“Yes, you’re exactly right.” She turns to look at me properly for the first time, laughing like we are age-old friends. “It’s like that movie, The Ring, isn’t it? Because these walls go on forever, and whenever I’m out here I feel like that psychotic little girl from the movie, when she’s left to rot at the bottom of the well. What was her name? Savanah? Sara?”
“Samara. Or Sadako, in the original Japanese version.”
“Yeah, Samara. Right.”
“And your name is Candice, if memory serves me correctly.”
“Yes, it is. And well done you for remembering. So how are you liking your new job, then?”
I shrug, inhaling deeply on the cigarette. “It’s fine.”
“You gonna go for a dancing gig here? It’s like, five times the money you get for bar work.”
“Maybe,” I lie. It’s not like I want to come across as a prude, especially with what I’m about to ask her.
“You totally should. Shame to waste that body. And they’re a nice bunch of girls here, mostly.”
I nod along, as if I’m giving it some serious consideration, all the while thinking how pretty she is – even more so, up close. She is exactly Shane’s type. I know he has a thing for busty, leggy blondes, given the history of his celebrity crushes he confessed to me once. They all have a certain look – Brigitte Bardot, Kim Basinger, Claudia Schiffer in her early years before she started looking anorexic and horsey, Jane Fonda as Barbarella… So why he ever married her is anyone’s guess.
“Actually, I wanted to ask you something,” I begin tentatively, almost shyly. “If I paid you four grand, would you be prepared to seduce a man? And for that money, would you present me with the evidence of that seduction? We’re not necessarily talking sex here, although yeah, that too.”
She doesn’t immediately reply, instead tilting back her head and blowing smoke rings up at our square ‘well’ top, snuggling her dressing gown around her neck with the splayed fingers of one hand as if it is a mink coat and she is a film star from days gone by. She looks like one, I decide – definitely more Brigitte Bardot than Claudia Schiffer. I find myself admiring her makeup, gazing at her dark smudgy eyes and beige pout. Personally, I prefer a sweep of a neat, cat’s line on the upper lid, pale, translucent skin and a strong red lip. But each to their own, and there’s no denying that she looks phenomenal – far too good for this dump.
I take a long drag of my cigarette, worried now that I’ve scared her off.
“Four grand,” she says thoughtfully, head still tilted back on her swan-like neck.
I don’t speak, wanting to appear cool. Not wanting to pressure her.
“And where would a barmaid find that kind of money?” she continues. “And, more to the point, why would she want to do such a thing?”
“I have other means of income,” I say cryptically. Because obviously I do. Specifically, I know where Shane keeps a stash of cash in his house – he told me once in a moment of post-cotial bliss. “And does it really matter why?”
“I suppose not. I guess what I should be asking is how, when and what? And is he dangerous?”
“No, he’s not dangerous,” I am quick to reassure her, and inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief. It didn’t have to be her, but I really wanted it to be her. “It’s just that his fidelity has recently come into question. The man himself is benign.”
She nods, still not looking at me. My God, this just has to be her. Shane would love her. She looks so much like Bardot in that moment, with her messy, light-gold bouffant hair, worn half up, half down, and her hooded, dark eyes, coupled with that voluptuous, beige pout. She’s not too tall either, unlike me. Even in her skyscraper heels, and me in my flats, she’s barely eyelevel with me. I think Shane will like that because he’s so crap in bed. With a more petite woman, he can fling her around and feel like a real man, as opposed to being with a woman who might be more sexually intimidating to him. A woman like me. I’m just too big, both mentally and physically. I make him feel inadequate.
But it doesn’t stop me from loving him. I don’t think anything could ever manage that. My love for him is unconditional and absolute, as blinding as anger, hatred and fear.
“Do you have your phone on you?” I ask, suddenly anxious.
And I am anxious, because if I don’t give her Tess’s number right away, then I may well lose her cooperation. When I had joined her out here in the courtyard, I had fully expected to find her scrolling through some social media or other on her phone, as most girls her age are wont to do. If she doesn’t have her phone on her, then I’m back to square one, with regards to getting this ball rolling.
To my relief, she pulls it out of the deep pocket of the dressing gown. “Sure.”
“Great,” I say. “Can you put this woman’s number into your phone? Her name is Tess.”
I proceed to recite her mobile number to her, which I have long ago learned off by heart, and I watch as the girl taps it into her phone. I make her read it back to me, just to be sure, and satisfied that it is correct, I smile.
“When you have photographic evidence of this man’s infidelity, I want you to send a text to Tess, along with the pictures. And I want you to send it to her phone, rather than over Facebook, as it’s that much more personal…”
I realise that the Bardot-lookalike is looking at me strangely and I catch myself. There’s no denying it, I sound crazy. I fall quiet, even though there is so much more that I wish to say. I wait for her to speak without steamrolling her, and sure enough, she soon does.
“Why are you doing this? Who is this guy?”
“I loved him, but he doesn’t love me. His wife deserves to know what a lying, cheating bastard he really is, and he deserves to have his lies exposed. He doesn’t deserve a happy marriage, even if that marriage is built on lies.”
She’s silent for a moment, as if digesting my words. “How do I do this, then? How am I supposed to meet him?”
“He’s going to be out on the town on Wednesday. He’ll end up at The Iso Bar, after the pubs shut. That’s when you should make your move. Be all alone and cute and vulnerable. Say you’ve lost your friends, and then start some serious flirting.”
The Iso Bar is the only semi-classy nightclub in Broadgate, although ‘classy’ is perhaps pushing it. It’s not this place, so it has that going in its favour, and the drinks are easily the most overpriced in town.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “I’m not working Wednesday night, so it’s doable. But how am I supposed to recognise this guy?”
I don’t have my phone with me, and I sigh at my own stupidity. I’m not one of those types that has my phone permanently grafted to my hand, but thankfully, she is.
“Go onto your Facebook, I’ll show you.” I tell her that his name is Shane Elliot, and as she scrolls through the list of men it brings up with me peering over her shoulder, I quickly help her locate him. “That’s him. His profile is private, but his profile picture is pretty accurate.”
Candice clicks on him. He only has a handful of profile pictures viewable to the public, and they are all just of him. Thank God there are none of his wife or wedding day; I’d probably vomit if I had to be subjected to those.
“He’s just over six feet tall and he looks exactly as he does in his profile picture. You’ll easily recognise him.”
The girl brings back his original profile picture, which is a clear, grinning headshot of him. He is raising a glass of wine to the camera, a large, mainly red, abstract painting behind his head, and a dark wood table before him. It looks like it might have been taken in a restaurant, for the lighting is low and flattering.
I watch the girl staring at his photo in concentration, a frown marring her smooth forehead. “I don’t know,” she says hesitantly. “I mean, how am I supposed to get photos of him?”
“That’s entirely up to you. You can get someone to take a secret photo of you and him kissing in the club. You don’t have to have sex with him, although, that is preferabl
e, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe you can take him down some alleyway, and things can get hot and heavy there. If someone can take a picture of you giving him a blowjob, that would be brilliant.”
Her eyebrows shoot up in her forehead and her full lips part slightly, as if I have shocked or offended her. Although, if I have, I find that a bit rich, considering that she takes her clothes off for a living.
“How am I supposed to get someone to take a photo of us?”
“Don’t you have any friends you can pay to do that? How about I bung you an extra five hundred to help that happen? Or you can photograph himself, in your bed.”
“Oh, come on, that would be impossible.”
But at least she’s thinking this through, which means that she at least intends to do this, which is good enough.
“Do you have your own place? Do you live with anyone?”
Obviously, she doesn’t have a boyfriend, otherwise she would have said so the second I propositioned her with this. Girls like her rarely have boyfriends – I’m only on my second shift, and I’ve already heard that most of the dancers here do more than just strip, if the price is right.
“I live alone,” she replies.
“So if you fancy him, it’s not impossible, right?”
“He’d have to be pretty bloody cute,” she shoots back.
“Right. It’s up to you.”
“With the extra five hundred, I might be able to arrange those photos,” she says carefully.
Yeah, I think. For the extra five hundred, I bet you will.
“That’s great. Just a kiss would do. That’s a lot of money for a drunken grope in a nightclub.”
Candice nods. “Yeah, I guess so. But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Don’t you want me to send you these photos, too?”
“No. I don’t want my name coming up in any kind of message chain, accidently. And I want you to withhold your number, obviously, when you send Tess these photos.”
“So how will you know I’ve even sent the photos?”
“Trust me, I will know. I’ll pay you half now, and half again when you’ve sent the photos. And I want you to send those photos at nine in the morning, the day after the stag night. Seriously – not a minute before or later.”
“How will you pay me?”
“On my next shift, which is Friday. I only work here one night a week. Or, failing that, I’ll pop in on Thursday and give you the money. Are you working Thursday night?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s that settled then.”
“How can I trust you? How do I know you’ll pay me the remaining amount?”
“You’ll just have to trust me, like I am blindly trusting you. I’m handing over two-and-a-quarter grand, and you might not even do it. I am surely taking a bigger leap of faith than you are?”
Candice’s brow is still furrowed, as if giving my words great consideration. “Okay,” she says eventually. “I’m game.”
“Fantastic. I have half the money on me and I’ll pay you at the end of the night. How does that sound?”
“It sounds fine.”
And just like that, we have a deal.
CHAPTER SIX
ALICE
Jack has summoned me, and here I am, standing on his doorstep at half two in the morning, the taxi pulling away into the cold night.
He’d better not have gone to bloody bed, I think in a stab or irritation. Maybe I should’ve told the taximan to wait until I was safely inside the house.
I am officially Jack’s booty call. His wife is out of town, tending to her cancer-stricken mother in Essex for a couple of nights, and his snotnosed brat of a teenaged daughter is on a sleepover, so dear Jack is all alone in the house.
He lives in Cliftonville, a few miles away from Broadgate, in a big, posh, detached house with sea views. Such as they are – why anyone with money would choose to gaze out at Thanet’s sorry, dishwater slice of the Atlantic Ocean is beyond me.
Jack’s boring wife works in Broadgate as a GP, and Jack is a used car salesman, owning a not-so-successful car lot on a nearby industrial estate. What can I say? He absolutely is every stereotype going of a used car salesman – for a start, he’s been fucking me in secret for the past couple of weeks.
He’s still sexy, though, and I can’t help myself. I am not the type of woman to deny my baser urges.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” he says, on opening the door. He sounds grumpy. “It’s late.”
I step past him into the hallway, kicking off the boring, flat shoes.
“Yeah, well, I was working.”
Only when the shoes are off, do I notice that he is staring incredulously at me, like he has never seen me before. Fleetingly, I think how handsome he is, even if he is looking decidedly rumpled in his ancient blue jeans and white t-shirt with what looks like his dinner spilled down the front of it.
“What do you mean, you were working?”
“It’s quite a simple concept, Jack, even for your neanderthal brain.”
I shrug out of the red leather jacket and hang it on one of the hooks next to the door.
“You can’t leave your coat and shoes by the door.”
He’s really beginning to bloody irritate me, now; maybe I should’ve just gone home, tonight.
“Why the hell not?” I ask.
“What if someone sees?”
“Who’s going to see?”
“I don’t know, the postman, or something. He can see the coatrack through the frosted-glass side panel. He might see the red of your coat.”
“Paranoid much, Jack? Do you really think that the postman keeps tabs on your coats? You think that every morning, he writes down your coat arrangement in his little notebook?” I put on a mock-serious voice that weirdly comes out sounding like Inspector Clouseau. “Mr Aitken is clearly having an affair because there is an unknown red coat hanging on the third hook from the end. And anyway,” I continue, my voice normal once again, “I’ll be well gone by sunup.”
“There’s no need to be facetious,” he says, running a hand through his thick, floppy, dark blonde hair.
He’s turning forty-four soon, but there isn’t a single grey in his enviable mane. He’s a gorgeous-looking guy – completely out of his dowdy wife’s league in the looks department. She’s plump, short and plain, he’s six two, and bears more than a passing resemblance to Leonardo DiCaprio – the older version thereof.
But her wage pisses rings round his, she’s hardly ever home and she gives him good social standing. In short, she’s his perfect match.
He pauses, looking at me in fresh disbelief.
“And what in God’s name are you wearing, anyway?”
“I told you, my work uniform.”
“Work uniform?” He looks at me blankly. “I thought you were taking the piss.”
“No, Jack – tonight was my second shift.”
“You second shift?” he says, staring aghast at my top. “You’re working at Pink Flamingos? The strip club? You can’t be serious?”
I regard him solemnly.
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. And if you tell anyone, I might have to kill you.”
“But why? Why are you working at a strip club?”
“Why not?”
“Oh my God, this is just outrageous. You’ve been acting so strangely lately, and now this?”
“Don’t you mean I’ve been acting strangely ever since I started fucking you? Why should you care? It’s not like you’re my husband.”
That does the trick, and stops his rather boring line of questioning.
“”I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” he says.
“Yeah, sure you are.”
He changes tack. “You never cease to amaze me,” he says slowly. “I mean, how do you… You know what? Never mind. Just when you think I’ve got the measure of you, you go and throw me through another loop.” His expression changes from one of
astonishment to concern. “Are you stripping?”
“No. not yet.”
“Not yet? Are you going to?”
I’m getting a little tired of his constant repeating of everything that I say. Besides, I didn’t come here in the middle of the night for a chat.
“You talk too much.” I shuck the flimsy t-shirt over my head, throwing it to the ground. “And I am stripping now.”
“Do you need a hand with that?”
He lunges towards me as he speaks but I dance around him, making a beeline for the foot of the stairs.
“If you want it, you’re gonna have to do better than that.”
Giggling, I run up the stairs taking two at a time, heading straight for his marital bed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TESS
I wake up late Saturday afternoon. When my eyelids first flutter open, I am disorientated and dazed. For a horrible moment, I don’t know even know where I am, for the bedroom is shrouded in a shadowy half-light, its geography not immediately familiar.
I sense that this darkness is a day darkness, rather than a night darkness – the kind obtained from drawn curtains rather than a moonlit sky.
I’m in the spare room, comes the realisation, the events of yesterday coming back to me in a rush. The shopping expedition with my sister-in-law. The woman called Alice, who’d approached me in the shopping mall to tell me that she’d had sex with my husband. The subsequent migraine, and then hallucinating that same, Alice woman sitting on the bench in the back garden when I had been getting ready for bed yesterday afternoon…
Are you sure she was a hallucination? a smug little voice whispers in my mind. Because she looked pretty damn real to me…
Groaning, I lurch upright in the bed, silencing that awful little voice. I proceed to scrunch up my eyes and mouth, gurning like Les Dawson, checking to see how much moving my face around hurts. It doesn’t. Aside from a feeling of general light-headedness, the pain has gone. I don’t need to take any more painkillers that I have stashed away in the top drawer of the bedside table. I haven’t had any for twenty-four hours, so I’m doing really well.
In Spite: A terrifying psychological thriller with a shocking twist you won't see coming Page 4
