You Can Trust Me

by Sophie McKenzie

  “That all turned out to be true, and now it feels like it’s happening again.” I wipe my eyes. “I’m sure he’s lying. I just can’t prove it.”

  Alexa considers me for a moment. “Most likely he’s put himself in a situation where he feels cornered by his own actions. There’s no way out now without pain for somebody, and he’s trying to avoid that.” She sighs. “He’s like a rat in a trap.”

  I take a deep breath; I have to pull myself together. The story I give Alexa doesn’t matter. What counts is making it convincing enough to lead to a meeting with Shannon Walker so I can ask her straight out whom Julia asked her to entrap. And why.

  Alexa takes notes on a clipboard as I speak. I’d envisaged a sophisticated operation, but Honey Hearts is fairly low-tech, still operating a mostly paper-based system. It’s all depressingly mundane.

  Alexa listens sympathetically to my story. She asks for a few details: about what my husband does for a living, any hobbies and interests, and about his sexual history. Again, I keep as close to the truth as possible.

  “We met in our early twenties, so not masses of exes.”

  “What about socializing? Is he more likely to meet people for a coffee in a café? Or a beer in the pub?” Alexa pauses. “It helps to know, so that we make sure our Honey gives out the right signals when she goes to meet him.”

  I nod, thinking it through. Again, it’s simpler to stick to the truth. “Definitely not a coffee,” I say. “He only really likes tea. He doesn’t drink that much: a glass of red wine or a single malt, though he usually goes to the pub after work on Fridays for a couple of drinks.”

  “Hobbies?”

  “He likes motorbikes, though he hasn’t actually had one for years.” I trail off, thinking of the mountain of classic bike mags in our garage, then of Will’s long conversation with Paul in the pub the other day. I used to like photography in the same way. Before I had the children, Will and I went on long walks so I could take pictures of the moors and the cliffs by the sea. I used to own a Hasselblad. Now I rarely even take photos on my phone unless they’re of the kids. There never seems to be time for anything else, I give myself a shake. “He works long hours, so there’s not much time for other hobbies.”

  Alexa nods as I speak, listening intently and making notes. She points out, when I say I don’t have a photo right now, that I’ll need to bring one to my meeting with the Honey I choose. At last she reaches for the two large portfolios on the shelf.

  “So what would you say your husband’s ‘type’ is?” She sets the first portfolio down on her lap.

  “Blond,” I say emphatically.

  “Ah.” Alexa raises her eyebrows in an expression that says very clearly, how predictable.

  I visualize Shannon.

  “I think he’d go for someone blond, but not overtly tarty. More baby doll–looking, you know, big blue eyes … innocent smile, that sort of thing. And young, not too young, though. Maybe mid-twenties.”

  Alexa flicks through one of the portfolios, her thumb keeping her place as she marks out ten or so pages. She hands me the book.

  “These are all our regular blondes under thirty,” she says.

  My mouth is dry as I scan the pages. The girls here have a similar look: attractive but not intimidatingly beautiful, with good figures and inviting smiles. None of them is Shannon.

  My palms are sweating as I close the portfolio and rest my hand on top.

  “Some of these might work,” I acknowledge. “But none of them are as good as the girl I saw on your site before I made the appointment. She looks just like this ex of his that I know he still fancies.”

  “Okay.” Alexa’s eyes rest on mine for a second longer than is necessary. Has she seen through me? My stomach clenches with anxiety.

  “Show me the girl.” Alexa leads me to the computer on her desk and leans over, clicking quickly through to the Gallery page.

  I run my finger down the portraits, pretending I can’t find her at first; then I point to the photo of Shannon.

  “Her,” I say. “She’d be perfect for him. You know, he says he looks but he doesn’t touch, but—”

  “But we all know how easily one thing can lead to another.” Alexa sighs. “I’m afraid this is an old picture. This particular girl no longer works for us.”

  I stare at her. How can Shannon not work here? She went to Aces High to meet Julia less than a week ago.…

  “No longer works for you?” I affect a laugh. “Has she moved to another agency, then?”

  “Not at all.” Alexa bristles slightly. “No, I’m afraid she just didn’t show up for an appointment last Wednesday, and we have a zero tolerance policy on punctuality.

  My heart skips a beat. I saw Shannon myself on Tuesday evening. Was it meeting me—and the news of Julia’s death—that made her stay away from work?

  “Did you sack her?” I ask, hoping Alexa will give me some clue as to Shannon’s state of mind.

  “Not at first,” she says. “I tried her twice, but she didn’t answer her phone. Then I left a message telling her she was fired. I haven’t heard anything back. Very unprofessional, I know, but there you are.”

  I stare at her. “And that’s it?”

  Alexa shrugs. “My best guess is that she’s upped and moved on. It happens sometimes—the girls are young.”

  I stare at Shannon’s picture on the computer screen as another possibility worms its way into my head. What if Shannon didn’t leave of her own accord?

  What if someone killed her too?

  “Olivia?”

  I look up. Alexa is gazing at me curiously.

  “I was suggesting an alternative girl—Brooke,” she says, pointing to a Honey from the same row as Shannon on the on-screen gallery. She enlarges Brooke’s picture so I can see her properly. Another twenty-something, sparkly-eyed blonde, though her expression lacks the coy tease of Shannon’s.

  I think fast. My mind is still reeling from the fact that Shannon is missing, that all my efforts to invesigate have come to what looks like a dead end. Then I rouse myself. I can’t accept that. Not yet. There must be some way of finding out if Julia set Shannon to entrap someone, who it was and why. I glance over at the Honey Hearts case files on Alexa Carling’s shelves.

  “I wonder if I could just use the ladies’ while I have a think about all this,” I say.

  Alexa sits back in her chair. “Of course, take all the time you need.” The frown is still on her face, and I realize she is worried that I am getting cold feet, that if I walk out of the office, so does my money.

  “It’s just such a big decision,” I explain as I head for the door.

  “I know it is,” Alexa says with warmth. “But I’ve been where you are Livy. I’m happily single now, but both my husbands cheated on me. It was devastating. With my first husband, I had no idea anything was wrong until the day he walked out on us. And with the second, it was worse—he left me and the children with nothing.” She sighs. “Knowledge is power, Olivia. I have to tell you that it’s very, very rare for any of our clients to regret hiring our Honeys, whatever they find out. You see, if your partner doesn’t respond, you get the reassurance you are hoping for. If he does, you have proof instead suspicions.”

  I nod, then scuttle along the corridor to the ladies’ room. As soon as I’m safely inside a cubicle, I text Damian, as arranged. I take my time in the bathroom, psyching myself up for what I am going to have to do next. I just make it back to Alexa’s office, when the commotion in reception begins. Alexa’s face reddens as Damian’s voice—full of indignant fury—fills the air.

  “How dare you send one of your slags to try to get me into bed, preying on my wife, winding her up to think I’m seeing other women. You should all be in jail.”

  “Please, sir, calm down,” the receptionist pleads. “I’m sure there’s just been a misunderstanding.”

  I glance at Alexa. She’s listening intently to the conversation.

  “I demand to see the person my wife
spoke to. Alexa Carling. Where is she? Get her out here now?” Damian shouts.

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Carling is in a meeting, sir. Perhaps if you gave me your name, I—?”

  “I’m not giving you anything!” Damian yells. “Get her out of the meeting!”

  Alexa meets my eyes, her expression at once concerned and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Olivia,” she says. “This has never happened before.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, my heart racing. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

  Alexa scurries away and I dart over to the shelf with the case files. I pick out A–D. If Julia did hire Shannon, I can’t imagine she’d have used her real name, Dryden, but I don’t know where else to start. The cases are divided by colored plastic sheets with the clients’ names at the top, followed by a copy of the form they are asked to fill out on arrival, plus the sheets clearly compiled by Alexa during the face-to-face meeting. There are pictures of and notes from the Honeys themselves and then, at the end, detail on the men under surveillance alongside written reports of the encounters between them and, in some cases, numbered references to recordings that are, presumably, stored elsewhere.

  I flick from back to front, through the Ds. A selection of Honeys flash before my eyes: pretty girls with sparkling eyes. I turn from DURSLEY to DENHAM. I turn the page back. No Dryden. My heart sinks—so Julia didn’t use her real name. It’s not surprising, but it leaves me feeling hopeless. Outside in reception, I can hear Damian still shouting, then Alexa’s cool, quiet voice as she tries in vain to calm him down. He’s very convincing.

  I look back at the file in my hand. I don’t know what else to do, so I keep turning the pages. Past DERBY to DAWSON to DAVIS. Some, but not all, pages are stamped with the letter P. What does that mean?

  Suddenly I spot Shannon, her photo tacked on to the front of a case file. I look to the top of the page. The client’s name is Julia D’Arc. I can’t help but smile at this. Was Julia using part of her made-up name for her mother as her own cover name? I scan hurriedly down the page, noticing as I do that it hasn’t been stamped with a P, like some of the others.

  Outside, Damian is still yelling. Alexa is threatening to call the police if he doesn’t leave. I don’t have much time. My finger sticks to the page as I read, my brain tripping over the notes in my haste. Julia is reporting concerns in a long-term relationship, a man she is involved with whom she suspects of having an affair. This has to be a cover. Which means it must surely be related in some way to Kara’s killer.

  My finger traces to the bottom of the page, where the name of the man under investigation hits me like a punch. I suck in my breath, shocked beyond words.

  Because the man Julia hired Shannon to entrap is my husband.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I reel back, away from the page. For a few seconds, the room seems to spin around me. Outside, Damian is still kicking up a terrible racket. Alexa Carling’s voice is raised too as she tries to calm him down.

  I peer back at the file. Will’s name is there in black-and-white at the bottom of the page:

  SUBJECT FOR INVESTIGATION: WILL JACKSON.

  It’s him. It’s undeniably him. I run my finger to the top of the next page, trying to take in what Julia has said about him, but I get only as far as the first line:

  SUBJECT IS DESCRIBED AS OUTGOING AND CONFIDENT, A PROFESSIONAL MAN WITH A REPUTATION FOR—

  A door slams outside. I suddenly realize the shouting coming from reception has stopped. Footsteps clip-clop along the corridor toward me. Alexa Carling must be coming back. I close the file and shove it back on its shelf. Then I scurry back to the sofa, sitting down just as Alexa walks into the room.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” she says smoothly. “Now, are we going with Brooke?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I really need more time to think about this.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “It’s a big decision.” I get up. Somehow my shaking legs carry me to the door. I just about remember to turn around and thank Alexa for her time. I register she looks perplexed, and a little frustrated. And then I’m out of there. Along the corridor, past reception and down, out onto the street. I glance along the road. Damian will be waiting for me in the café down the street, but I can’t face him just yet. I turn and walk in the opposite direction, thoughts swirling about my head.

  As I pace along the sidewalk, it starts to rain. Soft drops patter onto my head and down my neck. People around me scuttle for shelter in shop doorways. I keep walking, trying to make sense of what I’ve just seen. Julia hired a woman to attempt to seduce my husband. Why would she have done such a thing? The notes made no mention of his being married, but did say she had been with him for a long time.

  That can’t be true, can it? Julia was with Damian. She couldn’t have been seeing Will. She would never have done that to me. Will wouldn’t have done it. Would he? My husband and my best friend. Images flash into my head. I feel sick. Panic rises inside me. If Julia and Will betrayed me with each other, then nothing is safe. Nothing is certain. I turn a corner and stop walking. I force myself to take a deep breath. I need to think it through calmly, rationally. I huddle in a doorway, wipe the rain from my face, and turn the possibilities over in my mind.

  The first and most obvious reason for Julia hiring a girl to entrap Will is that she was having an affair with him—and suspected him of cheating on both of us. I can’t believe this is true. Julia would never have betrayed our friendship like that, and despite the sudden waves of doubt that sometimes wash over me, when I stop and think it through, I’m certain Will has been faithful since his affair with Catrina all those years ago. Plus, I saw Will and Julia together a million times, and not once did I ever sense any kind of frisson between them.

  It is far more likely, knowing Julia’s fierce sense of loyalty, that she thought Will was seeing someone else and wanted to find out more before she confronted him about it, or told me directly. I sigh. This may be more likely, yet it still seems improbable. Even if Julia had believed Will was having an affair and wanted to find out more, why not simply follow him herself? Even hiring a private investigator would surely make more sense than the elaborate contrivance of a Honey from Honey Hearts?

  Which brings me to the third and, ultimately, most horrifying possibility: Could Julia have suspected Will of some involvement in Kara’s death? She was clearly convinced that Shannon held the key to the truth, and adamant that she had to speak to me before going to the police. I thought before that this was because I was Kara’s sister, but now I’m wondering if it was so she could warn me. I think of Hannah and Zack, and my blood chills in my veins. They are Will’s children as well as mine.

  No, there is absolutely no way that Will was involved in my sister’s murder. And surely no way that Julia could have believed he was.

  My mind slides back, over the years, to the day we met, but it’s impossible to disentangle my meeting with Will with the way Julia and I had become friends. It seems so long ago now, a jumble of events all merged together, punctuated by a few single, searing memories.

  Kara died during February, and I stumbled through the last few weeks of that spring term of my final year in a daze. Looking back, I have no idea what I did with my time, but it certainly didn’t involve writing essays or preparing for exams. I remember lying curled up on the sofa of my rented house, staring into space for hours, my housemates tiptoeing around me. Back then, there was a wall between me and the rest of the world of people who didn’t have to live with the reality of a murdered sister. I barely ate, though people whose names I can no longer remember placed food in front of me. I scarcely registered when the TV was switched on and turned off again. I crept from the sofa to bed and then back again, letting life drift around me. I stayed like that for over a month, rousing myself only to visit my parents. It was on one such trip home that I discovered they had invited Julia to spend the Easter holiday with us. I remember feeling a flicker of annoyance at the intrusion, th
en resigning myself to her arrival. What did it really matter? What did anything matter anymore? Kara was gone, her life, beauty, and innocence destroyed, and I had not protected her.

  Julia breathed life into me, into all of us. She came into our home and tended to my parents with tiny, sensitive touches, placing my dad’s paper by his armchair, helping my mother chop vegetables in the kitchen. Her hard edges softened by grief, I think she was simply trying to offer practical help, but it ended up being so much more than that. As if Julia were holding a rope to a new life without Kara to which we knew we had to make our way. She knocked on my bedroom door on the morning of the second day of her visit and told me gently but firmly that I needed to do more to help my parents. I was silent at first, turning my head to the wall, but Julia persisted and eventually I turned on her, shouting at her to “fuck off” and mind her own business. Julia stood her ground, bearing my rage for as long as she could, then started shouting too. I don’t remember what we said, but I was hoarse by the time I yelled that I missed Kara, that I hated the world for taking her away, that I was so angry she was gone. The terrible pain of it consumed me; my legs buckled and I collapsed on the floor in tears. There was silence, and I thought Julia had gone. Then I looked up and she was sitting on the floor herself, leaning against the wall watching me, and I saw my own agony reflected in her eyes.

  I always thought that Julia saved me after Kara’s death, but maybe we saved each other. We certainly spent the rest of my final year almost exclusively in each other’s company. After that Easter break, I managed to get back to my studies and somehow made it through my final exams. Thanks to my hard work on earlier units and with the help of a note from my tutor, I ended up with a respectable 2:1 in History.

  Julia and I went on holiday together that August. A tiny apartment with kitchenette in Ibiza. That week away was the first time I realized the magnetic effect Julia had on men. She slept with several guys on the holiday—men she met while we were at clubs, with whom she had sex immediately. Shockingly fast, it seemed to me, on beaches, in parking lots, under trees. I got used to her sudden disappearances from the dance floor but learned to trust that she would always be back by dawn, ready to walk home with me. It was never spoken out loud, but I knew she wouldn’t leave me to return to our apartment alone. Not after Kara.