One last secret, p.12
One Last Secret, page 12
Alone together, Jonathan is amiability personified. He continues to keep up the polite pretence that I am Daniel’s actual girlfriend. He tells me about the charming market the others are visiting: ‘I feel dreadful you missed out.’ He tells me a little of the house’s history: ‘Although I’m no expert, I’m only repeating what I’ve been told.’ He is solicitous of my comfort: ‘Are you OK in flip-flops? Watch that step.’
He walks me through the formal gardens, along the edge of the woods and across to the tennis courts. We visit the grotto; it is as Melanie described, dingy. A man-made cave decorated with a mismatch of mosaic tiles and shells. However, the dank, cool air of the caved area offers a brief respite from the blazing sun. He even takes me to look at some of the outbuildings. It seems we are the first visitors to these for a long time. The farm machinery and tools all have a cloak of dust on them. A shallow grave. As a child who grew up playing around a disorderly collection of sheds and outbuildings, I am not intimidated by the deserted, disused barns. I quickly make a mental note of what is stored here. A sit-on lawnmower, bags of fertiliser, ladders, a wheelbarrow, a metre-high pile of chopped wood, several axes, a chainsaw, pitchforks, spades, various other bits of machinery and tools, mostly rusting. Habit. I always assess my environment, check for exits and even weapons. In a hotel bedroom, that might be the ice bucket; here it is more obvious, should the need arise.
Jonathan also appears to be making an inventory, or at least I think so until he says, ‘Not much to see here. Shall we press on?’ I suppose his roving gaze was one of boredom rather than calculation.
I can’t think there’s much left to see. I’m hot and tired, as we walk I can feel the stones of the rough ground and the roots of the fat trees through the soles of my flip-flops, which are now dusty, as are my feet. My ruby-red pedicure looks like drops of blood at the end of my toes. I’d like a cool drink and to sit down, but good manners cause me to nod.
As the tour progresses, I begin to really believe he is a devoted husband to Amanda; that he is a good friend to Daniel and will keep his secret. That I am safe. Then, just as we enter the maze, he says jovially, ‘So Daniel tells me you are a hooker. How much would it cost for you to give me a blow job.’ He doesn’t laugh as he asks this. The question squats fat between us.
‘You couldn’t afford me,’ I say smoothly, and keep walking. I am not as calm as my quip suggests. It must be the heat, but I’m not thinking the necessary step ahead, and I find I’ve strode forward, deeper inside the maze. The bushes are tall, a couple of feet above my head, and thick. It’s dangerous. I turn around, try to exit, but his bulk blocks me. I don’t want to appear intimidated, so I choose to head further into the labyrinth.
‘What do you think of the house?’ he asks, seemingly returning to safer subjects. I decide to remain civil and humour him, because what else can I do?
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Yes, but a money pit, wouldn’t you say? People think of a chateau, and they think, wow, what luxury! They don’t see the moss, mould and mouse damage, or the wind and rain loosening tiles.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘It’s like when men think of a hooker, and they think, wow, what fun! They don’t see the filth and the squalor. The gold-digger.’
My breath catches in my throat as he says this, but I force myself not to show how much he’s frightening me. Instead, I smile broadly and say again, ‘I suppose not.’ Then, after a beat, I find the nerve to add, ‘You seem to know a lot about my profession.’
‘Oh, only what I’ve been told,’ he says with a modest smile, as though he is humbly refuting having a great understanding of a complex fiscal issue or a particularly insightful interpretation of a Renaissance painting.
I try to concentrate on the route we are taking. First right, second left, second right. I may need to be able to reverse it and get out, but I already feel disorientated, lost. I’m not sure if we go much further that I’ll be able to keep it in my mind. All the hedges look the same. I should turn back now, while I have a chance.
‘So why do you do what you do?’ he probes. This is the same question they all ask. That’s comforting. He’s just another pathetic man who thinks he can bully me. Not a real threat.
‘Why does anyone do anything? Money, obviously,’ I reply. This isn’t the answer they want. They want to hear I do it because I like sex. They want to think of me needing sex as much as they do. If he were a client, I might tell him that I do it because I love sex, because it would excite him. But he’s not my client, and I owe him nothing at all. Not even a frisson of a thrill. I turn around. I’ve had enough. I’m going back to the pool. I don’t care if I look rude. I don’t care if he tells everyone that Daniel paid me to be here. He might not be the man who beat me, but he is a creep and I don’t like being alone with him. I don’t have to do this.
Jonathan must see something in my face that suggests I’m about to bolt, because at that moment he grabs my arm and pulls me sideways through a hedge. His bulk forces a gap where there wasn’t one, but as I tumble through behind him, I am scratched by the rough branches. My hat falls off and lands in the dusty earth. I glance at his hands. Faces may blur, become indistinct, they can be hidden behind masks and smiles, but hands are harder to disguise. Some are square or long-fingered. Others have fat, podgy fingers. Hands can be smooth, clammy, hairy, liver-spotted, wandering. Curled into a fist. I try to remember the hands of my assailant in the hotel. I try to forget them.
We’ve plunged into the centre of the maze, but his shortcut means I have no idea how to get back out. I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. I start to claw back through the bush, the way we’ve just come, but it’s impossible; the branches don’t seem to bend to allow it. I’m getting more cuts on my arms and legs, deeper this time. I look ridiculous, and worse, I look panicked. I know better than to show fear. I bend, pick up my hat and brush off the grime, but I don’t put it back on my head. Instead, as I turn to face him, I use it as a fan, so he can’t see my hands shaking.
‘You don’t look the type,’ he remarks.
‘You know a type?’
‘You know what I mean. You’re not how I imagine a whore to be.’ I realise he’s trying to humiliate me. He can’t. I’m the only person who controls how I feel, how I respond. I’ve taught myself that. But I live in the real world and I know he can hurt me; I have no control over that. Words can never hurt me, but sticks and stones – well, everyone knows how the playground rhyme pans out.
‘You can call me a whore if that makes you feel better about yourself,’ I say calmly.
Sweat is collecting grotesquely on his top lip. He seems to become aware of it at the same time as I do; however, instead of wiping it away, he licks it. His tongue is long, thin, reptilian. ‘You make a good show at classy, I’ll give you that, but what you do is actually so very, very sleazy. So disgusting, you know that. Down deep, you know that about yourself.’ He asserts this in a way that presumes a lot about me.
I don’t reply. I hear echoes of the words that were said to me in the hotel. You disgust me. Stop what you are doing. He’s right, sex is sleazy. Or can be. I know that better than most. The whips and synthetic costumes, the cheap peekaboo bras, the toys, the tricks. I try hard to keep away from all that, although I can’t always manage it. After all, the customer is always right. I’m there for his needs, not mine. I’m an actor. It’s not even me. I’m playing a role. I know admitting any of this would feed this horrible little man’s fantasy. He is, no doubt, getting excited talking about this stuff to me. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
‘Sex can be glorious,’ I reply steadily. I jut my chin a little. ‘They pay to believe it’s glorious.’
A sound escapes his mouth. A sound that conveys he is caught somewhere between thrilled and disgusted. ‘I want you to tell me about it.’
‘I’m not in a chatty mood.’
‘I’ll pay you to tell me about it.’ He reaches into his shorts pocket, pulls out his wallet. He flips it open. It’s fat, full of cash. As he flicks through the notes, I see dollars, sterling and Euros. All high denominations.
‘No thank you.’
‘Oh yes. I forgot. You’re on a job already. Of course. One at a time, is it?’ I don’t reply. ‘I bet it isn’t, you dirty bitch.’
My eye hurts from where he punched and bruised me last.
This is imaginary. I don’t really hurt. He’s not hurting me. He never did.
Except I do, and he is. And I don’t care what Daniel says, Jonathan was the man in the hotel. I know he was. Itineraries can be faked.
My thoughts leap from one thing to the next, unable to settle. Opposing thoughts clash, making me feel dizzy, nauseous. It’s the heat. It’s fear. I need to focus. I can’t afford to slip up.
‘Is the sex the same with them all? All the same to you?’ I know he wants me to say it is. If I confess that, then I’m admitting they are just pieces of meat, which makes me a butcher. The truth is, there are similarities, but they are all different too. The weight of them. How they hold me. If they hold me. I won’t tell him. I won’t bring this alive for him. I turn on my heel and start to walk away. I turn left and right randomly, hoping to recognise something but not doing so. It all looks the same. I worry he’s going to suddenly grab me from behind, but running isn’t any safer, as I may be running in circles. I know this, and yet instinct takes over and I do run. I run left and right. Round and about, into dead ends and over old ground.
It takes about fifteen minutes, but eventually I find my way out of the maze. Panting, I burst back out into sunlight not broken by the shadows of the bushes. I bend, put my hands on my knees, trying to steady my breath.
Liling and Chen are waving to me from a distance. ‘Oh, there you are!’ they call cheerfully. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
19
Dora
‘Where is she?’ Liling asks.
‘Who?’ My breath is still fast and shallow. I’m dizzy, light-headed. The sun is too much. I think I missed a bit of my shoulders with the suncream; I can feel the uncomfortable prickle of scorching flesh. I pull at the collar of my dress to try to protect myself from burning.
‘Marmalade.’
‘Marmalade?’
‘She’s missing.’
‘Missing?’
‘Is there an echo around here?’ asks Chen, laughing. His entire body is taut; even when laughing, he looks constrained.
‘Oh, you’re talking about the dog,’ I say, finally catching up. They nod. ‘I haven’t seen her since earlier this morning. She was in the library.’ Liling looks cross, but I haven’t got the time or inclination to get involved in her problem. I head into the house. I need a drink, and to put space between Jonathan and me. I’m going to call my own cab and I’m going to do so now. I don’t care what Daniel thinks. I want to leave here. Right away.
I bump into Melanie in the kitchen. She’s fussing around a member of staff who is making fresh lemonade. I grab a glass and head to the kitchen tap. ‘Oh, wait a moment, the lemonade is almost ready,’ says Melanie. I ignore her. I’ve been trailing about in the blazing sun for nearly three hours with, if not a psycho, then at least a total dick. I’m parched. I want water and I need it straight away. I fill the glass, but just as I lift it to my mouth, Melanie knocks it violently out of my hand. ‘I said wait,’ she yells. The glass smashes in the kitchen sink. The maid and I stare at the splinters, shocked. ‘Here,’ says Melanie, smiling sanguinely as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. ‘Try this.’
The lemonade is delicious, and I glug it back. I don’t know what to say about her show of temper. I ought to ask if the stress of hosting is getting to her, if anything else is troubling her. But I find I can’t. She isn’t open to that sort of confidence.
She continues blithely, ‘We’ve all eaten crêpes at the market, so we’re not bothering with lunch. You are not hungry, are you.’ It isn’t a question. I am, but I don’t want to linger, I want to get upstairs, pack and leave. These people are crazy. I’ll eat at the airport. ‘I’m taking this tray of lemonade out to the gang. They’re already at the pool. Daniel too. Will you carry the glasses?’
‘I’m actually going to have a lie down.’
‘Oh no you are not.’ It’s said faux playfully. ‘We’ve seen nothing of you today. Pick up the glasses, please.’ Whilst her voice is merry, her smile is icy and I feel the prod of steely determination that I identified yesterday when we first met. This woman is resolved that everything plays out exactly as she has choreographed it.
I reach my hand inside my dress pocket. I want to feel the smooth reassurance of my iPhone but it’s not there. Panic surges through my body. I need my phone to text Evan, to call a cab. Where is it? I was sure it was in my pocket. Have I lost it? When did I last have it? I definitely had it when I was near the pool this morning. I pick up the tray of glasses and follow Melanie. I need to find my phone to get out of here.
It seems none of Melanie’s guests are behaving exactly as she’d like. When we arrive at the poolside, no one pays much attention to her lemonade, even though she makes a big thing about it being fresh and homemade. The guests continue playing in the pool, listening to music, soaking up the sun. Sisi is dancing, swaying like a sapling in the wind. She reaches out to Melanie, grinning and coaxing her to join in, move her hips, relax, but Melanie remains stiff and sullen, determined not to be influenced by the joy. I see her shoulders rise with tension to around her ears. She lies and says she prepared the lemonade herself. I’ve just watched a member of staff make it and she knows as much but seems entirely unconcerned about telling this lie in front of me. The men ask for beers. She comments we should all probably pace ourselves. This call for temperance causes a hoot of laughter. Giles asks the bartender to ‘Set them up.’ It’s the same guy who offered me sun cream this morning. I ask him if he’s seen my phone, but he says he hasn’t. I’m not that surprised. I don’t think I’d have left it here. I’m pretty sure I had it with me when Jonathan was showing me the grounds. I remember feeling the reassuring weight of it in my pocket, against my leg. I concentrate hard and try to think when I was last aware of it. In the outbuildings, maybe. Which means I’ve most probably lost it somewhere in amongst the maze. A cold slither thrums through my body. I need my phone, but I don’t want to go back in the maze.
It quickly transpires I’m not the only person who has lost something. Liling’s dog is missing. She asks us all to help look for Marmalade and I agree. I mention my lost phone and ask everyone to keep an eye out for that at the same time, but no one seems particularly concerned about the phone.
‘Are you sure it’s not on charge in our room?’ asks Daniel. I feel awkward pushing the point. Finding Marmalade is clearly a priority and whilst I’ve never had a pet, I imagine Liling and Chen must be very devoted to her; they wouldn’t have brought her on holiday with them otherwise.
Amanda confirms as much when she shakes her head and under her breath says to me, ‘That dog is like a child to them.’
Everyone agrees to look for the dog and we split off into groups and head in different directions. I haven’t seen Jonathan since I left him in the maze, but I certainly don’t want to bump into him, so I stick close to Daniel and Sisi. Neither of them speak to me much as we hunt for Marmalade. We tramp out into the woods, calling her name and whistling. In the distance we can hear the others doing the same. ‘I hope we find her. She seemed such a sweet thing,’ I comment.
Sisi glares at me. ‘If anything has happened to her Liling will be devastated.’ I don’t understand her ferocity. She’s intense, maybe she should be in therapy. Daniel looks apologetic, I get the feeling he’s apologising for me, which I don’t understand either. My comment was innocuous enough. I’m fed up with receiving the cold shoulder. I’m going back to our room. I’m going to pack and get a member of staff to call me a cab. I’ve had enough.
‘I think I’ll head back to the house. Marmalade might be inside, staying cool,’ I say.
Sisi and Daniel simultaneously glance at their watches to check the time. ‘We’ve been looking for an hour now; we might as well all head that way.’
As soon as the chateau is in sight, it becomes clear there has been a development, but not a good one. I can see the rest of the group gathering. Liling is sobbing hysterically; Chen is gently helping her into a waiting taxi. She is practically prone in his arms. Giles, in the meantime, is carefully placing a big box in the back of the car.
‘What’s going on?’ asks Daniel.
Suddenly Liling notices me. She lunges out of the car and starts to run towards me. ‘This is all your fault,’ she yells.
Chen is fast to intervene. He folds his strong arms around her and guides her back into the car. ‘Come on now, this isn’t going to do any good. We need to get her to the vet.’
‘What? What’s my fault?’ I ask. ‘Is that Marmalade in the box? Is she OK?’
No one replies. No one will look at me. The taxi leaves at speed. Amanda says, ‘We found Marmalade down the well. Luckily, as it’s been so dry, there’s not much water in there, so she didn’t drown, but she’s badly hurt. She looked in a very grave state.’
‘Oh, that’s awful – but how is it my fault?’ I regret the question the moment I ask it. It’s definitely insensitive. A dog is hurt, no one wants that, but I don’t understand why everyone is angry with me.
‘Well, Chen did ask you to look after her,’ replies Amanda.
‘What? No, no, he didn’t.’
Everyone looks at the floor, embarrassed.
‘Yes, he did, this morning, before we went to the market,’ adds Daniel. ‘Chen and Liling were debating whether to take Marmalade with us, but they decided it was too hot for her. You told Chen you’d look after her.’
