Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  Beverley Saunders slept her way to the top.

  A regular on the CEO’s casting couch.

  How else do you think someone like her ended up the marketing director?

  Saunders is a slag.

  And now she was being shut inside a room with a strange, apparently violent man, where the chaise implied that she may well end up the desert course in a Michelin-starred taster menu.

  Come on, woman. Be a professional PI. You’re Cat Thomson. Hot to trot ; paid by the hour to dig for dirt.

  She set her bag on a mirrored console table that held the most enormous arrangement of tropical flowers in a giant glass vase. The bag would be easily overlooked at the side of that floral confection, she reasoned. She needed her connection with Doc more than ever in this overly intimate space.

  Her date helped her into her seat, loosened his tie and undid the top button of his blue shirt. He sat facing her at the table. Watching her. The waiting staff fussed around them both, handing them each a large menu. Then, they left, and the silence in the room was deafening.

  ‘It’s good to have a little privacy.’ He finally said, the glistening tip of his pink tongue flashed over his thin bottom lip.

  Bev laughed coquettishly. ‘Oh, it wouldn’t do for a man like you to be seen with a young marketing exec like me. What would people think?’ She leaned forwards, letting him get a good look at her cleavage in the Karen Millen wiggle dress she’d bought off eBay from Partygrrl24. It had allegedly been worn only, ‘a handful of times for weddings. Has been dry-cleaned.’ The dried-in stain on the lining said otherwise. Bev was wearing a Monica Lewinsky moment in pre-owned fashion. Would she fall prey to her own Clinton cock-clinch with her client’s husband?

  ‘They’ll think I’m chatting with a representative of an engineering company that has the future of the country’s talent pool at heart,’ he said, no trace of the Lothario in his deadpan delivery. ‘I am the shadow Science Minister, after all. And you’re involved in just the sort of engineering company that can help deliver my vision for science education.’ He punctuated his gentle slap-down with a polite smile, not a leer.

  Bev was disappointed. Was Jerry Fitzwilliam really the cartoon villain Angie had painted him as? His online flirtation and willingness to meet her suggested sexual interest, but the frost emanating from him at that moment said otherwise. Her concern started to mount anew. Could the shadow Science Minister have access to a register of every legitimate engineering company in the UK? Might he know that Belfry Automotive Engineers Ltd was a figment of her imagination?

  Get him to proposition you for the camera and then get the hell out.

  ‘Ooh! I feel like a naughty schoolgirl, being told off for being frivolous in lessons. Come on, then. Give me a good grilling about my experience with hot rods!’ She drained the rest of her gin noisily through her straw, trying to look as suggestive as possible. Making eye contact, though she felt stripped naked in doing so.

  Her innuendo bounced off him, his attention never diverting from the menu. No heightened colour in his cheeks. But Bev saw a flicker of a smile again flash across his lips. Perhaps some calculation behind his eyes. ‘Let’s get champagne! I do love a good bottle of Veuve Clicquot.’

  There was a surprise. Party petrol. Perhaps Mr Minister wasn’t quite as all business, as he seemed to be.

  Her date buzzed for service, requesting a magnum of fizz to be brought straight away. With their glasses charged, they filled the excruciating minutes with tedious, in-depth conversation about the future of Britain’s automotive industry – something Bev knew little about, though she managed to busk it. In any case, it turned out Jerry Fitzwilliam was like most men in wanting to hog the conversation and demonstrate quite how knowledgeable he was. He was staring at the ceiling, trotting out party lines as if he’d had them written for him and then learned them by heart. Blinking, blinking earnestly. Chugging his champers. Barely making eye contact with her. She was starting to doubt that he would take her bait.

  ‘Of course, the research that has gone into the hydrogen fuel cell will revolutionise . . .’

  He poured himself a second glass swiftly. As he droned on about his big plans for an educational initiative designed to get school-aged children interested in environmentally friendly technologies, Bev’s attention started to wane. She stifled a yawn. Studied his hands. Were those big pink hams really the hands that had wrapped around Angie’s slender neck and squeezed tightly? Was this smartly dressed, businesslike man really a domestic abuser and player? He downed his second glass, topping them both up again.

  Three rapidly-drunk glasses in, and Jerry Fitzwilliam’s behaviour started to change subtly. He’d opened another button on his shirt and was leaning in towards her. His smiles were more frequent and seemed to come more easily. His perfect diction started to soften around the edges. But he was still Mr Serious.

  Come on, you stubborn bastard, she thought, staring at the coffee stains on the underside of his bottom teeth as he chatted away. Show your true colours. Why else would you take me to dinner and ply me with booze unless you were scoping me out as an extra-marital shag-prospect? Just drop your guard for the camera and let me go home.

  Deciding to push her dinner date, she allowed her knee to brush his beneath the table. ‘Tell me, Jerry, doesn’t your wife mind you wining and dining strange women?’ She chewed her little finger coquettishly, expecting him to bat her question aside and continue with the science talk.

  Fitzwilliam was suddenly a different beast entirely. He trotted out a response straight away, as though years of practice had worn down the rough edges from the corny lines, leaving their delivery automatic and silky smooth. ‘Listen, Cat. My wife’s two hundred miles away, but you and I are here in London with a wealth of chemistry between us.’ He reached over and ran a finger the length of her hand. ‘What are we doing here if not studying the science of attraction?’

  She withdrew her hand rapidly, startled by his change in tack. Woah. Dr Jekyll can’t take his loon-juice. Maybe now’s my chance. Say something, Goddammit! Encourage him! You’re here to honeytrap. So, trap his fucking honey! Bev gripped the underside of her chair, searching in vain for a suitable response. All she could manage was a coquettish giggle.

  Another glass down, and her date slammed his menu onto the table triumphantly. ‘I’m having the steak,’ he declared. ‘Are you a carnivore, Cat? The sausage on offer is particularly meaty.’ He winked. Played footsie with her under the table.

  ‘Oh, Jerry! You are a one!’ she managed, praying Doc was getting an earful and eyeful of this sleaze. Jesus. Bev now saw a predator on the other side of the table. She’d need to keep her wits about her in this windowless room – no mean feat when the trek down from the north, coupled with her first working day as a freelance copywriter for her old boss, had left her body and mind heavy with fatigue. Worse still, with no money for a hotel, she had no option but to drive all the way back to Cheshire that night.

  Bev found herself yawning.

  ‘Ready for bed so soon?’ he said, looking pointedly at the chaise longue with a hungry expression on his porcine, flushed face. ‘Perhaps you can have a lie-down, Cat. Does pussy like being stroked?’

  This chump had to dial it down again. Maybe she could cool some of his ardour by boring the pants back on him. ‘I’ve had a really busy day at work. It’s not easy being a marketing guru. My diary’s been back-to-back meetings!’

  ‘Time for a little front-on-front action then,’ he said, locking eyes with her over the top of his menu.

  Bev felt the heat creep into her cheeks. Saw Angie in her mind’s eye, weeping and desperate on her doorstep. ‘So, Jerry. You seem like a fascinating man with the perfect life. What makes a guy like you want to hook up with a girl like me, when you’ve got everything you need at home?’

  He leaned forward and pushed her menu down. ‘What makes you think my needs are met at home?’

  ‘I didn’t . . . I don’t—’

  ‘Does
n’t a desirable woman like you have someone waiting for you at home too?’

  ‘No. I’m single. I like to keep things uncomplicated.’ She thought about her squalid flat and the bed that always felt too big and too cold for her since her split with Rob. She thought about the even greater, cavernous gap in her life that only a court order in her favour, and a clean bill of mental health from Mo, would fix.

  ‘Strings-free, eh? I’m rather a fan of strings-free, too.’ He winked. ‘As far as I’m concerned, marriage is just a domestic arrangement. Don’t you agree?’

  She wanted to say no. She wanted to yell that if he wasn’t happy with his wife, he should do the honourable thing and cut her loose so they could both begin again. She wanted to slap his face and tell him that she’d forced herself to believe in her own marriage like a religion – accepting of its flaws, iniquities and confines as was demanded of the long-suffering devout – feeling utterly stripped of her faith on that day she’d found out what Rob had really been doing. It was only then that she’d realised the Bev of old had been supplanted by a brainwashed drone who hadn’t been able to function without her husband’s approval. And then, somehow managing to blame her for his years of gaslighting, controlling her and screwing anything that moved, he’d disbanded the Cult of Rob and Bev and had ushered in her own personal End of Days. Forget about Rob, for God’s sake. This is work. Act like a pro! ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. She ran her finger seductively around the rim of her champagne flute. ‘But you’re a big boy. I’m sure you can tell right from wrong all by yourself. I guess nothing’s ever as simple as it seems. Especially not for a complicated man like you.’

  ‘Do you have multiple orgasms?’ Another comment that caught her off guard. This was next level talk. He was topping himself up yet again but splashed some of the champagne onto the tablecloth.

  I do, but not with you, dickhead. ‘Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t,’ she tittered. ‘My word. You’re forward, Jerry Fitzwilliam. What a naughty boy you are!’

  ‘I think you’re a tease. I’m not sure about you.’ He seemed to scan through her make-up and skin to the true intent beneath. ‘Maybe I should check you for a wire. Shall I have a look through your handbag and see there’s no snooping equipment inside?’ He licked his lips. Raised an eyebrow and turned around to the console table. Reaching out for the handbag. Snatching it up ; opening the front flap, he peered inside . . .

  CHAPTER 13

  Bev

  Holding her breath, Bev’s mouth opened and closed as she watched him rummaging in the front of the bag, unaware that the recording equipment was in the back pocket. She was just about to distract him with the desperate measure of a kiss when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Sir, Madam, are you ready for your entrées?’

  Fitzwilliam dumped the bag back onto the console, forgetting his suspicions. It was difficult to tell if the camera was still focused on the correct spot. The main thing, though, was that Bev hadn’t been discovered.

  The waiting staff bustled in, carrying dishes of steaming food. Bev’s stomach growled loudly enough to be audible, had a young waiter not jostled the champagne bottle inside its silver bucket full of rattling ice cubes.

  ‘This is empty, sir. Shall I bring you another?’

  ‘Yes. I’m trying to get this young lady tipsy,’ Fitzwilliam slurred. ‘She thinks I’m going to sleep with her later. Ha ha.’ The champagne had definitely smothered his misgivings, as well as any inhibitions, in an alcoholic fog.

  Bev pursed her lips and wrung the tablecloth with sweaty hands, out of sight. Her innards were in knots.

  The waiting staff had barely exited the private dining room when her date blurted out, ‘Do you shave? I like a woman who waxes.’

  How tempted was she to tell him that she had an unapologetic 1970s style Brian Blessed in her pants, and that he could imagine whatever topiary he wanted, because he was never getting to see hers? ‘Would you like me to pour you some water?’ She snatched up the carafe. Holding it above his water glass. Desperately wanting to throw it in his face.

  His hand slid over the rim. ‘Are you trying to put my fire out, Cat? Don’t be a spoilsport.’

  It was then that she noticed the difference in skin colour on his knuckles, presumably where scabs had recently fallen off. Was it evidence of him having thumped Angie? Surely he hadn’t hit her hard enough to draw blood. A smooth operator like Jerry Fitzwilliam would be careful to inflict damage where it could be easily concealed. Or was he the kind of psycho who hit walls in a temper when he’d exhausted all the soft-tissue options on his wife? Yes. Bev could imagine that.

  She ate quickly. ‘I like a strong man,’ she said. ‘I like to feel like a woman. I bet you take charge in your house.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘My wife’s a ball-breaker. She skins me alive for money, and I have to do as I’m told at home. Honestly. She wears the trousers. I can never do right for doing wrong. All the hours I work, trying to put food on the table and keep a good roof over our heads, but it’s never enough for her. You should hear the vicious bile that comes from her mouth too. And then there’s the thing of no sex. All work and no play makes Jerry a dull boy. I need to be loved, Cat. Do you think you can do that for me?’

  There seemed to be tears in his eyes. What was this nonsense? She’d met Angie and knew a petrified victim when she saw one. He was pulling the same table-turning nonsense Rob had tried on her. Men like Jerry Fitzwilliam never took the blame.

  When the first course was done, he left the room with the ghost of an erection clear through his chalk-stripe trousers. His jacket hung on the back of his chair. Bev checked her watch – 9.30 p.m. He was on his sixth glass of champagne. She was on her fourth, though she felt almost sober. But full of enough Dutch courage to dart around to the other side of the table and check his pockets.

  A quick pat-down revealed he had two phones. A Blackberry, perhaps for work. A Samsung, presumably for play. She had his private phone number on Cat Thomson’s new burner. Made a mental note to get Doc to pull what he could from the fun-phone’s call log – he’d assured her that if the phone’s Bluetooth connection was active, it was a possible, remote way in for malware. But Fitzwilliam’s wallet must have been in his trouser pocket. How she would have liked to get a glimpse of his credit and debit cards.

  Footsteps outside, she threw herself back onto her chair, resolving to wrap this up as quickly as possible.

  When Fitzwilliam came back in, he was sniffing hard and waxy-faced. Was that a glimmer of white powder she spied just below his right nostril?

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jerry, but I’m going to have to go in a minute.’ She laced her fingers together, closing the window of opportunity for debate. Certain there was anger beneath his look of disappointment.

  He glanced at the giant Breitling bin-lid on his wrist. ‘Oh, you’re kidding me. But the night’s young, and I’m at your beck and call for the entire evening.’

  She stood, smoothing her dress down slowly and suggestively. Let him think there was still the possibility of a tryst somewhere down the line.

  ‘Here. You’ve missed some crumbs,’ he said, moving into her space and brushing down her hips.

  Pushing him away with a fingertip, she giggled. ‘Now, now, Jerry. I’m the sort of cat who likes to get to know a boy before she lets him stroke her.’

  His hand moved down to her groin but she took a swift step backwards, circling the table to grab her bag.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ he said, placing himself between her and the door.

  Bev angled her handbag so that the camera was hopefully right on him.

  He caressed her face with sweaty fingertips. She could smell the champagne on his breath. ‘I thought I was going to get a feel of your pussy then. You’re such a tease.’

  Her index finger trembled as she touched his chin, but she assessed he was too drunk to pick up on her fear. He merely took her finger into his mouth and sucked it.

  Wi
ncing inwardly, she kept her voice deliberately soft and suggestive. ‘Next time. If you’re a good boy, I’ll get my claws into you then. I bet you’d like that.’

  Get out of the damned room before he shoves you on that chaise longue and forces himself on you. You’re playing a ridiculous, risky game here.

  When he grabbed her around the middle, she yelped. ‘I really must go, Jerry.’ Pushed him away, half-laughing. Trying to work out if the butter knife was within reach, should she need it.

  Knocking at the door dispelled the tension immediately. Bev’s heart galloped away at such a pace, she could barely speak.

  ‘Come in!’ she managed.

  The waiting staff slipped inside to clear the plates, and with a wink and a kiss blown in the shadow Science Minister’s direction, Bev strutted as fast as she could away from the room and down the stairs. Outside, she hastened down the street, not daring to look back in case he was following her.

  Spotting an Uber that was dropping two women off outside a wine bar, Bev click-clacked along the pavement, weaving her way past a parked-up pizza delivery moped. She ran after the old Skoda, shouting frantically.

  ‘Wait! Tell the cabbie to wait,’ she implored the disembarking women.

  But they ignored her and marched purposefully into the bar, laughing, as though Bev was just some novelty drunken spectacle in a high-end part of town.

  Only a couple of hundred yards away, Jerry had appeared in the restaurant’s doorway and was starting to lumber towards her, swaying on legs that appeared full of champagne. Waving at her.

  Bev hammered on the Uber’s window and the driver lowered it by mere inches.

  ‘Please. I need a cab urgently.’

  The driver looked her up and down. Adjusted his pristine white mosque hat and thumbed his beard. ‘Sorry, love. I’m Uber, innit? You got an account? You’ve got to book it through the app or I’m not insured. And I’ve got another fare—’

  ‘There’s a man. He’s drunk and he’s hassling me. I need to get away from him. I’ll bung you extra.’ She spoke quickly.