by Pip Drysdale
‘They want us to come for lunch next Sunday,’ Angus said as he came back through to the bedroom. ‘Eleanor’s back for the weekend.’
I’d just got up and put on my dressing gown. Eleanor was Angus’s older sister and I’d only met her once, the Easter before. She lived in Guernsey with her husband, and she and Angus didn’t get on. And she rarely found her way into conversation unless she was visiting.
‘Great,’ I said with a tight smile as I put on my slippers. Fuck.
And so the rest of my evening was spent short-listing books I could read over the next week to ensure I sounded smart enough – neuroplasticity? – and cataloguing dresses I could wear in order to look feminine enough to make his father’s grade. All the while, watching the water turn cloudy as I stirred pasta and listened to Leonard Cohen croon about cracks letting in the proverbial light.
But what if the cracks let in the darkness instead?
By the time I was sprinkling parmesan into a little bowl on the table I had come to a non-negotiable conclusion: no matter what happened, I needed to deny that I had anything to do with ordering those prostitutes. I couldn’t confess now, not after staying silent for so long. I would simply have to swallow the guilt and wait for the sour taste to fade.
But it didn’t fade.
Instead it was simply replaced by something far worse.
friday
Master Sun said: ‘At first, be like a maiden; when the enemy opens the door, be swift as a hare.’
17 FEBRUARY
The sky had been unseasonably blue that day; the kind of pastel blue that belongs in a kindergarten paint box. But by late afternoon it had been slashed up by the white trails left by a series of aircraft; white scars across a perfect sky. The window was open just a little and there was a breeze coming in through it, making the hinges creak every so often. That was the only sound in the flat that afternoon, aside from Ed’s occasional shuffling around his cage – audible only if I really strained my ears – along with a distant hum from the streets outside and me opening and shutting drawers.
I was in Angus’s study. I’d been rash to delete all our photographs together and now wanted them back. He had duplicates on his computer – it was me who put them there, neatly organised in an iPhoto folder named: ‘Us’ – so the plan was simply to copy them across and pretend the purge had never happened. But photos are big, too big for email. So my arm was elbow deep in his second drawer scouring for a thumb drive.
Bingo.
I pulled it into the light – it was green – and plugged it into his computer.
I clicked on the icon and got ready to copy across my photos. But it was already full of pictures, PDFs and a few Excel files with obscure names.
I couldn’t just delete them all – I’d need to copy them onto the desktop in case they were important.
I clicked on the first one to see what it was: a spreadsheet. Tab after tab of figures. I looked at the file name: TTS_JN. What was I looking at?
So I clicked another file.
A photograph.
I recognise that man.
It was a face I’d become well acquainted with over the past couple of days. The lines that ran from beak-like nose to mouth, the thinning hair, the jowls.
It was Nicolai Stepanovich. He was walking out of a building with a big glass revolving door. He was carrying some sort of sports bag. His eyes were down.
The room spun and my blood raced as I quickly scanned the rest of the documents. There was only one text file and so I clicked on it. Watched as it slowly opened. A series of red comment bubbles ran down the left-hand margin.
Nicolai Stepanovich (Citexel International) was responsible for The Town Square development in Oxfordshire, a scheme that has been instrumental in a large-scale operation to funnel illegal money out of his native Russia and into British circulation via a sophisticated web of shell companies.
To the left of this sat a red bubble with the text: please see spreadsheet TTS_JN for transactions.
This is set to be duplicated with a new scheme in Eastbourne aimed at the over sixty-fives. This will involve an extensive regeneration, transforming the town into a high-value retirement village. Included in the plans are a number of built-to-rent blocks and a hospital. Planning perms have already been granted and finance/investors secured. All land acquisitions (already completed) have been via illegal streams. Construction of Phase One is set to start in May.
And attached to that was a comment that read: KR Property International and Jenson are currently in conversation regarding potential investment Confirmation attached in PDF entitled Emails.
I stared at the screen, confused: The Turner Group wasn’t mentioned in this. And so I scrolled through the files, searching for that PDF. I found one entitled: emails_UPDATED. Clicked on it. And there, at the very top, was an email from Val confirming David Turner’s interest in the Eastbourne scheme and his appointment at 2pm the previous Tuesday.
My skin prickled. My breath was quick and shallow. I stared at the screen, and the information swirled around my brain. The spreadsheets. The photograph. The emails. The information contained in the dozen or so files I’d yet to open.
But most of all, that text file.
There was nothing in the Guardian article that wasn’t in that file.
Sweat formed on my palms as I grabbed for the mouse and closed each document as quickly as I could.
I could never let Angus know I’d found them.
That I knew.
Because in that moment, I did know: Angus had set me up.
I unplugged the thumb drive and slipped it back into the drawer in which I’d found it, then slammed it shut.
I was dizzy and I held on to the edge of the desk for stability.
There was so much information on that thumb drive – he must have been collecting it for months. And newspapers fact check, which takes time too. He would have had to leak those files to the Guardian long before he suggested Eastbourne to me as a viable investment idea.
But why gather information on Stepanovich in the first place? It was dangerous at best – but to leak it to the papers? That was insane. And Angus was not the whistle-blowing type. Surely it had to be about something bigger than simply being pissed that he didn’t get Stepanovich’s business. And where did he even get all that information? Did he have a source working for Citexel? He must do. I thought of the spreadsheets. The emails. My mind moved back to the investor who fell away: was he a part of this? Did he know what was going on? Was this why he wanted out?
But I was tying myself up in knots about things that really didn’t matter. Angus knew full well what he was planning. What the impact would be. And he’d intentionally tried to drown me in the storm. That was all I needed to know.
My throat tightened, and my vision liquefied.
I tried to get my thoughts in check.
This is ridiculous. It can’t be true. Taylor, calm down.
The whole thing felt impossible. There had to be another explanation. Something more reasonable. But what other explanation was there?
I need to leave. Now.
I stood up and ran through to the bedroom. Slid open the closet door and started pulling out my clothes, throwing them into a pile on the bed. But then I just stood there, staring at the tangled mess, my fingers on my lips, not moving.
Because it wasn’t that simple. I couldn’t just leave.
Not without a good excuse.
If I did, he’d know I’d found out about Eastbourne, about what he’d done – why else would I have such a sudden change of heart? He’d know that I could potentially reveal him as the source of the leak and there was no telling what he’d do to protect himself.
An image of Val opening a link to my re-uploaded sex tape flashed before my eyes; I now knew that it was unlikely he’d destroyed all copies as promised. Then another, of that green thumb drive arriving in a yellow envelope on a tabloid magazine editor’s desk, with a confession note speaking of how, while
I couldn’t disclose my sources, it was me who leaked the story and I was happy to go public; then it would be me in the firing line. The awful possibilities were endless.
So, no. I had to stay. At least for a little while.
Leaning over the bed I picked up a crocheted navy dress, slid it back onto its thick wooden hanger and returned it to the closet. Then I did the same with the rest of my clothes. Soon it looked like they’d never left the rail.
I slid the closet door shut and sat on the bed.
I had two choices. I could leave right then and there. He would register me as a potential threat, and I would remain an unwilling pawn in his game, never knowing which part of my life might implode next. Never feeling secure.
Or I could take back control. Orchestrate a safe exit.
In order to be safe from him I needed two things: a strong excuse to leave – something to allay any suspicion that I knew what he’d done – and something I could use against him once I was at a distance. Something that would make him as scared of me as I was of him. The information on the green thumb drive was a good start, but I needed more to tie him to it – what was to stop him from saying he’d never seen it before?
My eyes darted around the room. It still looked the same, smelled the same – fabric softener, furniture polish and a faint hint of his cologne – but everything had shifted. However, as it stood, I was in a strong position. I had easy access to his mail, his home, his phone, his wallet, his work diary, his neighbours, his credit card statements and his computer. Every morsel of his life was up for examination and tampering with, if I was brave enough to try.
All I needed to do was play the role he’d primed me for – the Sunday Girl. I would smile, defer to him, be charming and sweet, while covertly collecting what I needed to buy my freedom.
It was a good plan; I just wasn’t sure I had the strength for it. Because how could two people who’d loved each other the way we had come to this? I thought of the tears in his eyes as he stood in my doorway, begging me for forgiveness just a week before. Of our in-jokes about orange string bikinis and our plans for the future. We’d had sex just the night before. Was everything a lie?
My phone was charging on the bedside table and I reached for it: it was 5:22pm.
I wanted to call Charlotte but I couldn’t: even if she wasn’t in the highlands of Scotland with shitty reception, she would tell me to leave. She would insist on it. But it was different for her. She didn’t understand what it was like to live in the world with no money behind you. Nobody to pay your legal fees or fight your battles or make a call to get you a new job if you were fired under a dark cloud of sex-tape disgrace. I had nobody to make things go away.
And it wasn’t her life that would blow up in the aftermath. She wasn’t the one who would end up on the internet, unemployed or possibly far worse. I took a deep breath and stared out the window. The sky had turned a thick navy: Angus would be back soon and I couldn’t risk him finding me mid-search.
I looked back at my phone, and came to a decision: I would call David. Tell him what I’d found; explain what had happened. I scrolled through my recent calls, found his number and listened as the line began to ring once, twice, three times. And then as quickly as I had dialled, I hung up. I wasn’t thinking straight. What was I going to say? ‘Hi David, it’s me, sorry about the whole Citexel thing, but I just found this green thumb drive in my boyfriend’s study. It turns out it was him who leaked the information, I think he’s trying to destroy me and …’ It sounded ludicrous. Besides, the comments in that text file were all anonymous. So it was just my word against Angus’s and who knew what version he’d spin if questioned before I had more evidence: ‘Oh no, poor Taylor, she’s a bit unbalanced. That’s her thumb drive. Why? What’s on there? Is she okay?’
It could all blow up in my face. I’d have to wait until I had more against him before I could tell anybody about anything.
And so, I was back where I started.
We’d met at a party, on a boat, the August bank-holiday weekend. One of those glittery affairs that always made me feel out of my depth. I hadn’t wanted to go, but Charlotte had begged me. She’d just met Ben, and Ben was an avid sailor. She’d offered to lend me a dress and promised me that the wine would counteract my natural propensity for motion sickness.
And so I went.
Of course, she’d been wrong. And at around 10pm I was on the lower deck, away from the noise, leaning over the edge of the boat with one hand grasping the railing and the other attempting to hold my hair back.
And so, busy as I was, I didn’t hear him approach. I didn’t sense it.
But out of the darkness came his voice. It was hypnotic: ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for a vomiting woman.’
I turned, and I saw him. And in that moment everything finally made sense.
I can’t recall what I said in response to his witty opening line. I probably just laughed. But whatever I did, it worked. Because my next recollection of that evening is dancing with him to a jazz band; a trumpet-led version of ‘Feeling Good’. That would become our song, in time. And every time I heard it I would recall the golden intensity of that trumpet and the warmth of his breath as he whispered into my ear: ‘You’re in so much trouble, and you don’t even know it yet.’
That was possibly the only truthful thing to ever pass his lips.
I was lying in the bathtub when he got home that night, running through our early history frame by frame – our meeting, our first date, Paris – searching for the clues I’d missed. But there was nothing there. Nothing to warn me it would come to this: that one day I’d be lying in the bathtub, I’d hear the front door open and my throat would tighten as I braced myself to lie to the man who was trying to destroy me.
‘Darling,’ came Angus’s voice. The front door slammed and I sat up straight, hugging my knees with my arms.
‘We have to be out at eight, remember?’ he said, annoyance in his voice. He was tapping on the bathroom door and jiggling the handle. ‘Why is this locked?’ I needed more time before I could face him.
‘Shit, sorry honey,’ I called from the water. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. ‘I’m really not well,’ I said, working to control the timbre of my voice. ‘Maybe you should go alone tonight?’
There was silence on the other side of the door. I could imagine his face, the irritation marked by creases on his forehead.
‘What?’ he asked, his voice high and clipped. ‘What sort of sick?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s just nerves from the past couple of days, funny tummy. Just don’t feel up to going out.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
I held my breath and waited.
‘But you go,’ I said. My voice was measured: one part kindness, two parts servitude.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked. It was Friday, and the only time we’d spent weekends apart was when we were broken up.
‘Of course,’ I said. We were supposed to be meeting Harry and whichever amateur stripper he was courting that week for dinner. But I had other plans: I was going to use the time to search the flat properly.
‘No,’ he said through the door, ‘I’ll stay here and we can watch a film. It’ll be fun.’
Fuck.
‘I really don’t mind,’ I said back. My stomach swirled. Just go.
‘No, of course I’ll stay with you,’ he said. ‘We can get them around for dinner tomorrow night instead. I’ll ask Jeremy and Alison too.’
That sounded like hell on a stick: Harry was crass, whomever he was dating was bound to be awful, Alison was vacuous and medicated, and Jeremy – Alison’s husband – was actually very nice but never said enough for it to matter. Aside from which, they would have all seen the photograph of Kim with Angus on that ski slope – hell, Harry had probably watched the sex tape – and I didn’t want to have to squirm beneath their knowing glances.
But I couldn’t say any of that. So instead I said: ‘Okay, great.’
saturday
Master Sun said: ‘ “Deadlock” means that neither side finds it advantageous to make a move.’
18 FEBRUARY
It was just after dinner when the subject of strip poker came up. I was in the middle of clearing away plates and Harry had just handed Angus a small bag of cocaine, a pink rubber band tying it shut. Angus was on his way to the bathroom to snort it, and I had just said, ‘Darling, what are you doing?’ It was the sort of thing I’d say if I still believed everything was fine between us.
But he’d shot me a red-flag warning of a look – the same one I had witnessed earlier in the day as I’d stood in the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand as I cooked for his friends; how dare I question his decision to pour himself his first Scotch in almost a week – and I’d cast my eyes down. I needed to stick to the plan and so couldn’t afford to cause any more trouble. We’d already had an unspoken fight that evening. His eyes flaming. Mine apologising.
Because David had called me back. Mid-meal. And Angus had answered.
My phone had been lying on the dinner table along with everybody else’s and, seeing the unmarked number flashing on the screen, Angus had picked it up like he owned it. ‘Hello,’ he’d said, and then, ‘No, she can’t. Who the fuck are you anyway?’ Pause. ‘David Turner?’ His eyes glared at me, wide and angry. ‘Well, David Turner, I’m her fiancé,’ he’d said, ‘and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer it if you never fucking called her again.’
And then he’d terminated the call. Sighed loudly. Put my phone gently back on the table where he could see it. Continued eating his coq au vin like nothing had happened. And I’d been left reeling (fiancé?) and fending off questions from Alison about when I’d be getting a ring.
‘Strip poker?’ That was how it was said. By Alison: all chestnut hair, fake boobs and pout. A noun posed as a question. Flirty voice. Not even a sentence encasing it.
Angus stopped in his tracks and turned back to face me. There was a light fixture directly above his head and the shadows it cast rendered him ghoulish. The expression held in his eyes revealed that he expected me to say no.
