Untouchable (10 page)

‘So what did you do?’

‘Read. A lot.’

‘Didn’t your parents take you out? Family trips? Walks? Whatever?’

‘Parent,’ I say. ‘There was only my dad. And trips out weren’t exactly his sort of thing.’

Ben looks at me. ‘What happened to your mum?’

‘She died when I was fifteen.’

‘How?’ He stops, turning so he can see all of my face.

‘Cancer,’ I shrug. ‘What else does anyone die of?’

‘Shit. I’m sorry. That’s rough.’

‘Not really. We were well off. Nice house. Good education. People have it a lot worse.’

Ben falls silent for a minute. ‘How about your father? Is he still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘You see much of him?’

‘No,’ I say, swallowing down my natural response, but Ben reads it in my face. ‘Mind my own business, right?’

‘We should get back.’ My voice edgy, its tone a tad too sharp. He’s not simply paying for sex, Grace, I remind myself – he’s paying you to be pleasant.

We pick up our pace, rounding the far end of the lake. There’s a swan on the path, pecking at the grass along the bank. It turns to face me as I pass, flapping its wings and emitting a long, low hiss.

Fuck you, I think, giving it a cool, hard stare.

Ben orders room service while I warm up in the bath. Teacakes and hot chocolate. A plateful of buttery shortbread. All served on dainty rose-covered china with pale-yellow linen napkins.

The red-haired girl who carries it in beams at the pair of us as she sets the tray on the coffee table. She thinks we’re here on some kind of romantic mini break, I realize, feeling awkward and cross. This appointment is taking on a life of its own. Again.

You should have said no, Grace. You should have told him it was too far to come.

I glance at the clock. Half past four. Two hours gone and we haven’t even fucked. What the hell is he waiting for? Maybe he’s changed his mind, I think gloomily. Perhaps I’m wearing thin on him already.

‘So, is there anyone?’ Ben asks, out of the blue. ‘I mean, anybody special?’

I’m so ambushed by the question I don’t answer. Just take a long sip of my hot chocolate, sweet and strong.

‘Sorry.’ He grabs one of the teacakes and covers it in butter. ‘None of my business again. I get it.’

I evade his gaze, unsettled by the unexpected atmosphere of intimacy between us. Maybe I should cut my losses and leave, before this goes any further. Ask him for enough money to cover my train fare and a taxi back to the station.

‘Christ,’ Ben says suddenly, putting down his plate. ‘I’m sorry, Stella. I don’t know what’s got into me. Can we just start again?’

I look at him. See in his face that he’s as unnerved by all this as I am. I nod and he gets up and grabs my hand and pulls me into the bedroom. Moments later we’re screwing, good and deep and hard and I let the sex erase everything until my mind feels blank and still as the silt at the bottom of the lake.

Then we do it again. And this time I don’t think of Alex at all.

Afterwards I lock myself in a cubicle in the ladies’ loo on the ground floor. Take out the envelope and break the seal, pulling out the little wad of fifties. They’re perfectly aligned, fresh from the cashpoint machine.

I stare at them for a minute, then lift them to my nose, inhaling that particular scent of brand-new notes. I count them carefully, one by one, focusing on the way they feel in my hand, their crispness, their pristine newness. I inspect the red swirl and sweep of the lettering, the grainy images of the Bank of England and a younger queen. Turn one over to view Boulton and Watt, the industrial steam pioneers.

Power and money, I think, examining their austere faces before stuffing them back in the envelope. Power and money.

The rest is just detail.

I count it again. It’s all there. Sixteen notes.

Eight hundred quid exactly.

16

Saturday, 28 February

I survive the bone-aching chill in the church – why would anyone get married in February, for God’s sake? – and that ubiquitous bloody reading on love from Corinthians. I hold it together through the wedding vows, those big white lies most of us can never hope to keep, and maintain a gracious smile as we exit the church, half the other women teetering in fuck-me stilettos that make them look like their rates are considerably lower than mine.

I chat to Tim in the car ride up to the manor, then make affable small talk with a farmer called Alan, a rather stolid cousin of Jane’s sat on my left at our table. He’s clearly single, and I can’t help wondering if it’s a set-up, Rachel in cahoots with Jane to sort me out with somebody safe and wholesome. Someone to save me.

Still, after a glass of champagne I’m content to listen to his plans for a llama farm in Wales. Rachel is checking her phone, nervous about leaving the kids with her mother for the day, while Tim peruses the other guests, on the lookout for faces from our old university crowd. I’m just thinking I might get through this whole ordeal relatively unscathed when I hear a plummy male voice behind me.

‘Stella?’

I turn to see a face I hoped I’d never encounter again. Smug and piggy, dark hair cropped hard and tight, like topiary. A smile crawling across his meaty lips as he takes in my appalled expression.

Christ, how come I didn’t spot him earlier?

‘Hello, Max,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady as Rachel whips round to stare at us both. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Yes, Stella. Quite a surprise.’ His smile morphs into a smirk. ‘Didn’t really have you down as the wedding type, I must admit.’

Rachel’s astonished look hardens into anger. ‘And you are?’

Max regards her pleasantly. ‘An old acquaintance of Stella’s,’ he replies without the slightest show of embarrassment.

Rachel swallows. Puts down her phone. Tim looks confused for a moment, then stares into his rocket and goat’s cheese starter. Clearly it’s just dawned on him what’s going on.

Glancing towards the space Max vacated, Rachel spots a woman in a blue dress, staring in our direction. ‘Well, it’s been nice meeting you.’ Her tone clipped, dismissive, heavy with emphasis. ‘But I’m sure you need to return to your
wife
.’

‘My wife?’ Max follows her gaze and laughs. ‘Goodness, no, she’s not my wife. Only my plus-one.’ He turns back to me. ‘If I’d known you were coming, Stella, I’d have hooked up with you instead.’ Max looks at me meaningfully. ‘We could have come to some kind of arrangement.’

I don’t grace this with an answer, but Rachel presses her lips together then beckons him over. He takes a step forwards, inclining his head to hers.

‘Fuck off,’ she says, in a voice just low enough not to alarm the other guests.

Max straightens. Studies her for a second or two, then turns on his heels and walks away.

‘Excuse me.’ Ignoring Alan’s puzzled expression, I get up and head to the loos, locking myself in the stall at the end. I lower the lid of the toilet and sit down, sinking my head into my hands. I’m gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches.

The fucking shit.

I only saw him once, but it was enough. Max was the sort of client that left you with a bad taste in your mouth – and not simply from sucking his dick. It wasn’t anything in particular, more the way he looked at you, with a kind of contempt, or how he held you, a tad too firm. The way he pushed your head into his crotch while you blew him, as if trying to make you gag.

Max had you counting the minutes until he left. The type of client you double-lock the door behind. The kind you let go to voicemail the next time he calls.

Outside, the door to the loos opens with a squeak. I hold my breath.

‘Grace?’

I exhale slowly.

‘Grace, come on. I know you’re in there.’

I exit the stall. Rachel is leaning against a porcelain sink, wearing an expression that makes my insides shrivel. ‘Jesus, Grace, don’t you see how awful this is?’ she says, her lips puckered with anger. ‘I mean, what a fucking mess you’ve got yourself into?’

I don’t bother to answer. What the hell does she think I’m doing in here? Her eyes fix on mine. I’ve never seen her look at me quite this way before. Like she’s given up.

‘I’m not sure I can handle this any more,’ she says quietly.

‘Rachel, I’m sorry. I had absolutely no idea he would be here. How could I?’

‘But don’t you see?’ she hisses. ‘This could happen anywhere. Anytime. I mean, how can you live like this?’

I haven’t a choice, I want to say. I can only live like this. I stare across the gulf growing between us, knowing I haven’t words enough to bridge it. And knowing that’s my fault. There’s nothing unreasonable, after all, in what my best friend just said; she is saying it because she still cares, not because she’s stopped.

Rachel is the first to look away, her eyes shining. ‘It’s as if you’re in free fall, Grace. Five years and no sign yet of hitting the ground. I’m sick of holding my breath and waiting for the moment of impact. All of us, everyone who loves you, we can only watch, powerless to do anything. And it’s horrible, Grace. Horrible.’

I feel my face grow hot. My chest tight. ‘Can we not do this right now?’ I say, despising the pleading tone that’s crept into my voice. ‘Please.’

Rachel bites her lip. Looks at me a little longer. ‘I’ll see you outside.’

No sign of Max when I reclaim my seat; nor the girl in blue. Perhaps they’ve left, I think with a rush of relief. Maybe Rachel actually shamed him into going.

Alan, once so full of conversation, doesn’t return my tentative smile. Probably wondering why I introduced myself as Grace, yet apparently answer to Stella. I sit through the speeches, trying to look cheerful despite feeling more alone than I can ever remember. Tim glances over occasionally; Rachel acts as if I’m not even here.

I should have hired a car, I think miserably. Or booked a taxi. Instead I’ll have to wait for them to leave and endure the silent treatment all the way back to the station.

A round of applause and some raucous whoops mark the end of the best man’s contribution. Jane and Clive rise and walk over to cut the cake. I watch his hand encircle hers as she holds the knife and I feel a surge of claustrophobia.

I wait till the formal bit is over, then get up and make my way towards the patio doors, desperate for fresh air and solitude. But halfway there I see Jane wave at me, sitting beside a woman I recognize instantly: Alice Morgan, from my psychology course. And next to her Jim Brunton and Bill Frewin, both in our year at college.

I make myself go over.

‘Grace,’ Jane smiles. ‘Good to see you. You remember everyone, of course?’

I dig out my friendliest expression. ‘How could I forget?’

They all laugh, though it’s not remotely funny, and I realize they’re nervous. Embarrassed even.

A swell of panic churns my stomach. Has Rachel told them what I’m doing? I’ve never asked her not to, always assumed she’d keep it to herself. After all, she’s my oldest friend. But there’s definitely something in their manner. Bill can barely meet my eyes and Alice’s voice, when she speaks, sounds too bright.

‘So how’s things, Grace? None of us have seen you in ages.’

I swallow, trying to relax the muscles in my face. ‘Great. Fine. How about you?’

She laughs unnecessarily. Holds up her hand so I can view the duo of platinum rings, one sporting a sizeable diamond. ‘You know, hitched. Babies. The usual.’

‘You got married, didn’t you?’ asks Jim. ‘To that bloke in the year below us?’

There’s an uncomfortable silence. I have a feeling someone just kicked Jim’s foot under the table.

‘I was,’ I say. ‘Not now.’

No one speaks. Their expressions become more awkward. They know, I realize. Not about the escorting, perhaps, but about what happened before. Of course they know, I think, my cheeks beginning to burn. Even if no one told them, it was in all the regional papers; even made several of the nationals.

Instantly I’m back in that airless courtroom, sitting in the witness stand, being cross-examined by Michael’s barrister. Everyone staring at me, like I’m the one on trial.

‘Isn’t it true, Ms Thomas, that your own involvement with Mr Farrish rather negates the testimony you’ve just given us?’

The implication being that I was to blame. That it was my fault she died.

‘Grace,’ asks Alice, looking concerned. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

‘Excuse me,’ I mumble. I turn away before I can see their surprise segue into relief, and make a bolt for the exit.

Outside, twilight is rapidly fading into night. I pull my jacket tight and crunch across the gravel patio to the gardens beyond. Bare earth in the borders, but further, up in the grass around the trees, I can just make out several long drifts of snowdrops, tiny white jewels glowing against their backdrop of green.

I lean against a stone birdbath, taking deep gulps of cold air, waiting for the panic to subside. Behind me, faint but audible, the band kicks off with a smooth, jazzy version of ‘Unforgettable’. Through the large leaded windows I see Clive leading Jane on to the dance floor. From this distance, the whole thing looks quite magical. The grand room with its chandeliers. The elegant floral bouquets. The candles flickering on the tables.

And I find myself genuinely hoping they make it. That all this will count for something.

Though it never did for me.

‘Grace?’

I jump and turn. Tim. I actually sigh with relief. He makes his way towards me, shivering in his shirt. ‘You OK?’

I nod.

‘I don’t get the feeling you’re enjoying this very much.’ He thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets for warmth.

‘Not much,’ I admit.

‘That man … earlier … I take it he’s somebody you’ve met. You know, in your work.’

I nod again.

‘Seems like a right prick.’

I look up at Tim and the sympathy on his face makes my eyes sting. I dig my nails into my palms, forcing the tears to recede as Tim places a consoling arm around my shoulder. ‘Sod’s law, eh …’ He puts on a Humphrey Bogart voice. ‘Of all the weddings in all the towns in all the world, he walks into this one.’