by Nick Louth
Most days he found time to read Wyrecliffe’s e-mails. Many were brief exchanges between colleagues, some to the BBC bureaucracy which showed an apparently frustrated journalist, and dizzying arrays of forwarded invitations and requests for his time. None of that interested Rifat.
More promising was the contacts with his friends, many of them women, who expressed themselves in unguarded and often flirtatious tones. Prime among them were many affectionate messages from a woman, Cantara al-Mansoor, a BBC trainee, to which Wyrecliffe’s replies seemed guarded and cautious. These were curious, and could perhaps be useful. It was already clear that Rifat could spend a lifetime unearthing Wyrecliffe’s petty affairs at the BBC. What he was looking for was something much deeper into his life, the final piece of evidence that backed up the connection he had suspected. Something whose roots led back in time to Lebanon in 1990.
Today’s trawl finally looked to have struck gold. After more than a month of getting copies of every e-mail sent or received by Wyrecliffe, Rifat had finally found proof of the connection he’d been looking for. It was an e-mail, which had arrived yesterday evening, and been answered this morning. It was from Taseena Christodopoulos. It was a brief exchange, but full of feeling. A meeting arranged, somewhere in London, next week. Details, frustratingly, to be confirmed by phone. Details that he would not be able to access. Still, it was a start. Rifat took a perverse thrill in how close, and how secretly, he could close in on this man’s heart. He wanted to know his outpourings of love, his hopes, his fears, his feelings, his aspirations. Then, when he had learned all there was to know, when his curiosity was finally satisfied, he was going to get even closer to that heart. And tear it out.
Chapter Thirteen
London
October 2009
Wyrecliffe had interviewed prime ministers and presidents, film stars and dictators, business moguls and former terrorists. He was never nervous as long as he’d had the time to brief himself, and immerse himself in his subject. Preparation, the foundation of all good reporting, built his confidence. But tonight was different. This was a world away from journalism. Meeting Taseena again was something he had long dreamed of. The impact she had made on his life was one that he knew she never really understood. She was the yardstick by which all women, the many he had known before and the many after, were judged. She was the one who had stolen his heart. She was the one who had broken his heart. She was the one who still owned what remained of his heart.
He had even succumbed to the temptation to Google her image. There were pages of pictures, almost all in the last five years. In the studio at ASB, in designer dresses at film festivals sponsored by her husband, at billionaire parties, reclining on a rug in front of a hearth cuddling a gaggle of red setter dogs, plus a formal portrait with children. In each and every picture she looked devastating, gorgeous from every angle as if time had merely glossed and polished the beauty beneath. She would be forty-two, but could pass for a decade younger. Her husband was, like Wyrecliffe, more than a decade her senior. The difference was that Christodopoulos was a billionaire. He possessed her. Wyrecliffe did not.
Wyrecliffe’s mobile rang while he was getting changed. Nervously, he grabbed at it, in case it was Taseena cancelling the date. He was in luck. The displayed number showed it was Cantara, for the fourth time that day. The girl was getting to be relentless. Relieved, he let it go to answer machine. He’d call her later.
Dressing wasn’t something Wyrecliffe usually spent much time over. The luxury of the radio host, most of his work could be done casually. While charitable dinners, formal receptions and the like had their formulae, it still didn’t require much thought. But this evening had been an agony of indecision. Casual jacket or formal? Tie or not? Lace up black shoes or casual brown? Leather jacket or formal coat? In the end he’d taken the quasi-informal route, as much as anything because of the venue. Blue sports jacket, white shirt, no tie, cream trousers and brown brogues. The restaurant Taseena insisted upon, Souheil, was a tiny, intimate Lebanese near Green Park. It was not one he could ever recall visiting, so he’d called to make sure that they could offer some privacy. Being recognised was a risk he always ran. Wyrecliffe was used to the looks from other diners, the knowing smiles, the gossip, even the intrepid autograph hunters. On most occasions this was fine, but when eating he didn’t like it. Tonight, above all, he wanted to be sure he could put away his impassive public face. His private face, a neurotic bundle of history, feelings and expectation was begging to come out.
Determined to play it cool, he arrived five minutes late. She wasn’t there. As he was shown to the table, she texted him to say she would be quarter of an hour late. In the end it was almost three quarters of an hour and two aperitifs later when she arrived, bursting with apologies, and some entrancing perfume. She was wearing a white leather trenchcoat, beneath which was a green silk off-the-shoulder dress, which showed off a modest but tanned cleavage. Diamond earrings were matched with a silver diamond bracelet in the shape of a snake. They kissed on both cheeks, and she held his arms and looked at him.
‘Such a long time! How are you?’ She turned that wondrous smile on him, and for a moment he was lost for words. Her mouth had if anything become even fuller, and her dark eyes even deeper and more expressive. They jousted playfully about the choice of food and wine, before he surrendered to her knowledge, a gambit which he hoped would allow him to pay the eventual bill.
‘I see you’re really making waves at Arab Satellite Broadcasting. Congratulations on a first for women,’ he said.
‘It wasn’t all that hard. I’ve known Prince Sultan for a long time, and he’s pretty liberated. I started as a presenter and became executive head of news last year. But look at you! A national radio icon, filled out a bit maybe, but dressed a bit better. And still married too, right?’
Wyrecliffe filled her in on his career since that fateful night, and added: ‘Imogen and I live pretty separate lives these days. The kids are important, and we work together okay about them, but it’s not a love match.’
‘I’m sorry for my part in that,’ she said.
‘Que sera sera.’ Wyrecliffe smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have changed what happened between us. I don’t think Imogen and I would have lasted anyway, given my job.’
Taseena described her life with Nico Christodopoulos, a few weeks a year of yacht-borne life, parties and wealthy guests, ski-ing and scuba-diving mixed in with intense bursts of work to build the broadcaster’s international presence.
‘Sounds like you’re having fun.’
She hesitated. ‘Ah yes, Nico. He is kind, and adores me.’ She took out a cigarette then put it away. ‘The smoking ban. I forgot.’ She smiled and held his eye steadily. ‘My vices haven’t changed.’
‘Nor mine. I think about you, still.’ He dared not admit how much.
She looked at him, her eyes sad. ‘And I think about you. About what might have been, Chris, had the BBC and world events not got in the way. There will always be a tiny part of me that belongs to you…’
The arrival of food interrupted the confessional interlude. Wyrecliffe looked at the mixed starter dish and considered what he owned of her. A tiny part.
Between mouthfuls, she came to the real topic for their meeting: ‘So you say you’re looking to get back in the field for some reporting?’
‘Well, I’m certainly open for some new horizons beyond the BBC. It’s all been getting a bit stale. I feel studio-bound.’
‘ASB would definitely be interested in someone of your stature, either as a presenter or a reporter, if you’re up for that.’ Taseena outlined the editorial resources that ASB could call on: state-of-the-art video links, large and flexible studios, satellite outside broadcast trucks in most major centres and a code of impartiality backed up by a senior editorial board of independent heavyweights.
‘How long is your existing contract?’
‘I’d have to give six months’ notice,’ Wyrecliffe said.
After they
finished eating, Chris suggested a late night cocktail bar near to her hotel. When they got there it was gone eleven. Taseena changed her mind and said she wanted to go up now as she had a busy day tomorrow, flying out at six to Beirut.
‘That’s a shame,’ Wyrecliffe said. He walked her into the lobby, and she collected her door swipe card and some packages from the reception desk.
‘I’ve got a present for you, you’d better come up,’ she said.
Wyrecliffe needed no second bidding. Before walking the long corridor to the lift, Taseena stopped to take off her shoes. ‘They may be Manolo Blahniks, but they’re killing me,’ she said. ‘The price of great legs goes up as you get older.’
Her suite was on the eleventh floor. Taseena showed Wyrecliffe into the lounge, and went into the bedroom. She re-emerged with a gift-wrapped package. ‘This is in memory of old times,’ she said.
He unwrapped it and found a presentation bottle of Syrian Arak, the same brand she had drunk all those years ago in the Kuf bar in Beirut. Wyrecliffe smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you. That was a very special evening. I’ve never forgotten it.’
She looked up at him and he kissed her again, this time on the lips. She responded, didn’t move away. His excitement rising, he gathered her closer in his arms, his tongue pressing into her mouth. She stroked his head, looking up at him. ‘So good to see you again, Chris. After all these years.’
‘And my God, you are still so beautiful,’ he said, hardly believing his luck. They fell into each other’s arms, kissing passionately, and rolled onto the couch. This was a moment he had dreamed of for so many years, and he was almost trembling with desire. Far from being the suave, accomplished media professional his excitement reduced him to the status of a nervous seventeen-year-old. As they continued kissing he began to slide his hand up one perfect stockinged leg, beneath the hem of her silky dress, then caressing the inside of her exposed thigh. Finally, he moved his fingers to her lacy underwear and the heat of her groin. His own erection was almost painful.
She pulled away suddenly. ‘Chris, wait. This is too much, right now.’
‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
‘I’m not going to make love to you, sorry.’
A fierce disappointment rose bitterly in his throat. As a younger man, he would have pleaded. Now he tried to stay calm, and make light of it.
‘The boss doesn’t sleep with her underlings?’
‘Well, it’s certainly not a part of the interview process.’ She laughed. ‘You were once my boss,’ she smiled. ‘That didn’t stop us, though, did it?’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Wyrecliffe said, letting his hand creep back onto her leg.
‘The problem, Chris, is me.’ She deliberately lifted his hand, and held it up. ‘I’m married, there can never be a future in this for us.’
‘I know that, Taseena. Of course I do.’
‘Do you Chris? I look into your eyes, and I see much more than lust. I don’t want to be responsible for more than that, because this isn’t going anywhere.’
‘So it’s all in my best interest, is that what you’re saying? Because if that’s the case, you’re wasting your time. I’ve had these feelings for you for twenty years, and whatever happens or doesn’t happen tonight isn’t going to change that.’
‘I’m touched about your feelings for me, Chris. Really I am.’ She stood up, and started running her fingers through her hair, putting right what the moments on the couch had done, eliminating the tangles in her life. ‘But the context has changed. If I give you that job, Chris, I need you to be a hundred per cent focused on it. What happened twenty years ago is long past, you have to see it as history, not future.’
‘I don’t see it as a future,’ he lied. ‘I never said that.’
‘No, you didn’t. But if you can’t hide your feelings better than you are doing tonight it could make life difficult for both of us at ASB. That’s something I just can’t risk. It’s Arab-owned, remember. A woman who gets to my position is rare enough. I have to be very, very careful. Not just for me, but for other women who ever want to climb that same ladder.’
‘So why did you invite me up here, then?’
She started to answer, then her mobile rang. She walked off to the bathroom to answer it. All he heard before she closed the door was: ‘Hi Nico! Yeah, great. I’m missing you too.’
She emerged after ten minutes. ‘I’m sorry about the interruption, Chris.’
‘Twenty years is quite an interruption.’ Wyrecliffe had straightened himself up, put on his jacket and picked up the Arak.
‘I meant the phone call.’
His face tightened. ‘Well, I better be going. It’s been good to see you.’ He tried to sound light-hearted and failed.
‘Don’t be upset.’ She put her hands on his arms. ‘Think about the job. It could be great.’
He turned to the door. ‘Do you know, the first time I met you I realised…’
‘Realised what?’
What a prickteaser you are. He couldn’t say it, but the bitterness leaked out anyway. ‘That I was going to be helpless.’
‘I’ve always been trouble. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Even now you have to be trouble?’
‘I try not to be. But marriage, even to a billionaire, can be quite limiting. When I bought the Arak I needed an excuse to invite you up here.’
‘You didn’t need…’
‘I did. I had intended to seduce you, for old times’ sake, for fun and – let
me admit it – because I’m still as horny as I was all those years ago. You seemed a safe outlet, a known quantity. There aren’t many for a woman in my position.’
‘You mean someone discreet, loyal, and devoted you can safely fuck without ruining your marriage and then parcel away into a drawer of history to forget about?’
‘Chris, Chris. It’s not like that, really. Once I saw how fragile you were, and how intensely you felt, the stakes just became too high.’
‘The more I want you, the more I can’t have you?’
She laughed. ‘Maybe. But that’s life, isn’t it? Love is the world’s most dangerous war zone. Everyone is a casualty. It’s much more dangerous than sex. I would have thought you would know that by now.’
He turned and walked away without another word. The walk along the darkened hotel corridor felt like a mile. Treading the thick dark carpet, past all the doors that were closed against him and towards the hissing jaws of the lift waiting to engulf him and take him down to a cold eternity without her.
* * *
Cantara looked at the message one last time, then hit send, and closed her laptop. She looked out at the tablets she had laid out on the bedside table. There were sixty there. That would be enough to do the job. As she picked up the glass, the tears came again.
It was six hours later and only by chance that Wyrecliffe looked at his phone and read the e-mail she had sent him.
Dear Chris,
Once again my texts and e-mails go unanswered. Perhaps, one day you will read this and finally understand. Putting my feelings into words is difficult for me, it always has been. It has taken so much courage for me to let you know how I feel, and what having you in my life has meant. Ever since I was three years old, with a twisted foot, it has been you that offered promise and hope. From the moment you smiled at me, and showed interest in me, I have followed you like an explorer follows the Polar Star. You are the fixed point around which all the wonders of the universe glow in hope amid the darkness. In all probability, by the time you read this, I will be dead. Because if you won’t accept my love, then there is no hope for me or my poor broken neglected heart. I can’t blame you. You have always been kind, but for me there is no way back.
Yours for all time.
Cantara
He was in the lift on the way down from Taseena’s hotel room. It was 1.38am. The e-mail had been sent at 8.07pm, just as he was leaving home. She might already be dead. He rang 9
99, gave the emergency services her address, then sprinted out of the hotel. Luck was with him. There was a taxi waiting right outside. He got in, promised the cabbie double the fare to get him to Cantara’s address at top speed. The driver did his job. From the West End to this part of the East End would take more than an hour during peak times. In the middle of the night, with only light traffic, he was there in fifteen minutes.
There were no lights on at her building. He’d pressed all the bells downstairs, and when someone buzzed the door open, he almost pulled it off its hinges to get in. He raced upstairs, three at a time, his feet tolling on the concrete stairwell. Wyrecliffe hammered at her door, and with no reply in ten seconds kicked a waist-high panel right through. He slid his arm through the shattered plywood, undid the security chain and turned the mortice key to let himself in. Cantara was lying on the bed, in a dressing gown, unconscious. An empty pill bottle was on the sidetable.
He shook her. ‘Cantara, Cantara please wake up.’
She opened her eyes. They were bloodshot. ‘Chris.’ She smiled, sleepily.
‘What did you take?’
‘Everything,’ she said, gesturing to the bottle. Sirens arrived in the street below.
‘The ambulance is here, we’ll get you to hospital.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘I am worried about you, of course I am.’
She roused herself. Her face was pale, her voice thin. ‘Well, don’t be. I was sick almost immediately, and brought everything back up. I’m just exhausted, that’s all. I’ve been throwing up all evening. And now I need some sleep.’
Wyrecliffe let in the paramedics, one male, one female. He explained what had happened. They checked her over, and gave her an injection while he went to the kitchen to get her more water. When he went back in, the paramedics were trying to persuade Cantara to go to the hospital. She tearfully shook her head.
