He paused by some steps leading down to a cellar. ‘Here?’ She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. It was a glorious summer day and they were to hide away in some cave. Nicky had been here eighteen months ago for another of the endless leaving dos – the place had smelled of cleaning fluid and the salads were limp.
He looked amused. ‘Have a little faith.’
He ushered her down into a small and cosy restaurant with tables covered in white linen and a delicious smell seeping out of the kitchen. A friendly and efficient waitress led them to a table near a window that looked over a small basement garden and a high wall.
‘It must have changed hands,’ Nicky exclaimed.
‘It’s owned by the father of a friend of a friend. What do you want to drink?’
She asked for water; they ended up with champagne. The restaurant filled but she recognised no one. Their table was intimate, the food good. She felt she had been transported to another world, to a city where they were anonymous and deliciously alone. She told herself to stick to work. ‘So, your aunt.’
Adam leaned forward, holding her gaze. ‘You’ve heard of Tramps?’
‘The nightclub?’ Adam nodded. ‘Of course, though I’ve never been there. I’m not posh enough or famous enough.’ She asked for a glass of water and some red wine appeared with it. She gave up protesting and trying to stay sober.
‘My aunt was a doorwoman there in the seventies and eighties. She ran all sorts of favours for people, was friends with famous people, dated top Hollywood actors, that kind of thing.’
‘How long did she do it for?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. She keeps saying there are loads of photos at the house of her with famous people at the club.’
‘Did she say which people?’
‘She was vague. She said people you wouldn’t expect.’
The intoxicating smell of copy grew stronger. Nicky tried to remain casual. This was hard as she realized she was leaning over the table towards Adam and his knee was touching hers. ‘It sounds like she had an interesting life. Can you get me these photos?’
‘They’re at the house. All Connie’s stuff is there. I’d have to root through.’
‘The house. That’s an emphasis you use only if you’ve got a bloody great mansion.’
Adam laughed. ‘Very perceptive. It does have a lot of rooms. It’s near Bournemouth.’
‘Did Connie grow up there?’
‘Yes. She’s my dad’s sister.’
‘Is your family very grand?’
Adam looked uncomfortable, or maybe he was trying to be modest. ‘Not many of us left now. My mother’s dead.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘With Aunt Connie on her way out it’s just me and Dad now.’
Nicky gave a small shrug. ‘I don’t even know who my mum is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m adopted.’ She waved away his look of concern. ‘Don’t worry about me. I have a great relationship with my adopted family. I don’t have
issues
.’
‘You’ve never had any wish to trace your real family?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘That’s unusual.’
Nicky smiled to cover the fact that she was lying. Sort of. It would be unusual not to have
some
issues. She loved her family but she had always felt different from them. She rolled the stem of her wine glass between two fingers. Part of her closeness to Grace had been because she was used to creating strong relationships in her life, rather than relying on blood ties to provide them.
Nicky was brought sharply back to the present by Adam placing his hand on hers from across the table. ‘You look miles away.’
She put her hand back on her lap. ‘Adam, I’m married.’
‘You’re not acting like you are.’
His words were like a slap, bringing her to her senses. ‘I should go.’
‘Don’t you dare. I’m being silly. It’s none of my business.’
‘Really, maybe this isn’t a good idea.’
‘Please stay, Nicky. Please.’
She considered for a moment and relented. She fiddled with her fork, inspecting the tines. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult. Greg’s wife was murdered. She was my best friend too.’
He said nothing but stared at her, the shock impossible to hide. ‘Your best friend was murdered?’
‘Do you remember the case of the body in the lake?’ He nodded. ‘That was her.’ Adam’s dark eyes were glassy; she couldn’t interpret what he was thinking. ‘Greg was married to Grace.’
Adam gave a small cough. ‘I see.’ He groped around for something to say. ‘I’m so sorry—’
‘Don’t be.’ Nicky waved her hand, wanting her fun lunch back. ‘Things aren’t always easy, between me and Greg. The past can be . . . intrusive.’
‘Of course, of course, I understand,’ he said.
Another glass of wine arrived. She struggled back to work thoughts. ‘Have you ever looked through the photos?’
‘No. She says there were politicians, actors . . . but the names don’t mean a lot to me. She’s got a condition that gives her a series of small strokes that affect her mentally and physically. Some days she completely lucid and at other times she rambles and it’s impossible to get much sense out of her. She’s not in a good way.’
‘Could she do an interview, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure. She lives with us here in London and has a carer, but I think she needs to go into a home soon.’
‘Does she have children or a husband?’
‘No.’
‘Are there friends I could talk to?’
‘My dad’s the one. They were close, Connie and Dad. Now I think about it I’m intrigued to see these photos myself.’ He leaned towards her, his gaze intense. ‘You could come down to the house and see them in situ.’
There it was: the invitation and the challenge.
She sat back, high on wine and intrigue. She imagined Connie’s photos, wrapped up in faded pink ribbon and stored in an old wooden trunk in a room with a rocking horse and something by Chesterfield. Her fingers were twitching to get her grip on this story. It could turn out to be perfect for impressing the new editor, toeing the new editorial line. And who knew, maybe those photos would turn up something really scandalous. I’m going to get to that house, she thought, glancing at her mobile. ‘Shit! Is that the time?’ She stood so fast her chair banged backwards onto the floor.
‘Sit down, Nicky.’
It was the way he said it. He was so sure of himself, oozing youth, self-confidence and control. She righted the chair and sat down. She did what he said because when he talked like that she wanted to. The waitress came and put down the bill. Nicky grabbed it and Adam grabbed her wrist. They tussled, giggling for several moments over the table littered with the remains of their lunch. She felt a surge through her body before she gave in and let him take it. He was commanding, dangerous and sexy. She decided it was a fatal combination in someone so young. She understood how Bea could become obsessed by Adam. When he turned on the charm there wouldn’t be many who could stand up to its force.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ Maria asked when she slunk back to her desk.
‘Finding an exclusive,’ she replied.
‘There are no exclusives on death.’
Nicky smiled. ‘We’ll see.’
She spent the next hour Googling Connie Thornton. She got a page from Debrett’s and a couple of snippets from other websites. She took a crash course in Tramps, the place to see and be seen in the seventies and eighties. She noticed with interest that taking photos inside the club was strictly forbidden. She typed in Adam Thornton, and got an intriguing web page back.
‘What’s with the face?’ asked Maria.
‘I’ve just had lunch with the son of Judge Lawrence Thornton.’
Maria frowned. ‘He sounds familiar.’
‘The women’s hero.’
Nicky watched as Maria searched her memory banks for the connection. ‘Oh I remember. The first judge to find a woman not guilty of murder on the grounds of diminished responsibility because she suffered years of abuse . . .’ Maria tailed off. ‘You’re looking far too pleased with yourself, you know. No good will come of this, Nicky.’ Maria waved a finger at her and pointedly walked off towards the Foreign Desk with an oversized leaving card in her hand that they’d just signed.
G
reg was packing his case for LA, a black Samsonite with a retractable handle and reflective stripes down the sides. So you could be seen. Everyone was so keen to be noticed – for their designer clothes, famous friends, shiny luggage. His fellow passengers were like a herd of narcissists disembarking on the other side of the world. Greg sighed. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
He threw his swimming trunks into the bag. Not that he ever went in the sea or a pool. He was too busy. How many pools were there in LA, he wondered. More than could ever be counted. You needed to be in the chlorine business in that town. That or palm tree maintenance. He hated palm trees. They were ugly and spiky and too tall, like a badly proportioned woman. He looked out of his bedroom window at the London plane bursting through the paving stones, its trunk so thick it obscured half of a car. Now
that
was a tree.
Nics was lying on the bed, supposedly watching him pack but she was fiddling with the tassel on her orange silk dress. Her bad mood was radiating out in waves, conflict bubbling just under the surface.
Impulsive, chaotic, beautiful Nicky. He felt a surge of love for her and then, as always, it was chased away by its old partner: guilt. He shouldn’t have married her. He’d made a mistake. Sure, he adored her, but why hadn’t they just kept things as they were, stayed living in sin, as his mum so disapprovingly called it. If only Nics hadn’t asked. Why had she bloody gone and asked! Trapping him in that tawdry restaurant and grabbing his hand, rushing on about how it didn’t need to be a leap year, as if he or she cared anything for shit like that. She’d cornered him in a burst of love and enthusiasm. She hadn’t realized what she was doing, of course; how could she know? He’d been obsessive about the fact that she’d never know the full truth. But once the fateful words were out of her mouth he’d had to think fast. Nics wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t buy some line about waiting. She had been thirty-two and everyone knew the score. The time was now. If there was something she didn’t like, part of their relationship that didn’t add up – she’d go. It would hurt like hell but she’d do it. That was Nics all over; she wasn’t one for compromise. She deserved her happy ever after and she would go all out to get it. He’d sat there, fingernails digging into his knees, pretending to be surprised and flattered. If he’d said no, they would have been over, maybe not that night or the following week, but soon enough. Too soon. So he’d done a stupid thing. He’d said yes. He’d lied and feigned enthusiasm and agreed because he was a coward and he couldn’t bear to lose her. He had thought at that moment that he could overcome what had happened and put it behind him. But what he’d done was worse, he realized now, much worse.
He’d left her in limbo, neither with him nor free. He couldn’t ever tell her the truth, and the awful realization hit him that as the years pulled you further and further from what had happened the past never let you go. You didn’t escape it; however distant it became it was still there, dank and hovering and brooding. He should never have lifted that perfume bottle to his nose – how stupid was that! The genie literally bursting from the bottle. He shuddered even though the day was hot. His union with Nicky was rotting away and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He couldn’t open up to her, because articulating it made it real, and the only way he could cope was to hide it all away. So he was cut off from her in a travesty of a marriage.
The wedding preparations had brought back feelings of dread. Of course Grace was the spectre and the excuse for not wanting it big and white and public. Nics agreed immediately; she wasn’t bothered about the traditional package or the sums that were spent. For her it was all about the emotion. She didn’t need to float in a hot air balloon or hire a vintage car, bin a load of cash on a man who banged the dinner gong. So they’d had a small register office ceremony with just family and three friends each and he’d organized a surprise honeymoon, a secret trip. Because he was superstitious and paranoid – and rightly so, he told himself. They spent three weeks hiking in the Pyrenees, moving from lodges to small hotels and camping out in stupendous isolation – just the two of them. It was a glorious hiatus, the time of their lives. Because he knew it would begin to change once they came home. Once they came back to real life; once it became a daily fight to stay on top of the fear of the past.
Grace. She had been dragged to the lake, the police said. She had struggled before the end . . . He pushed the image away by folding a linen shirt and trying to get it in the Samsonite without creasing it. Fat chance.
‘How are your nerves?’ Nicky lay on the bed, her head propped up on her hand.
He gave her his best smile. Good old Nicky, bringing him out of himself. ‘Jangling.’ He reached out for the packet of Valium and popped two blue pills from the plastic blister. He threw them high in the air like they were peanuts and caught both in the back of his throat. An old pub drinking game he’d been a master at. He became absurdly pleased with himself and grinned at his wife as he swallowed them down with some whiskey. It was the little things. Concentrate on the little things and his big fat fear of flying would start to blur at the edges. The pills and the booze couldn’t do anything about the other memories, but he knew that all too well. He’d learned the hard way.
‘You’ve got an aisle seat?’
Greg shuddered theatrically and reached for the whiskey. ‘So much for all those films you get to watch, I’m zonked from take-off to landing.’ He put the Valium in his pocket. He felt the sweat bead on his forehead even as he thought of the name: Heathrow. It was another dose of his legendary good fortune, to be working somewhere that required a twelve-hour flight from home.
‘Passport, ticket, money?’ There was irony in her voice. He patted his jacket pocket. She looked away.
He shouldn’t be going. She needed him. But he needed the work. Man was put on this earth to work, his dad used to say. Greg would have said it was more accurate that man was put on the plane back to LA to stop someone younger and hungrier taking his place, living his dream. Man – particularly this man – thrived on the competition. Bring it on! He picked up three pairs of balled socks and began juggling.