There were several Tony Andreous listed, but luckily only one entertainment and events manager of that name, so I went straight to his website. It was a pretty basic affair, just a brightly colored logo, a small photo of a neatly dressed, middle-aged man with balding dark hair, and a couple of pages advertising dodgy tribute bands, comedians, “personalities”—none of whom I’d ever heard of—and something called “Youngster Talent.” Under “Youngster Talent” there was a phone number to ring for auditions. I rang it, but there was an answerphone message, which didn’t surprise me—by now it was coming up to eleven o’clock. I also rang the office number listed on the site, but received the same response. So finally I keyed both numbers into my phone, thinking that I’d try again later, or tomorrow—and was about to get up to leave when I remembered something.
A while back, much to my dismay at the time, a mentally unstable ex-client of mine had got hold of my home address. He’d never come round to the house, only sent me a series of abusive letters, but it had been unnerving, especially as I make sure never to give my home address to any of my clients. I discovered later that he’d tracked me down not by going to my website itself, where only my office address is listed, but by finding out who my website was registered to. As Branwen, the receptionist at work, had explained, this was easy: he’d simply gone onto a search engine, typed in “whois lookup,” and added the name of the site. This had told him that I was the registrant of the domain and given my home address. I’d since had the address removed from the domain information, but had the incident not occurred, I’d never have known that it was listed on the Internet. Maybe Tony Andreou wouldn’t know, either.
I duly typed in “whois lookup” and found Andreou’s name as the owner of the website. Under his name, as I’d hoped, was what looked like his home address. It was somewhere in King’s Cross. I keyed it into my phone and then went to Google Maps to find out the exact location. After much zooming in and out on the map, I pinpointed it as a block of flats near the main railway lines by the station. I flipped back to the street map, plotted my journey from the car park in Paddington to the block of flats in King’s Cross, and printed out the map. Then I got up, paid, and left the café.
I walked quickly back to the car park, almost having to stop myself from breaking into a run. There was no rush, I knew. Most likely Tony Andreou would be out for the evening—he was an entertainments manager, after all. But at some stage he’d come back for the night, and I’d be able to collar him and ask him where Emyr Griffiths and my daughter were. That was why I was taking the car rather than a cab—just in case there was a long wait until Andreou came home. I felt keyed up, but now that I had a plan of action, my nervousness was mixed with relief. I had a lead. It was a tentative one, but at least it was something.
Once I got into the car, though, none of it seemed so straightforward. I’m reasonably familiar with the city, having lived there at various times in my life, but the one-way systems had changed and seemed more baffling than ever. I knew exactly where I was, and where I wanted to go, but I had to keep circling around the route so much that I kept getting lost. Eventually I found my way onto the Marylebone Road and stayed on it until I hit King’s Cross, only to get lost again once I left the main drag. Finally I found myself in the right street and saw the building, a Victorian mansion block, one of several on a small estate.
I got out of the car, locked it, and crossed the deserted road to the block. I tapped in the number of the flat on the keypad by the entrance, but there was no reply. I tried another number, and then another, and then eventually the buzzer went off and I was able to open the main door. Inside, down a narrow corridor, there was an ancient lift. I pressed the button. The light seemed to be broken, but I could hear the lift coming down toward me. When it got to me the doors opened, emitting a squealing noise and juddering as they did, as if the mechanism was faulty. For a moment I wondered whether it was safe to get in. But the flat, as far as I could work out, was several floors up, so I decided to risk it.
Inside the lift, the light above my head flickered ominously. I pressed the button for the fifth floor and it ground into action. Halfway up it slowed almost to a halt, the light flickering lower and lower until it was almost completely dark. I took out my phone for reassurance, but saw that there was no signal.
The lift juddered to a halt. Then, inch by inch, it rose up the shaft until it was level with the door. I got out, breathing a sigh of relief, and made my way down the corridor to the flat, checking the numbers as I went. By now my heart was thumping in my chest, but I found the courage to ring the bell. Nobody answered. I listened for a moment, and thought I could hear movement inside the flat. There was a spyhole in the door, so I stood to one side of it and pressed the bell again.
This time the door opened, and a young man stood in front of me. He was good-looking, in a bland sort of way, with fair hair cut short and waxed up into a small quiff at the front. He was wearing an oriental-style dressing gown and his feet were bare.
“All right,” he said.
“Hello,” I replied, feeling somewhat foolish because I couldn’t bring myself to say “All right” back. “I’m looking for Tony Andreou.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m . . . well, I’m looking for my daughter, actually, Nella Cadogan. I’m hoping he can help.”
The man looked faintly alarmed, but tried not to show it.
“No worries,” he said. “I’ll just go and get him.” He walked off down the hallway, leaving the door open. I peered into the flat and saw that the walls were white, with a white fluffy wall-to-wall carpet on the floor. At the end of the hallway was a peacock wicker chair, the sort a seventies pimp might lounge about in with several half-naked girls clinging to his legs, and a large urn filled with a potted plant. Just beside the front door was a bentwood hat stand with a straw boater perched on one hook. The whole thing looked like a film set, and a bizarrely anachronistic one at that.
A short, thickset man came up the corridor, followed by two fluffy white dogs that barked when they saw me. I recognized him as Tony Andreou, the man in the website photo. He shouted at the young man, who reappeared in the hallway for a moment and shooed the dogs into a back room.
“How can I help?” The man smiled at me politely, but the look in his eyes was wary.
“Mr. Andreou. I’m sorry to disturb you like this. I’m looking for my daughter, Nella Cadogan. I believe she may have had an audition with you earlier this evening.”
The man didn’t bat an eyelid, but his shoulders stiffened slightly.
“Ah yes. Nella. Lovely girl. And your name is?”
“Jessica Mayhew.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He put out his hand and I shook it. He had a slight accent, and the courteous manner of a foreigner.
“Do come in,” he went on, ushering me into the hallway and closing the door behind me. “Would you mind taking off your shoes, please.” He paused. “The carpet.”
“Of course.” I didn’t want to take off my shoes, but I couldn’t think of an excuse not to, so I bent down and put them beside the door, thinking I could pick them up and run for it, if I needed to make a quick getaway.
“This way, please.” He led me to a door leading off the hall, opened it for me, and followed as I walked in. Inside was a white room, with a white grand piano, and more fluffy carpet. The young man was there, and the two dogs leapt up to greet me as I came in.
“Can I get you a drink?” The young man fussed around me. He kept sniffing, I noticed. He couldn’t keep still. He was probably coked up, I thought. And Andreou had a weird kind of calm about him, like someone who believes they’re on top of their game, but is tranquilized to the nines. “Tea, perhaps?”
“I’m sorry to rush you, Mr. Andreou,” I said. “But can you tell me where my daughter is? It’s rather urgent. She’s only sixteen, you see, and—”
“Please.” He held up a hand. “Don’t worry. She’s safe and sound. As a matter of
fact, she’s having a lie-down next door.” He indicated the room opposite the sitting room. “The audition was a little tiring for her.”
“I’ll go and get her up then.” Without asking permission, I turned, walked out into the hallway and knocked on the door.
“Hang on a minute.” A man’s voice came from inside. He was half laughing. “We’re busy in here.”
I don’t know why I did what I did next. It was hearing that laugh, I think. But without knocking again, I opened the door and walked in.
Nella was on the bed. Her shirt was open, her bra twisted up above her breasts. I was relieved to see that she still had her jeans on. Emyr, for his part, was more or less fully clothed, although I noticed that the top button and the zip of his trousers were undone.
“Fuck,” he said when he saw me, and sprang away from her as if he’d been electrocuted.
I looked at Nella and saw a look of profound relief cross her face, before she turned away from me, covering her eyes with her hands.
“Come on,” I said. I tried to sound as matter of fact as possible. “Get your clothes on, Nella. We’re going home.”
Emyr was zipping up his trousers. “Look, Dr. Mayhew. It’s not what you think. I was just . . .”
“I’ll wait outside the door,” I said to Nella, ignoring him.
I shut the door and stood there. Behind me, Tony Andreou and the young man stood watching from the doorway of the sitting room, not daring to speak. After a few minutes Nella emerged, her shirt buttoned, her jacket over her shoulder, and her shoes in her hand. She’d bent her head forward so that her hair covered her face. I couldn’t see her expression.
“We’ll see ourselves out.” I nodded at Tony Andreou and golden boy. Tony gave an embarrassed shrug. As we walked up the corridor the dogs started barking again, so the young man went into the sitting room to see to them. When we got to the front door, I picked up my shoes and put them on. Nella put hers on, too.
Andreou stood at the end of the hallway by the potted plant, watching us. When we were ready to go, he raised his hand.
“About Jazz Quest, my dear,” he said to Nella. There was a nasty undertone in his voice. “You’ve got a nice voice, very sweet. But you’re not quite what we’re looking for. We need artists who are”—he glanced at me—“a little more mature.”
Nella looked wounded, as he’d intended. I resisted the temptation to reply, and we walked out of the flat, slamming the front door behind us.
15
I marched Nella down the stairs, out of the building, and over the road in silence. But immediately after we got into the car and shut the doors, I lost my temper. I reached over, grabbed her by the lapels of her jacket and shook her, my face pressed up close to hers. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I shouted and swore at her. And afterward I didn’t feel the slightest bit ashamed at my lack of self-control; I’d wanted to make her understand exactly what it had been like to wander around London fearing that I’d never find her, so that she’d never do it again. She’d put me through hell, and I needed to pay her back for it.
When I’d finished, I started the car, gripped the steering wheel, and headed up the road in the direction of the motorway. I drove slowly and carefully, concentrating on the route, aware that I was in a heightened state of emotion. And after a while, once we were on our way out of the city, I began to calm down.
As we drove along, Nella turned her head away from me, looking out of the window. She didn’t speak a word. I could understand why: she was shocked at my reaction, and she felt thoroughly humiliated by the whole episode. So we sat in silence for a long time until, finally, she spoke.
“Sorry, Mum.” There was a tremble in her voice.
“Why did you do that?” My own voice was shaking. “You lied to me. You could have just asked . . .”
“But the audition was in the evening. And I knew you wouldn’t let me go.”
“We would have driven you up and waited. I told you that.” I gave an exasperated sigh. “You didn’t have to go running off like that, without telling us. . . .”
Nella started to cry.
I wasn’t sympathetic. “Promise me you’ll never, ever do anything like this again.”
“I promise.”
She burst into sobs. I leaned over and patted her knee, then gestured at my handbag. She searched through it, found a tissue, and went on crying into it.
When the tears had subsided I said, “Now listen, I want you to tell me exactly what happened with Emyr, from the beginning. I’m not trying to pry, but it’s important.”
She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. “Well, he came up to me at the concert after school, and said he liked my singing. I could tell he liked me, too.” She paused for a moment, embarrassed. “And I liked him. But nothing happened before we went to London. When we met up, it was just about recording and stuff.”
There was a silence.
“Go on,” I said.
“After the audition, Tony Andreou took us to a bar, and we all had champagne. Emyr was excited. Happy. And so was I. We got a bit drunk, and then he started kissing me.”
“Did you ask him to stop?”
“No.” She bent her head, so that her hair hung over her face. “I liked it. I wanted him to.”
“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of, Nella.” My tone was gentle. I didn’t want her to feel too shy to tell me more.
“Then we went back to Tony’s flat,” she went on, encouraged. “He and Sandy, that’s his boyfriend, they were taking some kind of drugs, I think. . . .”
“Did you join in?”
“Of course not.” Nella was emphatic in her denial. “But then it started to get a bit weird, so Emyr told me to come with him into the bedroom. I think he wanted to protect me.” She hesitated. “He’s not a bad guy really, Mum.”
I let that pass.
“Anyway, once we were on the bed, we started kissing again, and then . . . well, things got a bit out of hand.”
“Why didn’t you try to stop him?”
She looked over at me. I could see, even in the half darkness, that her eyes had gone round.
“Because I wanted him to. I’ve got to lose my virginity sometime. I thought maybe this was my chance.” Her tone was serious. “But when it came down to it, I realized I was scared. I wasn’t ready.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“No. I felt I’d gone too far by that time.”
It began to rain. I leaned forward and switched on the windscreen wipers.
“Listen, Nella, it’s always your right to say no. At any stage.” I paused. “And about losing your virginity. Don’t leave it up to some man you hardly know. Find someone you care about, someone you can trust. Someone who loves you, or at least respects you. Take it slowly. If he’s not experienced, it doesn’t matter. You can work it out together.”
Nella looked skeptical. And although I believed what I was saying, I knew perfectly well, from my own experience as a young woman, that sex is rarely as straightforward as that.
“OK,” I said, after a while. “Lecture over. Let’s listen to some music. D’you want to plug in your iPod?”
She nodded, took out her iPod, attached it to the car stereo, and fiddled with the knobs until the music came through. Then we drove on, watching the windscreen wipers batting back and forth, trying to keep the rain at bay.
When we got home, in the early hours of the morning, Bob was asleep on the sofa. He’d evidently been waiting up. I shook him awake, gave him a brief account of the story, then went upstairs and sank into bed. He didn’t follow me up, and I didn’t wait for him to. Once my head hit the pillow, I was asleep.
Next day I got up late. Bob took Rose out in the morning, and Nella slept till lunchtime. I let her take her meal up to her room, and she closeted herself away in her bedroom for the rest of the day. In the evening Bob went up and talked to her. When he came out, I didn’t ask him what they’d said. We didn’t discuss our argument, either. We’d both
apologized on the phone, but now that the drama was over and Nella was safe, it had become clear that neither of us was prepared to give ground. We were still being scrupulously polite to each other in front of the girls, but when we were alone we more or less ignored each other.
First thing on Monday, when I got to my office, I made a phone call to Emyr’s place of work, Safe Trax. I asked to speak to the director, told her what had happened, and threatened to issue a formal complaint. She was horrified—although she didn’t sound very surprised—and begged me not to, promising that the matter would be resolved immediately.
After I’d put the phone down I wondered whether I should have gone further and insisted that Emyr be dismissed from his post; but, on reflection, I realized that he hadn’t actually committed any crime. Nella wasn’t underage, and it was quite clear that he’d taken her off to London with her full consent. Whether or not he would have forced her to have sex with him against her will, I couldn’t be sure; her own feelings about the encounter also seemed to be ambivalent. Clearly his behavior had been morally wrong; she was an impressionable teenager, and he’d taken advantage of her. But as far as I could see, he’d done nothing strictly illegal.
And, to be honest, I had another reason for hesitating over whether Emyr should be severely punished for his actions. I was uncomfortably aware that, in essence, my lusting after Gwydion hadn’t been so very different. Of course, Gwydion was a man in his twenties, not a teenager, but there was still a big age gap between the two of us; not only that, but I was married. What’s more, I’d been in a position of authority over him. Gwydion had trusted and respected me; and I’d been tempted to abuse that trust. I was ashamed to admit it, but to that degree, my motives hadn’t been much more honorable than Emyr’s.
As the day wore on, I began to feel more and more exhausted. That morning I had a run of particularly wearing clients. First, there was Bryn, a middle-aged man with an unrelenting hatred of his controlling mother, which he had transferred to me, lock, stock, and barrel, and which showed no signs of abating in the near future; next, Maria, a severely depressed woman whose husband had left her, and who sat in silence most of the time, occasionally dissolving into tears when I raised the subject of how she could get help to care for her emotionally neglected children; and finally, Frank, a seventy-five-year-old man with prostate cancer, whose anger and grief at his illness took the form of what he called sex addiction, and what I called staring fixedly at my breasts and making lecherous remarks.
The House on the Cliff Page 17
