Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  ‘I heard you,’ he said, studiously failing to look up.

  Should she blurt out the rest or wait for a response?

  Finally, he put down his phone and stood up. ‘I know Gretchen’s being off must be difficult, darling.’ His cheeks had coloured but still there was no real indication that he had read her thoughts and intentions. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out a roll of twenty-pound notes held together by a silver Asprey clip. Peeling off half of it, he pushed the money towards her. Winked. ‘Here. Get yourself a little treat. Go to the hairdresser and get some extensions. I like those. Or get a massage. Whatever will cheer you up.’ He peeled off another few hundred. ‘Oh, and get your teeth whitened too. The caps are beginning to discolour again.’ He wrinkled his nose as if at the core of her very being there lingered a bad smell. ‘Save me the receipts.’

  ‘It’s not about money, Jerry. You’re always generous.’ Those were the words that came out in a small voice. But what she’d intended to do was to yell that he was an insensitive, insulting bastard and that she was sick of having to ask him for cash. His generosity came in rare fits and starts and usually came with conditions attached that she should spend the money he deigned to give her on her appearance. She was still angry that he had insisted they close their joint account years ago, setting up a new one in his name only because she hadn’t been able to justify the money she had withdrawn in Waitrose at the till during the weekly shop. Fed up to the back of her poor, decaying teeth that none of the utilities were in her name ; none of the cars were registered to her and the house officially belonged to him and him alone. Say the words, for God’s sake! Deep breath in. ‘It’s just that I’ve come to realise—’

  Barely had she begun her grand speech, when he appeared behind her, massaging her shoulders with so much force that she squirmed with discomfort.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, placing her hand on his. Wanting to push him off. Feeling instinctively that she shouldn’t.

  Suddenly, those ham-like hands of his were around her neck. He dug his thumbs in at the nape. His fingers pressed on her windpipe. She started to kick. Panic rising in her throat but unable to escape. She felt the warmth of his cheek on hers. Smelled his early morning breath – a melange of coffee and minty toothpaste. His aftershave was overpowering. His voice was soft and deadly.

  ‘I do hope you’re not about to launch into some silly nonsense about how miserable you are in our marriage, Angela.’ He kissed her ear as she fought for breath. ‘Let me stop you before you even start, my love. Because we’ve had this chat before, haven’t we?’

  Though she felt her consciousness ebbing away, she forced herself to nod. Realised she had neither the physical strength nor the emotional energy to fight him off. Prayed the children wouldn’t walk in on this nightmarish scene.

  ‘Let me tell you again what will happen if you ever try to leave me . . .’

  She felt him press up against the back of the chair and knew he’d be hard. At least the thick, bentwood structure saved her from having his erection pressing painfully into her shoulder blade. He wouldn’t dare do his usual trick with all those reporters and photographers hanging around on the other side of the half-open shutters.

  With his hands still around her throat, he continued to speak in a half whisper, too close to her ear for comfort.

  ‘If you try to leave me and say I was a bad husband, nobody will trust a word you say. Because you’re nothing but a silly, lying cunt and I’m a democratically elected Member of Parliament and a valued part of the shadow cabinet. If you try to divorce me, I’ll refute any grounds you submit. Your name will be mud. You’ll be broke. Every penny that comes into this house is mine and will remain mine. I’ll cut you out of the kids’ lives, because you’re nothing but a fat, lazy bitch who relies on a nanny to bring her own children up. All that gin you sit swilling in the afternoon with your other show-pony pals – that won’t look good for you when I have a word with my solicitor. Not one bit. None of it will.’

  Scraping the chair against the wood floor, he manoeuvred her around with ease, so that she faced him at crotch height. She gasped to refill her lungs with air now that he had finally released his grip on her. Desperate to check that the children weren’t watching but unable to tear her gaze from his fingers as he undid the zip of his suit trousers. She knew exactly what was coming next. His party piece. The press gathered outside seemingly had no dampening effect on his ego whatsoever.

  ‘Don’t, Jerry. The children—’

  ‘Open your mouth.’

  He grabbed the back of her head with one hand and was freeing his erection from his trousers with the other.

  As Angela Fitzwilliam did as she was told, the sun went in, plunging the kitchen into dismal shadow and snuffing out all hope of her fresh start.

  Later, when Beverley Saunders answered the door of Sophie’s house, Angela could barely speak for sobs that caught in her swollen throat.

  ‘Jesus, Angie. What’s wrong? Sophie’s out, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m h-here to see you,’ she said, barely able to utter the words.

  Bev frowned. ‘You don’t need me. I’ve already told you I can’t . . .’

  By way of explanation, Angie slowly unwound her silk scarf to reveal the newly developing bruises on her neck. Two sets of four perfect small circles in bright blue.

  ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Bev,’ she said haltingly, shivering with grief. ‘Or Sophie, for that matter. Things are bad. Very bad. I’m so frightened. I can’t take it any more. Please say you’ll help.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Bev

  The clock said 11.23 a.m. Squinting at the painfully bright digital display, Bev’s hungover brain told her the clock was a liar and a cheat. How could it possibly be that late? The darkened room was still spinning slightly. But then, the smell of the stale wine glass on her nightstand reached her nostrils. Bev caught sight of the empty Chardonnay bottle beyond it, on her dressing table that doubled as a desk. Remnants of a night spent trying to kill the whiplash burn in her neck and shoulders ; agonising over whether or not she’d done the right thing in saying yes to Angela Fitzwilliam.

  ‘A Cabinet Minister!’ she’d said, over and over, as a weeping Angie had worked her way through the box of tissues on her cluttered coffee table. ‘They’ll find my body in bits, zipped into a holdall like that spy guy in London.’

  Angie had shaken her head, blinking away the tears. ‘No, no, no! Please don’t say that. You’ll be fine. Jerry’s not a criminal. And he’s only in the shadow cabinet.’

  But her bruised, waiflike body, folded up tightly like an upright foetus nestling into the womb of Bev’s threadbare sofa, had told a very different story. Jerry Fitzwilliam was a domestic abuser and a liar, at best. Bev had felt danger register in her bones like the sudden onset of flu.

  ‘I’m telling you, Angela. If he susses for one minute that I’m on his tail or threatening him in some way, he’ll have some nutter from MI6 on my case. You think high-level spooks won’t get on a train?’

  ‘Please! I’ve got to get out before . . .’ She touched her bruised neck. ‘My children. What if . . .?’

  She’d seen the desperation in Angie’s bloodshot eyes, then – the fear that Bev might reconsider and back out at any moment, taking all hope with her. Lucky for Angie, setting up as a PI had not gone as smoothly as anticipated, and for Bev, even the vague promise of income was better than no income at all. ‘Dry your eyes,’ she’d said. ‘Get your make-up back on. He can’t know that the game has changed. Act normal.’

  ‘But I already told him I want a divorce. Sort of.’

  ‘Un-tell him then!’

  Angie had startled. Fresh tears in her eyes.

  Too brusque. Bev had tried to soften her voice. ‘Look. I realise it’s difficult for you, but just try to make nice. Apologise like your life depends on it.’ She’d patted Angie’s arm in a placatory fashion but had hastily withdrawn as her jittery new client had fli
nched at the contact. ‘Leave the rest to me.’

  Now, here Bev was, hungover and staring at the spoils of last night’s emotional war, where she had started to Google Jerry Fitzwilliam and realised just what she was letting herself in for. The headlines in the newspapers said it all :

  Hydrogen Hero – Shadow Science Minister pledges clean cars for all in next 5 years.

  Shadow Science Minister vows funding for UK medical research.

  Fitzwilliam gives Chinese run for their money in global biotech race.

  Even the red tops adored him, it seemed :

  Jerry and his pacemaker – shadow cabinet Minister fights Tories’ threat to put UK science coffers under cardiac arrest.

  It seemed Jerry Fitzwilliam could do no wrong in the media’s eyes. Right wing or left wing – it didn’t matter. They all had the hots for this apparent man of the people who was nothing more than a charmer with a knack for promising things that the country needed most. Easy when it coincided with a time when his governing opponent – tactless ball-breaking Tory, Maddie Chandler – was being routinely pilloried for some cock-up with the Chinese and a lost billion-pound investment in some new life-changing technology or other.

  Clutching a coffee, clad in her underwear and a kimono that had been a gift from Rob, at a time in their doomed marriage when he’d still been making an effort, Bev took a seat at her dressing table. She avoided the reflection in the mirror that told her she had put on weight and had dark rings beneath her eyes.

  ‘I must be mental,’ she said, firing up her laptop. ‘I’m digging myself deeper into the sodding hole I’m meant to be climbing out of.’ She could visualise again the judge’s granite-like face, which had loomed over her from the lofty vantage point of his bench. He had outlined the conditions of the court in a voice that had been entirely devoid of warmth : a clean bill of psychiatric health, domestic stability, financial independence. These were the things Beverley Saunders needed to prove if she wanted to get back that which was most dear to her and put her world back together. But then, wasn’t Angela Fitzwilliam being destroyed in a similar way? Was it right to let another woman suffer, and possibly be beaten to death, when it was within Bev’s power to help?

  She brought up Facebook. It took only a flurry of clicks to find Jerry Fitzwilliam – two degrees of separation away, thanks to his friendship with Sophie’s husband, Tim.

  ‘Bingo.’

  In fact, Jerry Fitzwilliam, self-described as, ‘mouthpiece for the masses, social entrepreneur, Geek Lord’ was friends with over three thousand people. His profile picture wasn’t one of the professionally taken portraits that Bev had seen used in the newspapers – posing with a rictus grin and just a little shiny below the hairline. Neither was it a paparazzi snap of him leaving some high-level meeting in Westminster, chatting to a young female aide who wore a clinging skirt and heels. No. This was the sort of photo Bev had seen countless times on dating websites : an overweight middle-aged guy on a tropical beach near sunset, sitting with legs akimbo, drink in hand, wearing shades. A cocky bastard, trying to look way cooler and younger than he was. No evidence whatsoever that he had a wife or children.

  ‘Right, Mr Ego. Let’s see how easy it is to enter your world.’

  She set up a new profile, realising she couldn’t use her own Facebook account. She’d abandoned that since her split with Rob the Knob and the ensuing social ice age which began when their fair-weather friends had frozen her out. What should she call this predatory female? Cat? Yes, it made sense. Cat . . . She spied a picture of her maternal grandmother on the bookshelf, alongside a row of yellowing origami frogs. Nana Thomson. Cat Thomson, then. That would do.

  She pulled an old photograph of herself from the laptop’s hard drive and stared wistfully at the younger, almost unrecognisable, Bev who gazed out at her. Challenging. Glamorous. Exactly the kind of woman Jerry Fitzwilliam might go for.

  Sending friend requests to hundreds of people already connected to the shadow Cabinet Minister, reasoning that most people were vain or naïve enough to accept approaches from strangers as long as there was an apparent link to their other acquaintances, Cat Thomson quickly garnered enough friends to make her profile seem legitimate. Finally, after she’d sent Fitzwilliam himself a friend request, she tried to connect to him on LinkedIn as Cat Thomson, marketing exec from Belfry Automotive Engineers Ltd. Nothing to do now but wait.

  The rumble of a truck heralded the arrival of Bev’s temporary replacement car. She was standing on the driveway, scratching her head at the sight of the piss-stained driver’s seat of the turd-brown Ford Fiesta when Sophie rolled her pushchair through the gate. Beatrice stood on the buggy-board and Finn was strapped in.

  ‘Aunty Bev!’ their little voices shrieked.

  Sticky little hands covered hers, as the two children broke free of the pushchair and grabbed at her. High as kites on organic blueberry muffins, judging by their juice-stained faces. Bev swung them up into the air, blowing raspberries into their necks until they squealed. Savouring the close contact with such tiny, unconditionally loving beings.

  ‘New car! New car!’ Beatrice shouted.

  Before Bev could protest, the pre-schooler had opened the unlocked rear door and was climbing in and out the other side, with her tiny brother Finn hot on her Lelli Kelly heels.

  ‘Ah. Soph. Just the woman. I’ve been looking for you.’

  Sophie was all am-dram enthusiasm and googly-eyed wonderment. ‘Angie told me the terrific news. Well, well done, Bev! You really are a superstar.’ She eyed the Fiesta. ‘Replacement car? Cool. Can you just make sure you park it right behind the rhododendrons, darling? You know how Tim . . .?’

  She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. A crappy loan car didn’t add to the house’s kerb appeal, unlike his BMW 6 series and Sophie’s Lexus hybrid. Bev knew Tim allowed her to rent the basement flat only because Sophie had nagged the hell out of him to offer her loser friend a roof that didn’t require a deposit and a month’s rent up front.

  She moved the Fiesta off the kerb, onto the drive and out of view, knowing complaint would be futile. Climbed out with a sigh, readying herself to tackle her landlady.

  ‘Lend us a couple of hundred, will you?’ Bev asked, lugging Beatrice’s pushchair and several bags of shopping up the steep stairs.

  But Sophie was preoccupied, dragging a reluctant pre-schooler and toddler away from a squirrel they’d spotted. It was climbing the cedar of Lebanon, whose canopy fanned out like a dark green awning over the Victorian gentleman’s residence. ‘Please, Beatrice! It’s time for lunch. Leave Mr Squirrel and come inside. Finn! Stop throwing stones at Aunty Bev’s new car.’

  Dumping the cumbersome pushchair in the hall, and lugging the shopping into the bespoke grandeur of Sophie’s prized Martin Moore kitchen, Bev felt suddenly like an unpaid skivvy. There was always a price to be paid for Sophie’s generosity. Right now, though, Bev needed that generosity to be a sub of the cash-money variety.

  ‘It’s just until Angie comes through with her first payment,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Sophie looked flustered. She was emptying a fresh bag of quinoa into a Tupperware container ; shoving cartons of almond milk into the Sub-Zero fridge. Busy, busy, busy, with a loose strand of perfect golden hair falling free from her chignon to hang over her prominent cheekbones.

  ‘Two hundred quid. I’ve taken Angie on but I’ve got no money to float the job. Come on, Soph. It was your idea!’

  Sophie beamed at her and straightened up. Her feline form was clad in silk palazzo pants and a tiny spaghetti-strapped vest today. She was so Selfridges food hall. Made Bev feel like a sack of spuds from Lidl. ‘Sorry, darling. I don’t have a single bean left ’til you give Tim your rent. He texted me earlier to remind you that you’re two months overdue. It’s not a problem is it?’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Put the kettle on will you, sweets? I’ve just bought some amazing amaretto-flavoured coffee.’

  Amaretto-flavoured coffee. At least £6
a throw, and yet Sophie didn’t have a bean. Aw, poor lamb. Here Bev was, broke and trying to peel herself off rock bottom by asking her wealthy friend for a sub, and the only response that came back was a rent-demand. What crap! Bev chewed the inside of her cheek and considered her new job. Prospect of getting paid – low. Prospect of ending up in a holdall – medium. Prospect of getting beaten to a pulp by a vengeful MP – high. The vibes were all wrong with this case, she was certain. She made a mental note to discuss trusting her instincts at the next therapy session. See what Mo said about being taken for granted.

  Trudging back down to the murky, mildewed dive she called home, she was just about to indulge in an afternoon on Porn Hub when she decided to check Facebook, see how her alter ego, Cat Thomson, was doing. Her friend request had still not been accepted. Would she have fared better through LinkedIn? She opened a new tab and loaded the site.

  The notification glowed on her screen.

  You and Jerry Fitzwilliam are now connected.

  She was in! A message from him was sitting in her inbox, and she could barely believe what he’d written.

  CHAPTER 4

  Boo

  ‘Are you sure you love me, Boo Boo?’ Mitch asked, coiling himself around her in the narrow bed. He spoke loud enough to be heard above the music – her ambient playlist that was designed to relax, not agitate.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you the same thing? Yes!’

  ‘’Cause you say you do, but I’ve seen you down the bar, when you thought I was in town, draping yourself around Steve Pritchard ; letting Jake Sewell tap you up.’

  ‘Hey! That’s not fair. I was just talking to them.’ Boo tried to wriggle free from his stifling embrace. ‘You really need to stop worrying. I’m not interested in other blokes. I told you.’

  ‘But I’ve heard the other girls talking.’ His lips pressed together in a mean line. His pallor gave him a cold-blooded, almost reptilian air, a look exacerbated by the pinpricks that were his pupils. ‘You think what goes on tour, stays on tour? Well, don’t kid yourself, Boo. Your inability to keep your legs together is the talk of the bloody college. And I’m the laughing stock.’