The Perfect Life

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. She should thank him, she supposed, but looking down at him, she saw a glimmer of pleasure in his eyes and knew that his motivation for telling her wasn’t completely selfless. Jack had never liked him very much, she remembered. What was it he’d said, Stuart had an ulterior motive for everything he did.

  ‘Maybe we could meet for a drink after work soon,’ he said. ‘Or dinner?’

  When hell freezes over! ‘That would be lovely. I’ll give you a ring.’ She almost ran from the café, only realising when she got outside that she hadn’t paid her bill.

  It brought a brief smile to her lips but then she considered what Stuart had told her.

  Jack had been suspended. He was making multiple trips to Vegas for reasons that had nothing to do with work.

  He’d been lying to her. For months. Maybe for years.

  27

  By the time Molly arrived home, she felt as if she’d been knocked down again. Despite walking slowly and taking care not to be crushed or pushed on the tube, every part of her ached. It would have been sensible to take some painkillers but even though she popped two paracetamols from the packet, she couldn’t bring herself to swallow them and threw them into the rubbish with a groan of despair.

  Too much coffee had made her jittery and given her heartburn. She took milk from the fridge, poured a glass and drank half straight off. Taking the rest, she lay down on the sofa, kicked off her shoes and tried to relax. There was no point in going over and over what Stuart had told her, she needed to speak to Jack.

  Taking out her mobile, she rang his number. It wasn’t a surprise when it went straight to answerphone and she was invited to leave a message. He went to so many meetings, his phone was frequently turned off. Except, according to Stuart, he wasn’t going to meetings at all. Where the hell was he?

  She composed a text asking Jack to ring her but deleted it without sending. She didn’t want him phoning and telling more lies. It was better to wait until he came home.

  The feeling of weakness that had swept over her earlier returned. Unsurprising, since she’d hardly eaten anything recently. Struggling to her feet, she went to the fridge and peered inside. Almost hidden behind bottles of beer, she found some hummus only a day past its best-before date. She made tea and toast, took everything to the coffee table and lowered herself onto the sofa. The hummus was a good choice; she spread it on the toast and ate the two slices before sitting back with her mug of tea.

  A ding from her phone told her she had a message. It was from Jack. He must have seen a missed call from her. Meetings all day. You okay? Text if you need anything, x

  The lie made her stomach heave; she made it to the sink before vomiting all she’d eaten, the spasm causing her to flinch and clasp her ribs. She turned on the tap, closing her eyes as the undigested food swirled around the basin before being washed away. She scooped water from the tap with her hand, rinsed her mouth and spat. When the taste of vomit had been washed away, she splashed water on her face a few times before grabbing a towel to dab it dry.

  Her head was thumping, her legs wobbly. She filled a glass with water and stumbled over to the sofa. A chill ran through her as she lay down, tired and worn out. She reached for a blanket that lay folded across the arm of the sofa, pulled it across and wrapped it around herself. Then, with a grunt of despair, she rested her head back and shut her eyes.

  Exhaustion won over pain, and within a few minutes she’d drifted into a restless sleep.

  When she finally woke, the room was in darkness. She reached for her phone, surprised to see it was almost seven. Jack was unusually late.

  Especially since he wasn’t working.

  She checked for messages, but there were none. Pressing the speed dial button for him, she listened to his voice asking her to leave a message. Instead of hanging up, as she usually did, she said, ‘Jack, it’s Molly. Where are you? Ring me, please.’ Her forehead creased in worry as her fingers flew across the keypad to send a message saying the same thing.

  By eight o’clock, she was frantic, her mind working overtime. What if he’d had an accident? Horror coursed through her. Maybe whoever had tried to kill her had decided to go after him? There was no logic in it, but then there had been no logical reason for someone trying to kill her.

  She looked at the speed dial number for DI Fanshawe and was about to press it when her phone rang. Startled, she yelped and dropped it to the floor, bending with difficulty and groaning as she scrabbled for it, finally picking it up and answering. ‘Hello, hello?’

  ‘Molly, it’s me.’

  A sob escaped before she could stop it. ‘Jack! Where the hell are you? I’ve been going crazy worrying.’ He didn’t reply for a moment. In the background she could hear voices, noises. Wherever he was, it was busy.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice almost lost in the noise. ‘I’m in the Hyde Hotel. Can you come here?’

  ‘What? Jack, what on earth’s going on? I can’t go haring off to a hotel. I’ve been injured, remember; I ache all over. Why on earth can’t you come home?’ There was more commotion on the line. Pressing the phone as closely as she could to her ear, she was still unable to make out what was happening.

  ‘Please come here, Molly, ask for me at reception. I’ll explain everything.’

  The line went dead. Staring at it, she pressed redial. It went straight to answerphone. This was crazy. She had no intention of going. Where on earth was the Hyde Hotel anyway? She did an internet search, finding it within seconds. Not simply the Hyde Hotel.

  He’d left out the Casino bit. The Hyde Hotel and Casino.

  Gambling. It appeared Stuart was right.

  28

  Molly tried Jack’s number again but as before it went to answerphone. Perhaps, bringing her to a casino was his way of showing her what was going on. It didn’t look as if she’d much choice, she had to go.

  One thing was certain, she wasn’t going to take the tube and risk getting pushed and shoved by revellers. She wasn’t sure there was much point in trying to get a taxi, not at that hour, but she dialled a number she knew on the off-chance she might be lucky. In two hours, she was told, hanging up with a grunt of frustration.

  It looked like she’d no choice here either, she’d have to take the car. She slipped on the shoes she’d kicked off a few hours before, picked up her coat and keys and headed out, wondering if she’d make it. The car was further away than she remembered, either that or her laboured gait made every minute seem longer. Finally, she was there, lowering herself into the driver’s seat. Luckily, the BMW was an automatic, so it made driving a little easier. She’d have to make sure she parked near the hotel.

  She’d written the satnav co-ordinates on her hand, she inputted them and groaned when she saw the hotel was on Eastbourne Mews, near Paddington station. The traffic would be manic. Gripping the steering wheel, she took a deep breath, indicated and pulled out.

  It didn’t take long to discover she’d grossly underestimated the situation. It wasn’t merely manic; it was mayhem and madness. Added to that, the satnav directions were confusing, and she went the wrong way several times, almost crying with relief when it eventually told her she’d reached her destination on the left. The hotel and casino loomed large on the relatively narrow street. There had been no expense spared on neon lights, it looked garish and tawdry.

  To the left of the hotel, a smaller neon light pointed out a downward ramp to the underground car park. Unfortunately, a large sign standing dead centre of the entrance told her bluntly it was full. She swore loudly and reversed, almost hitting a car behind. A hand raised in apology, she moved forward again, hitting the sign and knocking it flat. It seemed like an omen. She drove over it and headed down the ramp into the car park.

  The sign hadn’t lied, every row was indeed full. Desperate, she parked in front of a door marked maintenance. Ignoring the no parking signs, she got out and moved away as fast as she could before someone arrived to take her to task. She pu
shed open a door into the hotel and followed signs for reception down narrow, brightly-lit corridors until she reached a large bustling lobby.

  She’d never been anywhere like this before; it was heaving with people, most of whom appeared to be laughing uproariously, the noise level deafening. Numerous neon arrows in garish colours pointed towards the far side of the lobby where a rainbow of flashing lights arching over a door advertised the casino entrance. In case anyone was in any doubt, the word itself was written in strobe lighting on each side of the double doors.

  Standing with her mouth slightly ajar, her eyes scanned the raucous mass of people that stood between her and the reception desk. Going through them wasn’t an option. Instead, she took the longer route, sliding around the side of the room.

  Reaching the desk, she leaned against it.

  A tall, dark-haired woman with striking cheekbones smiled at her. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Jack Chatwell.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Mr Chatwell,’ the receptionist said as if the name was well known to her. ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The receptionist checked her computer and immediately dialled a number. ‘There’s someone here to see you, Mr Chatwell.’

  Molly wanted to point out that she wasn’t someone, she was his wife. But the woman’s smile was friendly and her eyes kind, so Molly kept quiet and waited.

  ‘He asked if you’d go up. Room 353, third floor. The lift is behind you.’

  With a nod of thanks, Molly turned, waited while a very loud group of women crossed in front of her, and made her way to the lift.

  There was a second, standing outside room 353, when she didn’t want to knock, didn’t want to find out the truth. She knew it was going to come with pain. But there wasn’t much point putting it off, it was going to come whether she liked it or not.

  Jack answered the door on the first knock, reaching for her and pulling her inside. He’d obviously forgotten about her ribs, his arms squeezing far too tightly and making her cry out.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ he said, pulling back to look at her, concern in his eyes. ‘I forgot. I’ve hurt you.’

  She pushed his hands away and walked further into the room, her eyes widening when she saw its size. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, ‘this must be costing a fortune.’

  Instead of answering, he strode to a seat by the window and picked up a drink. ‘Have a whisky,’ he said, taking a sip.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m driving. I didn’t want to travel by tube, and you know how impossible it is to get a taxi at this time of night.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, swirling his drink before raising it to his lips.

  She stared at him. How much had he drunk? His expression was set, his eyes steely. With sudden intuition, she knew whatever he was going to tell her it was bad. He didn’t seem in any hurry, but she wanted it over. ‘I met Stuart Mercer today,’ she said. ‘In fact, it was him I was going to meet on Friday.’

  His eyebrow rose at that. ‘I’d assumed it was Amelia.’

  ‘No, Stuart. He’d asked to meet me then, and again this morning. So, I went.’ She walked to the bed, her hand moving automatically to test the mattress. ‘Comfortable,’ she said before turning and sitting on it. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d been suspended, Jack? Why did I have to hear it from him?’

  ‘You know, I never liked Stuart,’ Jack said, ‘he always was a smug bastard.’ He finished the whisky and put the glass down with a clatter that told her he’d had quite a bit to drink. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. It’s a storm in a teacup. It’ll be sorted.’

  ‘Stuart said it’s been over a week.’

  ‘These things take time.’

  If he was going to keep speaking in clichés they weren’t going to get anywhere. ‘Tell me what’s going on,’ she said, trying to keep the note of pleading from her voice. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

  He waved both arms around the room. ‘Isn’t it nice? I thought you’d like to get out of the house for a while. We can go for dinner, maybe pay a visit to the casino.’

  She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. ‘What? You brought me here to have fun? I told you how badly I felt, Jack. I only came because I thought you were going to…’ She wanted to say confess but thought better of it. ‘Stuart has heard rumours, he said you might be gambling.’ She saw Jack’s lips tighten.

  ‘Stuart said, Stuart said,’ he mimicked before standing and moving to a console that held an array of bottles. ‘You don’t want whisky, how about I make you a non-alcoholic cocktail?’

  She didn’t want one. She didn’t want anything except to know what was going on. ‘Jack–’

  His back was to her. ‘Have a damn drink,’ he said quietly without turning around. ‘We’ll have a drink together, then we can talk.’

  Once more, it seemed as if she didn’t have a choice. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Pineapple juice,’ he said, pouring some into a glass. ‘A splash of lime juice and fill it to the brim with tonic water.’ He spooned some half-melted ice cubes in and stirred before turning and handing it to her.

  He poured whisky into a glass for himself. A very large measure, she noted, frowning.

  ‘Cheers.’ He lurched across the room to the chair and sat heavily before draining a quarter of the whisky in one mouthful. ‘Drink up,’ he said, raising the glass toward her.

  She took a sip. It was good, and probably the closest she was going to get to food that evening. Remembering the crush of people in the lobby, she’d no intention of going down to the restaurant. Anyway, Jack had always been hopeless when drunk. She sipped some more and waited, deciding it was better not to push.

  Finally, he took another mouthful of his drink, and stared into the amber liquid as if looking for the right words. ‘I’ve been playing the tables a bit, I suppose, but it’s under control.’

  Whatever he was reading in his whisky, it wasn’t the truth. Molly heard denial in every word. The unexceptional playing the tables instead of the more insidious gambling was bad enough, but the overemphatic it’s under control meant it was anything but. A frisson of fear swept over her. How bad was it?

  ‘Is this why you were suspended?’ She sipped her drink again, hoping the sweetness would give her the energy she needed to get through this.

  He slammed his glass on the table, startling her. ‘It’s got nothing to do with it,’ he said, raising his voice and glaring at her. He picked up his glass, realised it was empty and got to his feet. ‘D’you want another?’ he asked, slurring his words.

  She shook her head, watching as he moved unsteadily to the console to fill his glass, unable to resist saying, ‘Haven’t you had enough?’

  Ignoring her, he raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’ His mouth downturned when she didn’t raise hers. ‘Don’t you like your cocktail?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said, lifting it to drink. She finished it and stood. ‘I’m going home, Jack. Are you coming?’

  He waved his arms around the room again, whisky sloshing from his glass. ‘That would be a waste, I’ve paid for the night.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Jack,’ she pleaded. ‘I want you to come home.’

  He grinned, an inebriated twist of his mouth. ‘I want you to stay. Stalemate.’

  She stood looking at him for a moment. Maybe she should stay. She felt dreadful, the day beginning to take its toll. They could get room service, maybe talk some more. Maybe, if they talked enough, the truth would come out. Because she knew she hadn’t heard it all yet. ‘You lied about the police visiting your office,’ she said.

  He waved his free hand dismissively. ‘They rang to speak to me; the office gave them my mobile number. Does it matter?’

  It was one of many lies he’d told her. She wanted to ask about Las Vegas, but in the state he was in, there didn’t seem much point.

  ‘Anyway, forget about all of that,’ Jack said, swirling his whisky. ‘Come to the casino, have
some fun.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to the damn casino,’ she said, frustration in every word.

  ‘Stalemate again, ’cos I do.’

  She refused to stay and watch him gamble. ‘I’m going home. Maybe, when you’ve sobered up in the morning, you’ll give me a ring.’

  He got to his feet, stumbling a little. ‘I think I may have had one too many,’ he slurred, staggering and falling onto the bed.

  She waited for him to sit up, but he didn’t, then he was snoring the loud stertorous snore of the very drunk. One after the other, she lifted his legs onto the bed, unlaced and removed his shoes and dropped them to the floor. He’d probably sleep until the morning. She picked up the pencil and pad from the bedside locker, wrote, ring me when you wake, xx, put it on the bed beside him and bent to place a kiss on his cheek, her nose crinkling as the waft of alcohol-laced fumes hit her. He was going to have a massive hangover. She loved him, but the thought gave her a tiny bit of pleasure.

  With a final ruffle of his hair, she left the room, a yawn escaping as she made her way toward the lift. Becoming disorientated, she stopped halfway along the corridor and retraced her steps, convinced it was the other direction. When she found herself outside Jack’s room again, she wondered if perhaps she should stay after all. She had her hand on the door handle before she realised, she’d no way of getting back inside. There wasn’t much hope of being able to wake him; that drunk, he’d sleep through the hotel falling down around him. Voices drifting toward her from further along the corridor made her move. At least she could ask them where the damn lift was.

  It was, as it happened, just around the corner. She stood waiting for the doors to open, her head beginning to thump. It wasn’t helped by the raucous voices of the group of men who were waiting alongside. When the lift arrived, she stood back, ignoring their wolf whistles and invitations to join them and waited until the lift had gone before pressing the button again, relieved, seconds later, when one of the other lift doors opened. It was empty and, inside, she propped herself against the wall as it dropped to the ground floor.