Don’t Trust Me

by Joss Stirling

  There are at least three of him. ‘I’m not sure I’m following you – any of you.’ I focus on the one in the middle.

  ‘Oh, I think you are. Let’s take this somewhere quieter.’

  So I have sex with him. That’s not a surprise, seeing how the night is going. I don’t really want to do it – he isn’t my type, too smarmy and frankly too old, with a little belly once he has his clothes off – but it seems the best of my bad options. He explains that he occasionally helps out special clients if they are nice to him. Being nice to him means going upstairs to his office which is in the same building. We take the champagne and play naughty secretary and horny boss. I suppose that part is OK and I get off a couple of times as he bends me over his desk and makes another joke about bottoms up. I’m still oiled by the champagne at this point, so I find the kink a thrill. It is the more conventional round two on the sofa with us both naked that makes me feel like a skank. I suppose the drink and buzz are wearing off and I am left with the realisation that once again I’ve ended up having sex with someone I shouldn’t, particularly when I am supposed to be making myself worthy of Drew. This is going in the complete opposite direction to the one I want.

  At about 3 a.m., having listened to Max’s light snores for a few depressing minutes, I sit up, intending to slip away before he wakes up.

  ‘Leaving already, Miss Golightly?’ Max stirs and runs his fingers over my thigh. I try not to think about how old he is, what he must think of me, how basically I’ve just prostituted myself again. I’m back to being sixteen. Can’t I break this circle?

  ‘It’s almost dawn. I’d better head home.’

  He kneels behind me and cups my breasts. ‘I’ll pay for a taxi. It’s been worth it.’ He nuzzles my neck.

  I want to push him off but I can’t afford to do that. Not now. ‘It’s been… fun.’

  He smiles, reminding me how I saw the meanness lurking when we met at the bar. ‘And if ever you want a job here – or even to give me another private dance – I’ll fix it for you so it’s worth your while.’

  ‘Oh, er, great.’ I’m feeling sick of myself and him. Please leave me alone.

  His hands head south. ‘So one more round for luck and then I’ll get you that taxi.’

  So I find myself under him again while he heaves and strains. At first, I’m not into it and he senses this but then he starts calling me dirty names and, humiliatingly, I get off at the same time as him. What is wrong with me? I’m fucked up, as well as fucked by having sex with him.

  This time when I get up he lets me dress, though I feel like I’m doing a reverse strip as I pull up my tights in front of him. He gives me a self-satisfied smile. I wonder how many other women he’s had on this sofa. Probably too many to count.

  ‘Max, what about the lease?’ I ask him.

  ‘As long as you keep being nice to me, I’ll make sure chasing you for the debt remains off my to-do list.’

  How can I have been so naive? ‘But you said you’d help me with my situation. This wasn’t enough to make it disappear?’

  He comes to stand behind me, admiring our reflection in the window. There are no curtains. If anyone was in the office opposite, they’ve had quite a show. ‘You made me chase you. Consider it payment for that little escapade.’ He runs his hands over my hips and pinches hard.

  And isn’t that the last lemon twist in this cocktail of humiliation?

  Sitting in the taxi on my way back to Feltham, I reflect bleakly that now I share more with Holly Golightly than just a name. I’ve become a not-so-high-class call girl staving off disaster by sleeping with men. Another skeleton for my cupboard, or will I confess to Drew?

  Chapter 31

  After my return from the club, I sneak straight into the shower. I can’t bear that man’s smell on me a moment longer.

  ‘Jessica, where’ve you been?’ Drew is waiting for me when I emerge. Thank God I’m clean and sober.

  ‘But I sent a text to say I’d be late. I was following up a lead.’ My heart is fluttering like a wild bird trapped inside. I hope my voice is steadier.

  ‘It’s four-thirty in the morning. I messaged you but you didn’t answer.’

  Because I was otherwise occupied. ‘You know what clubland is like. I found Lillian.’

  He trails me to my bedroom door. ‘You did?’

  ‘Why the tone of surprise?’

  ‘Sorry. Backtrack. That’s great. Well done you. She’s OK? Not got into trouble?’

  I have a nauseating memory of me working that pole with her laughing. She had set me up for the boss, hadn’t she? Did I really do that? ‘She’s got a job there. Dancer.’

  ‘Good news all round then.’ He reaches out and touches my arm, a gentle stroke. It breaks me. ‘You’d better get some rest. I’ve got to be up early.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t wait up?’

  He shrugs. ‘I worry. You’re cold.’ My goosebumps are caused by something quite different than he imagines. ‘Do you want to… You could cuddle up with me if you like? I’ll warm you up.’

  He is making peace just at the moment when I feel least worthy of him. I can’t take my sluttish body into his bed, not now.

  ‘Thanks, but I’d better get some proper sleep.’

  The moment passes. ‘OK. I’ll see you later tomorrow then.’ He pads back to his room.

  ‘Another time, Drew?’

  He pauses at the door. ‘Sure. When you’re ready.’

  I go into my room and crawl under the duvet. Believe me, I hate myself more than anyone else can. I’m stuck on the Wheel of Stupid: no sooner do I begin to climb free than something sends me crashing back down. I repeat the same mistakes. I should’ve made a deal, not just assumed Max meant to play fair. I shouldn’t just fall in with a guy’s plans when they push for sex. I should respect myself more. And then there’s gentle, sweet Drew, hinting, asking so carefully. He’s what I should want for myself, not Mr Smarmy Bastard with his office games.

  I turn my face into the pillow and scream. That doesn’t work, so I thump my head. The pressure isn’t relieved and I’m worried Drew will hear. Fuck, I’m going to do it, aren’t I, though I promised myself I wouldn’t go back there? Throwing the cover aside, I go to the desk drawer and take out a box cutter I’ve stashed. Slipping off the plastic lid, I draw the blade across my inner arm, just a shallow scratch. Blood beads on the line. The pain cuts through the fog, giving me the release I need. I watch the trickle run down to my wrist, separate now from the anguish that brought me to this point. It’s OK. I can handle this. Comfortably numb. Waiting until the last moment, I catch the drip with a tissue. I know it’s an insane thing to do but it works. I feel more in control now and even ready to sleep. Slapping a plaster over the cut, I crawl back into bed and close my eyes.

  The flat is silent when I get up at midday. Drew has left a note to say he is at Heathrow and doesn’t expect to be home before five. I throw all the clothes I was wearing last night into the washing machine. Sitting on top of the soap powder, my phone vibrates so I check the incoming messages. There’s a hope you’ve had a good sleep from Drew and a photo attachment from a number I don’t recognise. With a feeling of dread, I swipe that one open and see a picture of me pouring champagne down my cleavage. ‘Postcard sent’ reads the message.

  I curse softly, thumping my forehead against the screen. I had been hoping that I could just forget last night but nothing we do now is ever really gone. It’s the modern equivalent of Ghost Marley’s chains and cash boxes: we drag our embarrassments and rash moments around with us on social media.

  There’s a follow-up. Max says to unblock his number and to let me know when you’ve done so.

  Already he’s trying to control me. I’ve been thinking about the rent dispute. Even if the police do back me and give me Jacob’s notes as evidence, I’d still have to pay the legal costs. I can’t afford to take this to court, and Max knows this. He’s got me over a barrel – something he knew when he symbolically had me over his
desk. It’s blackmail but like many a victim before me, I opt for the easier option: giving in for the moment until I can find the exit. I go to my list of blocked callers and put Tudor Associates back on the approved list. Done it.

  Mind cleared of that little dilemma, I try to get the rest of my life back on track. As well as being a monumental idiot last night, I did get a result. I have proof Lillian is alive and well. I try ringing Michael first but just get the answerphone.

  ‘Hey, Michael, Jessica here. Good news: I found Lillian and she’s fine. That seriously suggests that Jacob was off his trolley, doesn’t it? Right, OK, I’ll let the police know and work on the other cases to see if I can solve them as quickly. There has to be some reason why Jacob picked on these girls. Bye.’

  I next ring the number I have for Inspector Randall.

  ‘CID.’

  ‘Inspector Randall, Jessica Bridges here.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Miss Bridges?’ He sounds slightly irritated to hear from me but too polite to brush me off.

  ‘I won’t keep you long. Just want to tell you that the address I had for Lillian Bailey turned out to be a good lead and I located her last night.’

  ‘You did?’ Irritation morphs into what I hope is respect for my investigative powers.

  ‘She’s fine. She’s working in a club in Soho. There’s no mystery as to what happened to her; she’s just a girl finding surviving in London tougher than she thought. I don’t think she’s using her own name and she’s keeping off social media for the moment, which is why her old friends thought she was missing.’

  ‘Which club?’

  ‘Do you need to know? I said I’d not tell people where she was, as she didn’t want to be found.’ And she has photographs.

  ‘It’s part of a murder enquiry, Miss Bridges. I’m not intending to harass her. I just want to verify your information. We only have your word for it at the moment.’

  ‘I see. Right.’ And I do see. I could be colluding with Michael, I suppose. Jacob had suggested in his files that I was Michael’s enabler, covering up his crimes. ‘It’s a club called Vaults. She’s going by the name of Lily and works as a dancer.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Yes, and she told me she had never, to her knowledge, seen or talked to Michael.’

  ‘You’ve already shown her a photograph?’ I hear a frustrated sigh. ‘Miss Bridges, you can’t go round doing my job for me. Now I can’t ask her that question, as she has been tipped off as to what this is about. She’ll know what possible charges we are looking into if she’s watched any screen or picked up a newspaper.’

  Michael has been well and truly crucified in all parts of the media, a web of innuendo where readers are invited to spin their own dark conclusions. ‘But surely she’s not involved? It’s all a fantasy on Jacob’s part.’

  ‘We found Clare Maxsted yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s good. How is she?’

  ‘She’s dead, Miss Bridges. So, please, keep out of this investigation. You are a witness, not a detective.’ He ends the call.

  Drew returns home and drops the Evening Standard on my lap. ‘Pleased with yourself?’

  My cheerful ‘hi, honey, you’re home’ dies on my lips. I pick it up and read the article under Michael’s picture.

  Sex Pest preyed on female students, runs the headline. The story that follows is a salacious retelling of some of the indiscreet things I blurted out to one of the reporters who caught me at a weak moment. I’d admitted to her that my relationship with Michael had started out as a tutorial and she’s run with that angle, talking to staff at the college who, of course, all knew about it at the time. The slant she puts on it, though, is that Michael habitually took advantage of younger women. She then leaves the reader to join the dots to the theory that abuse of power can ramp up to murderous rage.

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to talk to the press?’ Drew is rattling around the kitchen, thumping a mug down on the side, overfilling the kettle.

  ‘I didn’t go to them. One of them rang me and I guess I must’ve said too much. I didn’t take any money for this story.’

  ‘You know what it is? It’s fucking embarrassing, Jessica. My parents, my colleagues, are reading this stuff about you.’

  I clench my fists and dig my knuckles into my eye sockets. ‘I told you, Drew – this is me. I blurt things out. I can’t apologise for something I can’t control. It’s not as if you didn’t already know about… about how Michael and I started out.’

  ‘And now the fucking world and his wife knows.’

  ‘Why is that a story? What we did wasn’t illegal. Two single adults having sex: what’s the big deal?’ I’m catapulted back to last night. Am I going to be making the same excuses when that gets out? Telling Drew up front doesn’t seem to help with the fallout.

  He stands, hands braced on the counter, head hanging. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t react like this. It’s not about how ashamed I feel, how I can’t meet the eyes of the guys downstairs, knowing what they know about you.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘OK, so are you all right with it – the story, I mean?’

  I shrug. ‘No, I’m not all right with it – but not for the reasons you imagine. I’ve done much worse in my life than repurpose a psychology tutorial. What worries me is that Michael will think I betrayed him, and it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘You’re right. That’s what matters here: how the story can be used to harm him and you.’ Drew holds out his arms. ‘Sorry. I’m acting like a prick.’

  I walk into the hug. ‘No, it’s me who messed up. Again.’

  ‘I’ll cook us some supper, then we talk, OK? There’re things that need to be said.’

  My phone buzzes and I move away. ‘Hmm. Sounds… er…’ The message makes my heart crumble.

  Time to be nice again. Dinner at 8. A taxi will fetch you at 7.30.

  ‘… lovely but I’m afraid I’ve got to go out tonight. Can we put a raincheck on the conversation?’

  Drew puts down the bag of couscous. ‘I’ll come with you if you like.’

  ‘It’s Lillian. I promised I’d meet her tonight – help her. I don’t think she’d want anyone else there.’

  He accepts this when he really should be more suspicious. ‘It’s great, what you’re doing for this girl. Eat with me first. I’ve missed you.’

  So I eat two dinners, one of them couscous and homemade ratatouille which I just pick at, and another in a French restaurant where the portions are artistic, so barely eating anything is not a problem. Max still makes me work off the calories with fun and games back at his office. Once we’re lying on the carpet in a tangled heap, he notices the cut on my arm. I can tell from his expression he understands.

  ‘Now, now, none of this.’ He kisses it. ‘We’re just having some healthy adult entertainment here. No need to punish yourself.’

  Then why does it feel to me like exploitation? ‘And if I want to stop?’

  ‘You are completely free to walk out at any time. I’ll just go back to work, sorting out Mr Khan’s affairs, chasing up outstanding matters.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I know you do. Roll over.’ He licks his way down my spine, hovering at the base, mouth warm on the notch there. ‘If I find you’ve hurt yourself again, well then, I’ll have to punish you. I want you to enjoy yourself as much as I do. You need this and I’m giving you permission to be that woman.’

  In some twisted sense, I know he is right about me. I hate and get excited about the illicit flavour of encounters at the same time.

  Just before I leave Max hands me a boutique bag.

  ‘Wear this next time,’ he says, kissing me as the taxi hoots on the street. I open it once I’m sitting inside. It’s slutwear – upmarket satin and lace, the kind of thing a man gives his mistress. Is that what I’ve become? Depressed beyond saying at that realisation, I pop some pills, swallowing them dry. The lights of London blink and blur. I feel dizzy and my heart is running the Grand National. Wrong p
ills to take. I should’ve taken sleeping tablets. These have only magnified my anxiety. I get back to Drew’s and hurry upstairs.

  ‘Is that you, Jess?’

  ‘Yes.’ My throat is dry. ‘Just grabbing a shower.’

  ‘How was Lillian?’

  My eyes go teary. ‘Sh… She was fine.’

  ‘Good. I’ll… er… see you in the morning.’ His bedroom door closes.

  I walk round and round in my room. My skin itches. I can’t sleep in this state, can’t even trust myself in the shower. A noise outside takes me to the window overlooking the yard. I hear a clatter as something falls to the ground. A dog barks. Probably an urban fox. I nudge back the curtain. The security lights have flicked on by the cold-storage area. There are deep shadows around the hearse which could hide a whole family of foxes. I hold still. The light shuts off as there has been no further movement. I then notice another shaft of light coming in from the streetlamp. The entrance to the yard is open.

  I go into Drew’s room and shake him awake. ‘Drew, the gate’s not shut.’

  ‘Wha—?’

  ‘The gate to the yard – it’s come open.’

  ‘Blast it. But it’s bolted from the inside.’

  ‘Not now it isn’t.’

  Grumbling, Drew tips himself out of bed and pushes his toes into a pair of flip-flops. ‘No point us both freezing. Go back to bed.’

  I nod but I am actually feeling quite anxious now. What if there is someone there – not a fox but a person? I hurry to the window to keep watch. I can hear Drew cursing as he makes his way downstairs, damning the last man to leave work that day. The wind blows the gate open a little wider.

  My heart trips over itself. I think – I’m almost sure – I see a figure in a black robe with a hint of a white face standing across the road staring up at my window. The light’s not good and my eyesight isn’t brilliant without contacts but already my body has moved into a shaky flight response. It’s probably just my imagination seeing things that aren’t there, but the face resolves itself into the very unfunny features of an elongated screaming ghost, Halloween come early to the funeral parlour.