One last secret, p.23
One Last Secret, page 23
Still, for all that this is horrifying – extraordinary – I am relieved. I am not going mad.
The strange silences can be explained because they were actors waiting for cues, and the truth-or-dare game that had seemed so forced was exactly that, as they didn’t know one another. Taxis were not called. I did not fall asleep at the pool edge. I was not told to look after Marmalade. Doors were locked and then opened because they thought they were playing a game, but the whole thing was orchestrated to destabilise me. Knowing this helps. The extreme gaslighting was just that. Tricks to make me think I was mad, but I am not. There is power in knowing that.
‘Well, the good news is, I am not a dog killer,’ I say with a resistant smile.
My smile obviously annoys him, because he snaps back, ‘You soon won’t be anything at all.’
‘You are going to kill me.’
‘Yes, I am. Or rather, Jonathan is.’ He says it coolly.
‘Why didn’t you just have me killed at the beginning?’
‘Looking back, maybe I should have – it would have been much cleaner – but no one wants to be a killer, do they?’ He looks something approaching troubled; not torn, not as far as that, but maybe inconvenienced. ‘I thought you’d give up. You are very stubborn. I thought you’d go for the Canadian passport thing, but Jonathan texted me, said you couldn’t be trusted, that you seemed determined to return to the UK, so I’m afraid we had to go to the drugged sandwich plan.’ He shakes his head, mystified. ‘I’d have been just as happy setting you up in a new life. But it has come to this. You really have no one but yourself to blame.’
This isn’t true. Why should I believe anything he says? He is probably just hoping I’ll beg him to let me go because he wants the fun of turning me down. Another sick play. People don’t just happen to carry drugged food in case their victim won’t get on a plane. It’s no truer than me killing Marmalade. This situation I am in, I do have someone to blame for it, someone other than myself.
He is to blame. Shaun Beaufoy is.
39
Dora
I think of him as my first client. Shaun Beaufoy. The father of my child. Technically, he wasn’t a client. He was an affair. A love affair, I thought. But when I told him about her, he offered me cash to make it all go away. Her, me, all of it. He made us into a transaction. A business. A shady business at that. He identified a figure that would cover the cost of the abortion and also ‘compensate for the discomfort’. He biked the cash in an envelope to RADA. It was left with the receptionist, who handed it to me when I was passing her desk. I was between classes: sight-reading and expressive movement, I think. It’s funny the details that have stayed with me all this time later.
I wanted to burn the money. You know, make a big fuck you gesture. I wanted to set fire to it and send him a video of me doing so. I didn’t burn it. I paid my rent for the next month and bought some vitamins. Big gestures were an indulgence I couldn’t afford.
I was just nineteen when I met him. A peculiar, neither one thing nor the other age. If you ask any nineteen-year-old how they see themselves, they will tell you they are bouncing on the balls of their feet! They are standing on the cliff edge, ready to leap! They don’t think, for a moment, that they will plummet – despite science and precedent. If they jump from a cliff, gravity won’t rule them and pull them to a bloody death. Nothing rules them! They believe they will fly, soar up, up, up and away! It is a tremulous, tremendous age, balancing between childhood and adulthood. Legally allowed to do what they like, young enough to believe such a notion exists. Nineteen-year-olds are so ready. Ready to pile into the world, make a mark, make a mess, make history!
I’m not sure it’s fair to say he seduced me. That suggests a level of reluctance on my part, and there wasn’t any. But he did lie to me. His bad.
I was in my second year of college, first term. London was still sweeping me off my feet; I was still dazzled by everything. Naive. No one ever knows they are naive, though, do they? That’s the point. You don’t know what you don’t know. My personal tutor was excited to take our class to a much-vaunted production of Doctor Faustus. She also dangled the carrot that a handful of us would be picked to attend the final-night after-show party. It was an opportunity to network with real working actors and musicians, as well as meet the people behind the production: the director, the theatre manager, stage managers, make-up artists, even the theatre trustees. It was a tremendous honour. As I mentioned, I was my tutor’s favourite, so of course, an invite floated my way. I remember Lizzie was almost crazed with jealousy, but still she let me borrow her pink mohair cropped jumper that exposed my flat, toned and tanned midriff. I paired it with a purple maxi skirt. Her loan of her favourite top was generous, since she longed to attend herself. The moment I arrived at the party, I realised we’d got it wrong anyway. I was overdressed; everyone else was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I brazened it out, telling myself that as an actor, there was no such thing as drawing too much attention.
I was wrong about that.
Everyone noticed him the moment he arrived. There was a ripple throughout the room; energy seemed to heighten, the air seemed clearer. Certainly, when I spoke to him, I felt light-headed, as though there was an altitude change. I believe everyone felt something similar; we were all buzzed. You could see people trying to catch his eye, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversations but really not at all bothered about their companions, only wanting to strike up a conversation with the rich, sexy trustee, Shaun Beaufoy. It was rumoured he had saved the theatre by making an obscenely large donation that covered refurbishments, essential maintenance and some insurance thing that none of us cared enough about to understand. All we knew was that he was a hero, a saviour, the good guy.
The best.
I remember Lizzie discussing the donation before the party. She claimed that it wasn’t a big deal. I thought she was just downplaying the man’s generosity and reputation to somehow show she didn’t care about missing out on the after-show party and the chance to meet him. ‘Of course he can save the day. He can easily afford it, he’s like really old,’ she pointed out. And he was, at least in comparison to us. Older than we could imagine being. Older than I am now; or, it seems, older than I will ever get to be. Shaun Beaufoy is twenty-five years older than I am. I realise now that made him still young to be as rich and successful as he was at forty-four. I can’t deny it. He’s exceptional.
At the party, he didn’t head straight towards me, although I noticed him clocking me almost the moment he walked through the door. Initially he swapped pleasantries with the director and the lead actors. About an hour in, he was suddenly by my side. He handed me a glass of crisp, chilled champagne. I don’t know where he got it from. There were trays of basic red and white wine scattered about; no one else was drinking champagne. His first words to me were, ‘You look like the sort of girl who enjoys a glass of champagne.’
‘I am.’ In fact, at the time, I’d drink anything anyone offered. Nineteen-year-olds rarely have the chance or need to be picky or careful about what they imbibe. But I liked the idea that I looked like the sort of girl who might enjoy the finer things in life. It was a look I wanted to wear.
‘Then champagne is all you should drink,’ he asserted.
I took the glass off him, lowered my eyes, sipped, eyes back up at him. I don’t know if I was doing it for real or whether it was simply something I’d learnt in a class. Do any of us ever know when we are authentic or when we are working at it? Isn’t it possible to be both things at once? I didn’t know what to say and he didn’t rush to fill the silences, but instead kept his eyes trained on me. Undressing me there and then, in the room full of party people. He asked me what I’d thought of the play. I’d anticipated that someone would ask this question, of course, so I had a thoughtful response prepared. He asked what I was doing at the party, how I was connected to the troupe. I explained I wasn’t, but that my tutor at RADA was a friend of the director. I knew the effect of dropping RADA into conversation; people couldn’t fail to be impressed. He immediately showered me with praise about my talent. ‘You haven’t seen me act,’ I pointed out.
‘But RADA.’ He shrugged, my aptitude a given, enough said. He commented that I was very pretty. Just asserted it, didn’t bother to slide the compliment in amongst other observations; he stated it, as an assessment. I had been called pretty before. Many times. So many, I can’t remember the first time it was said to me, the way I can’t remember my first period. These big moments women are supposed to cherish and rate, or be traumatised and worried by, have been lost to me. But I do remember how I felt when he said I was pretty. I was disappointed. I felt my lack. I wanted to be beautiful. Beautiful suggests gravitas, importance. Pretty is lightweight and suggests ‘somewhat’. I needed him to think of me as beautiful. I felt challenged, as though he had thrown down a gauntlet.
‘You’re married,’ I replied. It wasn’t exactly an objection. More a statement of fact. Was I testing him, or grasping at a sophistication I certainly didn’t possess? Pretending I was totally OK with flirting this way with a married man; that I would sleep with him anyway? Maybe I would have. Eyes wide open. That would have been a different playing field. But what he said next changed my world. Changed our flirtation into something else, something with possibility, hope and a future.
‘No, I was. We’re separated. I’m a free agent. I’ve moved out. I live in a hotel at the moment.’ He let me take in the fact and then added, ‘It’s very smart. I think you’d like it.’
It was magical. We barely left his hotel room all weekend. We didn’t need to; we had everything we could imagine needing within those four walls. Well, more than four walls, because his room was a suite. I’d never seen anything like it, except in movies. The magnificence and luxury didn’t intimidate me; it just added to the fabulousness of the situation. The perfection. Everything seemed natural and straightforward. Right. Of course the first time we made love it would be between crisp white cotton sheets, of course the first meals we ate together were brought to us on silver trays by discreet staff members who were appropriately pleased when he palmed them notes for tips. Of course we drank nothing other than champagne. The glamour and opulence all added to the illusion I wanted to be swept up in.
There are some particular conditions in life when time and other forces of reality can just be forgotten, you can be suspended. It happens in hospitals, in casinos, and it happened in that hotel suite that weekend. The world may or may not have been going on around us, we didn’t know or care. Or even ponder it. We were totally absorbed with one another. I felt so comfortable and confident. The sex worked; our bodies got each other. Naked, I walked around the hotel room in front of him, perched awkwardly on the end of the bed to eat room service food. The awkwardness coming from the height of the table, not my nakedness. I was in awe of him. I craved him. Adored him in a way only nineteen-year-old girls can yearn for lovers. Unreasonably. Unguardedly.
He brushed six foot, had broad shoulders and was muscular. He definitely devoted time to the gym. I liked that level of vanity. He was hirsute and I liked threading my fingers into the thatch of hair on his chest, as though I was sewn to him. He had blue-black hair; it flopped over one eye in a way that had probably been fashionable when he was a teen, but it was a classic look that suited him. Made him timeless and closed the gap of years between us. His voice was low, measured. He dropped out his thoughts with determined restraint that meant I, and everyone else, stopped and listened to every word he had to say. He never had to fight for attention. The passion I felt for him was something I didn’t know how to manage. I knew as much when I was right in the middle of it. It felt too extreme and mercurial for me, like frothing champagne bubbling up over the rim of a glass, down the stem, through my fingers, messy and gorgeous. Irresistible.
We had sex. I see that now. At the time, I thought we were making love. I didn’t have enough experience to discern the difference. My years of dance classes meant that energetic and flexible sex was my norm. Because of the soft-focus lighting, the plush interiors, the free-standing roll-topped bath, I thought him bending me over and banging me hard over the dressing table, where he could watch in the mirror; or me straddling him on the high-backed leather chair was romantic. I didn’t expect a thousand butterfly kisses up and down my body.
I think.
I thought.
I’m almost sure.
It’s hard to be absolutely certain. It’s so long ago, nearly twelve years.
I thought I was special. How many women, girls – men too, I suppose – have said the same? Allowed the same self-delusion? We are not special. The people married men pick up, play with, drop. None of us are special. What happened to me is laughably commonplace.
After we’d had enough sex that he was exhausted, he asked me what my ambitions were. Was I interested in theatre or film? What sort of films specifically? I shyly told him, knowing he was someone who could make all my dreams come true but not wanting to appear like the sort of girl who was hoping he might. He wasn’t in the movie world – not a director or producer – but he had a number of fingers in a number of pies. He was connected. He knew people. But I didn’t care that he knew people; that wasn’t why I was with him. I was so sure of that, I thought he would realise the same. Maybe he didn’t; maybe he thought I was well aware that I was just a bit of fun, that what we were doing was a transaction.
On Monday morning, he got up early and said he had to get to work. He told me I could stay in the room until eleven o’clock, but that it would be better if I vacated by then to allow the cleaners in; we’d been sending them away all weekend. The very first thing I did when I got back to my student flat was google him. I was excited to know everything I could. His net worth was extraordinary; the businesses he was involved in were complex, his charity work impressive. I was disappointed that there were no details about his split from his wife, not even on the gossipy tabloid sidebars of shame. Wikipedia was out of date and still had his status as married. I felt a strange flicker of delight at being in on a secret that wasn’t public knowledge; I knew something about him that others didn’t.
But I knew nothing.
It was a transaction.
I guess other young women might have realised as much. A weekend of sex might have led to a useful introduction; several weekends would have led to a guarantee of an audition, perhaps an actual part. I wasn’t entirely naive, I was aware those things were put on tables, I just didn’t think they were on our table. I thought if I benefited from our connection – our relationship – it would be through an entirely organic, natural and honest process. I believed what we had was authentic. I thought we’d start dating. Then, perhaps at a party we attended together as a couple, I might meet someone who wanted to audition me. Perhaps my lover might point out my in-depth understanding and command of Stanislavski’s acting technique, or my incredible spirit and energy, my hunger and work ethic. Maybe, because we were in love, I’d glow in a particular way and somehow just get seen.
I know, idiocy. Nineteen, practically a child.
I didn’t hear from him for six days. It felt like sixty. I checked my phone hundreds of times a day. I thought of all the reasons he might not have contacted me. He was busy at work, I must have given him my number incorrectly, he might be ill. When he did text the following Sunday morning, I was so relieved to hear from him, I didn’t ask why he hadn’t called all week. I told myself a week was not a long time to wait to hear from him after all. I’d hoped he’d say we could meet at a bar or a restaurant. I knew he had to know all the best places. He told me he’d had a full-on week, that he was exhausted; would I be happy to come to his hotel? ‘We can order room service.’ The third week he texted me on Sunday afternoon, and that became the pattern. I’d obsess about him all week but only hear from him on Sunday afternoon, then I’d go to the hotel and we’d spend the evening and night together. There was always room service and champagne, as he’d promised.
On the fifth Sunday, at 11 p.m., just as I was dozing off after another round of sex, he woke me by shaking my shoulder. ‘You can stop here tonight if you want, but I’m getting on my way. My wife is arriving from the airport. She’ll be home within forty minutes.’
‘Your wife?’ I mumbled, too groggy to instantly comprehend.
‘I have to shower.’
‘Ex-wife, you mean.’ He looked confused. Reached for his watch, which was on the bedside table, slipped it on. ‘I thought you said you were separated.’
‘She’s been visiting family in Australia, yes.’
‘No, that’s not what you said.’
He looked at me as though I was insane. As he’d jumped out of bed, he’d thrown the covers back off my body, exposing me to the chill of the air con. Simply exposing me. He stared at me. Embarrassed. I wasn’t sure who he was embarrassed for or at. Himself or me.
‘It’s complicated,’ he said with a sigh. Perhaps laboured breath was to be expected when pushing out such a tired excuse.
‘Well, explain it to me.’ Although he already had, really. I scrambled out of the bed and stooped to pick up my lace panties; aware of my nudity in front of him for the first time, I got dressed as quickly as possible.
He turned on the tap in the shower and called from the bathroom, ‘We were going through a tricky patch, but we’ve sorted it out.’ He sounded buoyant. ‘This has been a lot of fun. If you want to leave a bunch of cards, I’ll see your name gets around the industry. Girls with your talents are always popular.’ He laughed. I was a joke.
My face screamed a blood-red roar of humiliation and disappointment as the door clicked behind me.
It isn’t ground-breaking; being stung by the time you are nineteen is par for the course, I believe. I think I could have walked away from it. Called him a bastard to my friends, called him out some years later when the #MeToo campaign was putting heat and headlamps on such behaviour; behaviour that had for too long been accepted as the norm. But things got complicated when I didn’t have my period like I was supposed to. I’m usually clockwork.
