by Susan Lewis
She felt the muscles in her face begin to freeze. “You can’t ruin this for me, Matthew, you can’t. I’ve worked hard for this, it’s what I’ve always wanted. Can’t you leave me alone? I give you money, isn’t that enough?”
“Nope,” he said. “I’ve decided I want more.”
“But I’ve got no more to give.” She looked at him, and felt a violent hatred erupting inside. “You sadistic bastard!” she hissed. “You’re ruining my life, and you’re fucking well enjoying it!”
“That’s right,” he said, and this time his voice was tinged with anger.
Suddenly the strain of the last few days took hold of her, and she felt her control slipping away. “You fucking son of a bitch!” she yelled. “Get out of here! And don’t ever show your ugly face here again. Go on, get out! Get out of my life. The very sight of you makes me sick, sitting there throwing back the whisky like some fucking moronic distillery. You’re a waste of space, Matthew. Why don’t you do us all a favour and take the bottle with you and drink yourself to death.”
He leapt up from his chair and threw his glass to the floor. “Don’t you speak to me like that, you bitch!” he snarled. “Not a little tramp like you.” He caught her by the hair and yanked her round to face him.
“Let go of me!”
“Shut your mouth!” he yelled, and slapped her hard across the face.
She gasped, and then lashed out with her fists, but he was too strong for her. “Stop it! Stop!” she cried, but he was pulling her across the room, tearing at her hair.
He threw her against the wall. “Now just you see to it that I get that job. And I’m telling you now, I will want an answer the next time I’m round. And it’d better be the right one.”
“It’s not my decision. I don’t have that sort of power.” She could hardly get the words out, he was squeezing her jaw so tightly.
“I don’t think you’re hearing me,” he said, lifting his hand ready to strike another blow. “If I don’t do this programme, then you don’t either. Get it? Now, it’s up to you.”
She looked at the threatening hand, and then back into his face. He was glowering down at her, his hair falling across his bloodshot eyes, saliva dripping from his mouth. She pulled back her head as far as she could, and spat into his face.
The blow to her head was agonising, and she fell to the floor. He was standing over her, and suddenly she felt a searing pain in her side. And another, and another. He was kicking her with a reckless and insane violence, as though he meant to carry on until he killed her. She tried to get away, but he came after her, pushing her back to the floor. And all the time he called her the names she had called herself, and taunted her with the sinister truth of her life.
Finally she managed to crawl under the table, where he could no longer reach her. Curling herself into a ball, she waited to see what he would do. She could hear him breathing, and watched his legs as he stood there for an instant, then went back to the small bar she kept on the sideboard. She could taste the blood in her mouth; she held on tightly to her body, shivering and shaking, trying to hold her battered self together. He turned round, and took a step towards the table. She held her breath.
“Get out from there, bitch!”
She didn’t move.
“I said get out,” he yelled, and she saw the contents of her bar go crashing to the floor.
Still she didn’t move.
He picked up a chair and threw it across the room. Then, getting to his knees, he looked under the table. She forced herself back, wincing with pain, but he reached out and grabbed her. “That’s it,” he said, pulling her towards him. “Suffer, you bitch. Suffer!”
“Stop it, Matthew. Please,” she begged. “No more.”
“I said suffer,” he yelled, and banged her head against the floor.
“Stop! Stop!” she screamed.
He threw her backwards, and got to his feet. “Get up.”
She looked up at him, terror making her eyes bulge from her head.
“Get up!” he yelled.
Never taking her eyes from him, she reached out for the edge of the table, and began to pull herself to her feet. She was sobbing quietly, as much with pain as fear. Finally she managed to drag herself up, gasping at the pain in her side, and fell back into a chair.
“Please,” she said, as he started to come towards her. “Please, don’t hit me again.”
He stood over her, very drunk now, and she cowered away. Then he took her by the throat again, and forced her face up to his.
“The job,” he snarled.
She nodded.
He let her go, and swilled another mouthful of whisky from the bottle he was holding. She watched him, mesmerised. Suddenly she heard herself speaking, and her voice seemed to echo through her ears. “Why, Matthew?” she was saying. “Why?”
He slammed the bottle on the table beside her, making her jump, and stuck his face into hers.
“Why?” he said, showering her face with saliva. “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because I was fucking stupid enough to fall in love with you, that’s why! And all you’ve ever done is shove it right back in my face. You! The whore! The slut! I loved you and you’re no fucking good, Jenneen. And now you’re going to pay for all the misery. And if you don’t deliver, you whore, then you’re dead! Do you hear me? You’re fucking dead!”
She stared into his face. He was sick in the head, and not once did she doubt his threat of death. From the look in his eyes now she knew he was capable of anything.
He let her go, and walked to the door, taking the nearly empty bottle with him. “I’ll be back,” he said, “and soon. You know what I want, and you know what I’m prepared to do if I don’t get it. Think on it.” He turned and went out of the room.
She waited until she heard him leave, then tried to pull herself to her feet. But the pain was excruciating, and she fell to her knees, groaning.
As she pulled her car to a stop outside, Vicky looked up and saw Matthew staggering out of the building. From the look on his face she could tell that yet another unsavoury scene had taken place upstairs. She waited for him to weave his way off down the street, then hurried inside.
She found the door open so she let herself in and called out. There was no reply, so she closed the door behind her, and went in search of Jenneen. At first she could hardly take in the wreckage of the room, and then she saw Jenneen lying on the floor, her frail body wracked with sobs, blood all over her face. Vicky dropped her bag and ran over to her.
“Oh, Vicky! Vicky!” Jenneen sobbed. “He kept hitting me, and kicking me, and now he wants me to help him, and I have to help him. If I don’t, he says he’ll kill me, and I know he means it. Oh, God, what does it take to make him stop?”
“It’s all right,” said Vicky, trying to keep her voice calm. “It’s all right. Come on, let’s try and get you onto the sofa.”
She laid Jenneen back against the cushions then ran into the bathroom to get hot water and cotton wool. When she came back again Jenneen was trying to get up. Gently she pushed her back down, and started to bathe her face.
“Don’t move,” she said. “Don’t try to move.”
“He said he’d kill me,” Jenneen cried, verging on hysteria and trying to sit up again.
“Sssh,” said Vicky. “Sssh. Lie back now.”
Jenneen caught Vicky’s hand as she lifted it to her face, and held it to her. “He wants my programme. He said I’ve got to give it to him. He wants my programme. What am I going to do?”
“Sssh.” Vicky soothed. “Sssh!”
Jenneen let her head fall back, and allowed Vicky to bathe her face. Her hands were soft and kind, and after a while the trembling in her limbs began to subside.
“I want my mother,” said Jenneen, looking up into Vicky’s face, with pathetic eyes, and she giggled.
Vicky smiled. “I know,” she said. “I know. You need a rest, my darling. You so badly need a rest.”
“Yes, I want to sleep. I want to go
away. Please, help me to get away from him.”
“I will,” said Vicky.
“Will you ring my mother, get her to come and fetch me? Please!”
“Of course. Where’s her number?”
“She’s not on the phone,” said Jenneen, and began to cry again.
“Oh my poor, poor darling.”
Jenneen clung to her, and sobbed into her shoulder. “What am I going to do?” she pleaded. “Tell me, please, what am I going to do?”
“You’re going to get right away from everything, where no one can hurt you any more, and where people care for you and want to help you.”
Jenneen’s face was panic-stricken. “You’re going to send me away,” she cried. “I won’t go. Don’t send me away. Please, don’t send me away. I’m not mad! I’ll get better. I couldn’t bear it,” and her face crumpled again.
Vicky hugged her. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “No one’s going to send you away. Just tell me what your commitments are for the week, and we’ll work everything out from there.”
Jenneen pulled away, and looked up into Vicky’s face. Vicky smiled. She had never seen a woman look more like a child. “I’ve got to edit,” said Jenneen, “but I’ll be free by Friday, and for the weekend. Can we go away somewhere? Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will. Why don’t we go down and spend the weekend at my parents’ house in Wiltshire? We can go for lots of long walks, and talk, if you feel up to it. But most of all, we’ll take you away from London. Is that what you want?”
Jenneen nodded. “Yes, I want to get away from London.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” said Vicky. “I’ll ring my parents tomorrow and let them know. Now, off to bed with you. Try and get some sleep. It’s OK,” she added, when she saw the look on Jenneen’s face. “I’ll be here. I won’t leave you. I’ll sleep on the sofa. If you want anything, then all you have to do is call out. Is that OK?”
Jenneen smiled weakly, and nodded. “You’re uncanny, you know.”
“Uncanny?”
“Yes. This is the second time in my life that you’ve turned up when you’re least expected, and most needed.”
Vicky’s eyes were gentle, and she smiled. “Isn’t that how it should be with friends?”
Jenneen looked back at her. “Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, I suppose it should.”
THIRTY
Ashley swept out of her office carrying the latest composite artwork for the Mercer Burgess pitch, and started to make for the Art Department. Along with the rest of her team she had worked through the night for the last two nights, grabbing sleep when she could, and knew she should have been exhausted. But things were going well, even better than she had dared hope, and she was buzzing. When Arthur Fellowman had rang her as he’d promised he would, he had been a great deal more encouraging about her ideas than he had when she had left him after their first meeting. She felt that he was on her side, and would do all that he could to push it through the board. If only she could reduce the cost a little, then she really would be in with a chance.
She was at the end of the corridor before she remembered that she had meant to speak to Jan before she left. She turned back.
Jan was just putting the phone down as she walked in. “Oh, you’re back,” she said. “That was . . .”
But Ashley wasn’t listening. “I need to speak to Arthur Fellowman sometime this morning. Get onto his secretary and find out his movements. And can you take the blue file I’ve left on my desk and have the entire thing copied. Make that two copies. And ring Walter and ask him if he’s got the changes tasked for yet. And then ring Media and ask them to send up the latest TV figures we asked for yesterday, and if necessary go down and fetch them. Oh yes, and I’m still waiting for the provisional cast list from Gemma, that’s very important, then ring Candice and make an appointment with Conrad, we’re going to knock him off his feet.” She grinned, and Jan laughed.
“Bill is on his . . .” Jan started to say, but Ashley had already gone out of the door.
“Is there a fire?” said Bill Fownest, catching her by the arms before she careered into him.
Ashley laughed. “Sorry, I was in a bit of a hurry, that’s all. Want to get this to Conrad before lunch.”
“Just what I’ve come to see. May I?” Bill asked, looking down at the designs.
“Sure,” said Ashley. “Don’t see any reason not to impress the hell out of you.”
Bill laughed, and took the artwork from her. “Mmm,” he said, looking it over, “interesting. I’ll look forward to seeing the complete thing.”
“You will, soon enough, and if you wait till tomorrow you can see it lifted from the paper and presented in all its celluloid glory,” said Ashley, taking them back.
“Have you shown Conrad anything at all yet?”
“Not a thing,” she answered, sounding a great deal more nonchalant than she felt.
Bill seemed surprised. “Something on that scale, and you haven’t even mentioned it to him? I mean, you’ve sure deviated from the Mercer Burgess brief.”
She shrugged. “It was the only way, I found.”
“Does Arthur Fellowman know?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve talked to him?”
“Sure.”
“But not to Conrad?”
“No.”
“I’d like to be around when he finds out about that.”
They started along the corridor together. “He’s not easy to please is he? Conrad, I mean.”
“Not always.”
“I’m going to win this one, you know, Bill.”
“I know.”
She laughed. “So you do have confidence. Thanks,” she said.
“Don’t thank me, thank Conrad.”
“Conrad? What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. Thank Conrad. He’s seen to it that you’ll win.”
“He’s what! How?”
“He just has.”
“Do you mean he knows about all of this already then?” she asked, lifting the artwork in her arms.
“Not as far as I know.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
They reached the elevator and Bill pressed the button. “Would I be correct in thinking that there might be certain, shall we say, conditions attached to this campaign? As far as you’re concerned, that is.”
Ashley looked at him in surprise. “You know about that?”
Bill nodded.
“Conrad told you?”
He nodded again.
“I still don’t think I’m following you. How does that mean that Conrad has seen to it that I win the account?”
“Bill!”
Bill and Ashley looked round, and saw Conrad walking towards them. His face was like a thundercloud. Ashley hadn’t seen him at all since the disastrous episode at the Twenty-One Club; she had gone out of her way to avoid him.
“Conrad,” said Bill.
“Last month’s figures, I want to go over them with you. If you can spare the time.”
Bill removed his hand from Ashley’s arm. “I’ll come now.”
Conrad turned on his heel, and walked off down the corridor. Ashley looked at Bill, and pulled a face. Bill winked, then went in pursuit.
Impatiently, she pressed the button for the elevator again, relieved that Conrad had chosen to ignore her. But an hour later, as she returned from the Art Department, she was still mulling over what Bill had said. And try as she might, she could make no sense of it.
It was lunchtime, and Ashley was sitting back drinking a well-earned cup of coffee and relaxing. She looked up as the door opened, surprised that whoever it was hadn’t knocked, and even more surprised when she saw Conrad.
He walked across to her desk and dropped a file in front of her. “Just what the hell do you call this?”
She reached out and picked up the file.
“Well?”
Ashley opened it. Her face was set, and her hand shook slig
htly as she took out the contents.
“Let me tell you,” said Conrad, planting his hands on the edge of her desk, “if that’s an illustration of the campaign you are planning for Mercer Burgess, then you can just forget it! Now! Before you waste any more money, time, or talent. I’ve seen raunchier campaigns for church services.”
Ashley flinched, and put the file back on her desk. Then, with eyes as cold as ice, she looked at him.
“You’re not in London now,” Conrad went on. “This is New York. New York, where you have to be better than tomorrow’s ideas, sharper than the rest of them out there, and original! That,” he spat, pointing at the file, “is not! And if that is an illustration of what you have to offer to this agency, then you can just book your ticket for the next plane back to London. Now!”
Ashley got to her feet. “That,” she said calmly, picking up the file and waving it in his face, – is not mine! It belongs to J.S. & A.”
“Then what the hell was it doing on my desk?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she answered. “Maybe Jan picked up the wrong file and brought it to you. “This,” she said, picking up another file, “is mine,” and she thrust it at him.
He took it from her, but didn’t look at it. “Just how the hell did a J.S. & A. file come into your possession?”
“Into my possession!” she said, her voice rising. “It’s you who’s got the file. I’ve never seen it before.”
“I don’t like this sort of underhanded affair,” said Conrad, his voice dangerously quiet. “If we win this contract, we win it fair and square. I don’t want any of this amateur espionage going on, not in my agency! So you’d better talk to whoever got hold of this file in the first place, and have them take it back to J.S. & A. And then you can send whoever it is to me.”
“You’re talking as if I know who it is,” said Ashley, beginning to bristle again. “You know your staff better than I do, why don’t you find the culprit?”
“I asked you to do something, and I expect it to be done. I’ll expect a full report by tomorrow morning. Now, this,” he said, opening her file, “let’s hope it’s an improvement on what I’ve already seen,” and he sat down in the chair opposite her desk.
