were never going to be possible with a mood board under one arm and a bag of nappies under the other. The perfect accessory it was not. But Genevieve had recognised how her heart had skipped a beat and danced with delight when her doctor had confirmed that she was expecting. What she hadn’t been expecting was such a harsh reaction from Riley. After the initial soul-crushing shock of being told that he didn’t have a single trace of desire in him with regards to impending fatherhood, Genevieve had asked him to leave.

  Part of her had wanted him to stay, to sweep her into his arms and tell her that he was leaving Amy. That he was ready to be with Genevieve and their child. That part was stamped underfoot immediately, crushed into a mass of miserable specks of heartache. Riley had trampled on her hopes and dreams.

  His parting shot had been the worst, his words virulent and unthinking. ‘Just get rid of it. Do whatever it takes. And don’t let anyone know.’ As he barked his demands he had thrown a wad of notes onto the table, freshly pulled from his wallet. Genevieve’s eyes, glazed with tears, stared at the notes as Riley walked away from her and out of sight. Their relationship was over, the cost of her silence the final nail in its coffin. She knew it would be the last time they saw each other as lovers.

  * * *

  Genevieve had been thinking about Riley’s poisonous words ever since she had arrived back at the shop after seeing Emily. Riley’s daughter. He had never even met her, a fact she had hated him for. Now he never would. Emily would grow up fatherless, just as Genevieve had – her own father had left her mother to run off with another woman while Genevieve was still at junior school. Another man who thought with his cock and not with his head. He’d tried to contact Genevieve once after she’d first
become successful, looking at her as some kind of family cash machine. He needed money. She had refused to see him.

  It had been her father’s infidelity that had caused Genevieve’s mother to turn to drink. For years Genevieve would return home from school to find her mother slurring words of hatred into a half-empty whisky bottle. It had driven a wedge between them, but Genevieve would always understand her mother’s reasons for drinking and would forever blame her father for causing it. She was a broken woman, broken by an unloving man.

  At first Genevieve had threatened to place her baby with a foster family. Maybe that would be for the best. But there had been such a fear in her mother’s eyes when Genevieve had revealed her plans. Deep within her Genevieve knew that she never had any intention of doing so, but she needed to use shock tactics on her mother if she was to be part of her granddaughter’s life. Genevieve needed her help, having a baby was not something she was prepared to do alone. The baby needed to be surrounded by what family it had. Her mother may have been a liability but she was all Genevieve had. She needed her, as would her baby – as a carer, as a grandmother, even acting as a mother when Genevieve couldn’t be there.

  The birth had to remain a secret and Genevieve needed all possible blood-ties helping her. She didn’t need a baby ruining her reputation. It had only been through clever dressing and a minimum of socialising that Genevieve had hidden the pregnancy from her work contacts during the months before the birth.

  Her mother, horrified at the thought of losing her first grandchild to a foster home, had offered to look after the baby. Genevieve turned the offer down, citing her mother's drinking. Her mother swore to never touch another drop. And in all fairness she didn't. When baby Emily was born, Genevieve passed her over to her grandma. A sitter-come-help was hired to help out and it was an arrangement that seemed to work.

  * * *

  ‘Mind you, like mother, like daughter ... maybe drinking’s one of the traits she’s passed onto me,’ thought Genevieve as she poured herself a glass of neat vodka. She had been wallowing in her own misery ever since arriving back at the shop. She had drowned herself in booze into the wee small hours of the morning, eventually passing out on the office table.

  Waking up the next day, she had decided to leave the shop closed. It was her assistant, Meifeng’s, day off and Genevieve had little to no desire to deal with the outside world. What was the point of being boss if you couldn’t make the odd rash decision every now and again? Despite the banging of her brain, Genevieve reached for the bottle and poured herself a mind-numbing dose of alcohol. She was just about to down the liquid when a figure appeared across the room.

  ‘The door was open. I thought this was a shop, not some morning boozer ...’ he said, indicating the bottle. ‘What the fuck’s happened to you?’

  It was Grant.

  ‘What the fuck do you want? Shouldn’t you be performing open heart surgery on some poor bastard on TV or shagging some buxom young nurse up against a locker?’ spat Genevieve.

  ‘Oh dear, somebody’s definitely had a bowl of bitch for breakfast haven’t they?’ deadpanned Grant. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me. Hell, I assumed a so-called hot-shot like you would be busy dishing up your next slice of fashion pie to the world. Nobody need dressing today, then? Everyone going au naturel? You’re obviously fit for nothing,’ he stated, noting the full glass in her hand and the slur in her voice.

  ‘Don’t come the smug preacher man with me, Grant Wilson. Since when did your sorry arse gain the right to dictate to me about my life? You gave up that privilege the moment you climbed out of my bed and parked yourself between the legs of your next dumbass conquest,’ she hissed.

  All traces of jest disappeared from Grant's face. ‘Oh here we go ... that took ... oh, three minutes by my reckoning,’ said Grant, glancing at his Rolex. ‘Poor hard-done-by Genevieve is still playing the woman scorned.’

  His words were almost mocking, causing Genevieve to snap. Contemplating the failings of her short-lived affair with Grant was the last thing she needed bouncing around her mind when it was already soaked with misery reminiscing about her time with Riley.

  ‘Men are just put on this earth to make women’s lives unbearably hard. To make us suffer. Just piss off back to the TV, will you, Grant. Just get out ...’ Genevieve’s voice became more animated with every word, her anger mounting. ‘I should have listened to my head when I first set eyes on your simpering little face ... if I’d have gone home alone that night things would have been a lot better.’

  Not that Genevieve really meant that. Despite his indifference towards her, their time together had not been without its pleasures. They had first met a few years earlier when Genevieve had presented Grant with an acting newcomer’s award at a London ceremony. The chemistry had been instant. An explosion of lust. They’d left together and screwed the night away at his hotel. It had continued at irregular intervals, the bodies coming together as their paths crossed. What Grant hadn’t realised was that Genevieve was making sure that their paths crossed as often as possible. If there was a gala opening, press night or ceremony where she guessed Grant would be then she would make sure that she possessed a VIP ticket. But whereas their bouts of bedroom athletics had become sensual episodes of love-making in her mind, to Grant it was nothing more than a desire to get his rocks off. Grant had no qualms about telling her of other women he’d been shagging as he rode the fame train. An ever-hopeful Genevieve was convinced that maybe she could be the woman to change his bed-hopping ways, needing him in her life. She wasn't in love with him, but he certainly became an unhealthy obsession to her.

  The sex was explosive but his interest in her was flickering no brighter than the weakest of flames. It was only when she'd met Riley that her longing for Grant finally died too. But her turnaround of interest seemed to fan the flames of desire within the actor. The power shift had changed. Suddenly Grant thought that maybe he was second best, a feeling he couldn’t bear.

  Genevieve couldn’t face Grant right now. ‘You're just a typical fucking bloke, Grant. Take your pretty boy ways and fuck off. I don’t want to see you. Not now, not ever ...’ There was disgust in her voice.

  ‘So, a drunken bunk-up for old time's sake is out of the question, then ...’ Grant had barely finished his egotistical request before Genevieve leapt unsteadily to her feet and attempted to throw the glass in her hand towards him. Unable to keep her balance, she fell to the floor behind the desk, the glass hurtling in completely the wrong direction, missing any chance of contact with Grant and instead smashing against a filing cabinet with a somewhat tragic shatter.

  ‘Woah, somebody’s in even more of a state than I realised,’ said Grant, a vague trace of concern entering his voice. He rushed around the desk and lifted Genevieve from the floor. She was out cold.

  Best thing for her, he thought.

  He sat her back at her desk and rested her head on the table. If things had gone to plan they’d have been fucking on it by now, but yet again Genevieve had turned him down. Her loss, he mused.

  Grant grabbed her keys from the desk and went to leave the office. The least he could do was lock the shop and post the keys back through the letter box. Genevieve would be asleep for hours and she wouldn’t want to wake up to find Eruption looted.

  As he was leaving he felt the crunch of broken glass underneath his shoes. Maybe he should clean up. He knelt down to pick up the shards and carefully wrapped them in a scrap of fabric from the desk. As he went to dispose of them Grant noticed more broken glass and a picture frame lying at the bottom of the bin. His curiosity piqued, he picked the frame up, careful not to come into contact with the glass. The tell-tale image of Genevieve and Riley together stared back at him. He felt almost winded by what he saw. Suddenly it all fell into place. No wonder Genevieve had had no sexual interest in him for ages, she was evidently getting her kicks elsewhere. Being rebuffed was bad enough, but the fact that the cause was obviously his arch-enemy, Riley Hart ... well, th
at was something else. Grant could feel his hackles rising.

  As he left the office he couldn’t help but wonder if Amy knew about the apparent affair between Genevieve and Riley ... and whether he should be the one to tell her. That would definitely stir things up ...

  36

  Now, 2015

  * * *

  As Amy felt herself being rough-housed into Tommy’s office at Dirty Cash by the pinching grip of Jemima, she couldn’t help but feel that her attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation between Tommy and Adam had maybe not been such a good idea. In fact it had been a seriously bad one.

  Tommy was more than a little surprised to see Amy and his wife standing before him. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘She was sniffing around Jimmy asking about jobs, believe it or not ... thought I’d bring her in for an interview,’ sneered Jemima.

  Tommy laughed, his lips looping themselves into a decidedly evil grin. ‘A job? Is that the best you could come up with? Even if I was the last employer on earth we know that isn’t going to happen.' His tone was sneery and mocking.

  A pause followed. 'I think we can cut the crap, can’t we ...’

  Amy let rip. ‘You and Adam are up to something bad. I know it. I could tell from your conversation. You know more about Riley’s supposed death than you’re letting on.’

  Any traces of devilish mirth vanished in a flash from Tommy’s face.

  ‘And can you make your lobster-clawed shrew of a wife get off my arm please! She’s beginning to bruise me.’ Amy attempted to wriggle free of Jemima’s grip, which was becoming much more vice-like.