One last secret, p.24
One Last Secret, page 24
‘You’re on the pill, though, right?’ asked Lizzie. She was wide-eyed and incredulous. She lived for drama both in and out of the classroom.
‘No. It makes me feel heavy. I can’t afford the extra pounds. We used condoms.’
‘Every time?’
‘Yes. Maybe. Probably not.’ I tried to think back through the blur of alcohol and lust.
I sent him a text. Well, several. I don’t know what I expected. Then the envelope arrived at reception, with the cash and a typewritten note: This is enough to deal with your problem and a little extra to compensate for the discomfort. There was the telephone number of a private abortion clinic. Very thoughtful.
I called the clinic. I even made an appointment, but then two things occurred to me. Firstly, the donation he had made to the theatre was thousands of times greater than the amount he’d put in the envelope that was delivered to me. He was able to put a price on us, and it wasn’t a very high one. Secondly, having an abortion was his idea, not mine. His solution to an inconvenient consequence, a problem. I thought the little being inside of me was a person, a life. Priceless.
In all the years since, I haven’t once seen him in the flesh, and yet it doesn’t surprise me that here he is, standing in front of me, calm and glorious. He has aged well. I can admit that. He’s a little greyer than he was, and certainly a bit broader, but clearly he’s benefited from a private chef, a personal trainer, a gym in his home. He must be fifty-five years old by now; he looks younger, and still extremely attractive. I hate it that I can see that. Despite everything. Even now, I feel a lick of something towards him. My body betraying me.
‘Why did you come after me after all this time?’ I ask.
‘You know why. Any parent would do the same.’
40
Shaun
Eleven years ago
He has two phones. He thinks nothing of that. Nothing at all. It’s just practical, like having multiple jackets to wear or mugs to drink tea from. He needs more than one phone. There is the phone that his wife, his PA, his friends and family use to contact him on; along with his legitimate business associates, people from trusts, foundations and charities, his buddies from the golf club, the guys he plays squash with. Then there is the other phone. The number he gives to the sort of people he wouldn’t like his wife to meet, not in a dark street, not ever; some of his other business associates, and the girls. Unless there is a time-sensitive deal going down, he leaves his second phone in his office; he doesn’t need his wife finding it, and of course, she goes through his things. He doesn’t resent her for doing so; he respects that she’s not a pushover, that she tries to catch him out. Thing is, he’s just cleverer than she is, so whilst he admires her effort, she’s unlikely to ever find a thing.
There are no urgent deals going down now. No reason for him to check his phone, except that he’s feeling a bit randy. He wishes there were a better way of saying it. Something more refined or more PC. He doesn’t like the coarse, unsophisticated connotations of ‘feeling randy’, but that’s what it is. He thinks of the various expressions they used at school to describe how he is feeling now: his balls are breaking, nuts cracking, he needs to get his rocks off. All so crude, but honest. He doesn’t say any of those things out loud any more. Not for a long time. But he still thinks them. He just needs to slide one in, a quickie, get his end away, dump his load.
His wife is being uncooperative in that department at the moment. It has never been her thing. He married her because she came from a wealthy and respectable family, she lent him the propriety and credence that he was undoubtedly lacking. He brought wit, charm, and a feral, urgent can-do attitude to the relationship. It was a fair enough exchange. He is tall, dark, handsome; she is slight, smiley, pretty. They look impressive together, even now, when they are in their forties. Only thing is, they used to look incredible together. But his point is, she has never really been that into sex, not even when they did look incredible together, when he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, let alone his hands. She made it clear from the beginning. Vanilla, once a week, and be grateful. But now, he can’t even rely on it being once a week, not any more. A sleepless night because she was waiting up for the kids to get in from some teenage party, or she has her period, or a good book. Any of these flimsy excuses might trump his needs, his desires. She never sucks his cock any more. Not even on his birthday; they’re not even at it enough to be that cliché. No one could blame him for looking elsewhere.
So he picks up his phone thinking he might flick through the contacts, find someone easy and willing. Easy in the sense of loose morals and easy in the sense of having no delusions about this being anything other than a casual hook-up. He tries to make that crystal with all of them, but frankly, some of them don’t want to hear and refuse to understand even if he speaks to them in one-syllable words. He makes it clear he’ll buy them dinner, champagne, pay for their entry into clubs and their cab home. He’ll show them a good time, a fun time, but it’s a treat, not something they should expect to repeat.
He notices he has three unopened messages. Hers is the last he glances at.
‘Fuck!’ The word explodes, angry and spiteful, out of his head and mouth into his office.
‘Boss?’
He looks up, surprised that Jonathan is in the room with him. He’s very stealthy, Jonathan is. Shaun tends to forget he’s there at all, it’s disconcerting. Jonathan is a relatively new hire, came via a murky deal. He was working for the other guy but recognised where his bread was buttered and started feeding Shaun information that turned out to be valuable, really especially important, albeit a bit grubby and unsavoury. Therefore, Shaun is well aware of two pertinent facts about Jonathan. One, he is useful, and two, he is a mercenary. So not a man you can trust, but a man you can buy; that works for Shaun, as it happens, because Shaun has deep pockets. Even so, he doesn’t like the way Jonathan is always sneaking about, like a shadow. Yet it’s worth remembering that the man is discreet and resourceful; so far Shaun has not found a limit to what he is prepared to do. Sometimes that bothers him; other times he feels the relief and release of that knowledge. It will come in handy one day.
He weighs it up for a moment: is this something he should confide to anyone else? Even discreet and resourceful Jonathan? The words on the text seem to flash in front of his eyes, like a blue light of a police car approaching from behind, spotted in the mirror, and then in front of you, blinding you. Forcing you to pull over. The message is bald, blunt.
I’m pregnant. Can we talk about what we should do next? Can we meet for a coffee? Teo xx
Stupid bitch. Two questions shows weakness. Teo, as though he has a nickname for her. He does not. If he were to call her by her name, it would be Teodora, he supposes, but generally he doesn’t bother with names, sticking instead to casual ubiquitous endearments – he’s less likely to slip up that way. Gorgeous girl, honey, cutie. That kind of thing. Interchangeable, no matter who he’s with. The two kisses, they’re an embarrassment. They leave him exposed. Yes, him, not her. The two kisses have an air of desperation about them, and he hates to admit it, but youth too. He doesn’t want to dwell on that. How young is she anyway? Has she ever said? Twenty-three, maybe more; they dress to look younger, don’t they. Especially actresses, because they never want to reveal their age. She could easily be twenty-five, for all he knows.
‘You remember that girl I met at the theatre party?’
Jonathan nods. ‘The RADA student.’ That’s another thing about Jonathan: he has a good memory, good with detail. Shaun wonders if he takes notes, and the thought makes him uncomfortable. As does being reminded she’s a student; unlikely to be twenty-five then, or anywhere near it.
‘Well, she’s got herself into a bit of trouble.’ And that’s a fair assessment, thinks Shaun, straightening his shoulders, because in the end, her body, her choice and all that must also mean her body, her responsibility, right? So, she’s got herself into this. She should have been more careful. He thought she was on the pill; aren’t all women on the pill? They should be. He was being polite using condoms as often as he did. Obviously he doesn’t like condoms; show him a man who does. They’re messy, ruin the moment, and most importantly, cut down on the fun. No one could blame him for sometimes going without.
He puts the phone on the desk in front of him, nods towards it, indicating that Jonathan can read the text. Jonathan does so, his face remaining inscrutable as he asks, ‘Like me to sort it out, boss?’ Shaun nods, a slight movement. Enthusiasm would be tasteless. ‘I’ll need some cash,’ Jonathan adds.
Again, a barely perceptible movement as Shaun nods towards the safe nestling behind the David Hockney that hangs in his office. He’s not sure what he thinks about Hockney’s bright, colourful landscapes. They are certainly noticeable; they do the job of catching other people’s eye. The more gauche might ask, ‘Is that an original?’ which he likes. He also likes watching those in the know check out the signature, the size, make an educated estimate as to what it might have cost.
Jonathan has the code to the safe. It’s not a risk, him having the code; it is in fact a test. Shaun currently has four thousand six hundred quid in there, petty cash. It’s a thing he does, as he’s letting people into his inner sanctum: gives them the code, gives them the opportunity to show their honesty. He adds to the stash, a grand every week, quickly becomes haphazard with it, or appears to, sometimes deliberately suggests there’s less in the safe than there actually is, to see if his new employee will correct him, or whether he’ll just pocket the excess, believing no one will be any the wiser. People can be shifty around money, and if they are untrustworthy with your money, imagine what they can do to your reputation, your honour, your confidence. Shaun has found it an effective way to weed out those hooked on drugs or drink or in debt, whatever; those too desperate to be dependable.
‘How much do you think you’ll need? A grand?’ he asks.
‘I think this could come in at less than that. Maybe seven hundred. Leave it with me, boss. Don’t give it another thought.’
Shaun grins. Jonathan is proving to be extremely helpful indeed, and also canny with money, a promising combination. All being well, this could be a comfortable long-term arrangement. Publicly Shaun courts men who went to Eton and are now CEOs of the blue chips and the financial companies, or are in ministerial positions. He likes to receive Christmas cards from the Lord Mayor of the City of London, a few bishops and archdeacons, the PM and some of the royal cousins. He attends dinners with the men who govern the country. He didn’t go to Eton, or Harrow, or Westminster. He met these chaps at Oxford. He admires them and despises them all at once. It’s complicated. He is having to buy his way into the old-boy network, and the old boys are aware of this. They admire him and despise him too. He is cleverer than many of them, richer than most of them, but his family isn’t as old as any of theirs. Bullshit, of course; we all have ancestors. There’s just a difference between what those ancestors did.
Shaun resents his ancestors. They must have been sleeping on the job, digging ditches when they ought to have been aspiring to ride in carriages. It’s all been left to him. He’s had to raise his family. He’s doing well. His children are everything to him; they are his legacy. Look what he’s done for them, look at the opportunities he’s afforded them. He’s not so much given them a leg-up as taken a gigantic leap. And it hasn’t been easy. He’s had to graft hard. Damn hard. Every hour of the day for as long as he can remember. Not just the academic work he had to do as a boy to get him to the spires of Oxford, or even in his businesses. There was other work too. All the associated skills that he needed to pave the way; the little lessons he had to be constantly open to: the right way to speak, dress, joke, eat, gamble, marry. It has been a lot of work. Who could blame him for indulging in a spot of recreational sex from time to time? Every man deserves a bit of fun.
So, the idea that this messy girl might hijack all that work, destroy his reputation, is vile, impossible. It cannot happen. His lineage matters. He can’t have this sort of chaos. It’s unthinkable. So yes, publicly he courts one sort of man. Privately he also needs to court a different type. He needs Jonathan.
‘Can I borrow your phone, boss?’
Shaun nods again. Jonathan picks up the phone, pockets it. Truly, little has been said, yet everything is understood. Mentally, Shaun shrugs. Who is to say which group of men governs really?
41
Dora
Now
I have always longed for things. I am ambitious. I want, I crave. It might seem odd; people don’t expect sex workers to have ambition, but I do. I told you before, my ambition is not for something as simple as just money. Money is nice. It offers choices, freedom, but what I crave is deeper than that. More than that. I want a big life. I want to experience, to feel, to grow, to know. That’s why I wanted to be an actor. I thought it would give me the opportunity to be a hundred different people in one lifetime. That’s why I can bear being a sex worker, because in some ways I do get to play many roles. People have always said I’m complicated. Some say this with a sardonic or admiring smile, some with frustration or even dread. My mother was always fearful of the fact. She thought it was a dangerous quality to have. I don’t know if I’m complicated. I’m just me. I wanted a lot: love, fame, power, recognition, revenge, a reckoning. I wanted it all.
Now it seems I’m going to get a lot less than average.
The average life expectancy for a British woman is eighty-three years. But here I am, age thirty-one, some way off the allocation that is doled out – taken for granted, squandered. It tastes bitter, the reality. I thought there was still a lot ahead of me.
My chest is rasping, I can hear my breath. That’s not good. I try not to think of the eggs or the gun. The rope is digging into my arms; if I move – wriggle just the smallest amount – my skin is scratched, sawed.
Wanting more is uncomfortable. I look at contented people and they astound me. I’m not dismissive of them, I’m envious. There must be so much joy to not yearning; I believed that even before I was beaten and held at gunpoint. But a person can only be what a person is. That’s for sure. Thinking back to my childhood, my parents always seemed content. A fine day, a tasty supper, regular work; they were thrilled by these things. I remember when I was six or seven and I first realised I wasn’t like them, or really anyone else I knew at the time.
There was a bike shop I had to walk past to get to school. I never paid much attention to the window display, as I couldn’t even ride a bike at the time. That all changed one day in the run-up to Christmas, when the window was specifically dressed to attract the attention of as many children as possible. There were a number of bikes displayed, all different sizes and colours; most were black or grey, one or two were pink or blue, gender appropriated. My friends and I started to pause at the shop window on our walk home from school; we’d press our noses up to the glass, ignoring our mothers, who urged us to hurry up. Then I spotted it. The canary-yellow bike, not centre of the window, but towards the back. Hidden, almost. Shy. Still, it called to me. It wasn’t the most expensive – I’m not greedy, that’s not the point. I wanted the yellow bike because it was different from all the others. I wanted the extraordinary. All the other kids spoke excitedly of the pink or blue bikes; no one even seemed to notice the yellow one, no one other than me. I longed for that bike, pleaded for it. My father teased me, ‘What use will it be? Will you walk next to it and push it? You can’t ride a bike.’
‘I’ll learn,’ I promised him, which I did, and quickly. I borrowed other people’s bikes until I could ride without stabilisers and my father was convinced; moved by my determination and grazed knees to buy the yellow bike for me. Other kids could not see the attraction. They teased me about the bike, said it was the colour of wee, asked me why I didn’t ride a pink one. I was told I couldn’t join the Pink Ladies Bike Club. This rejection was supposed to spell social death; I remember feeling relieved. I certainly had no desire to be in their stupid club, I didn’t want to be like everyone else. I didn’t understand why they all wanted to wear their hair in the same style, dress in the same clothes, even say the same things as one another. And so it started, my abhorrence of conforming, blending or melding. I experimented with different hair colours and styles, pushed the limits when it came to fashions, said things that seemed to shock.
It was lonely, a little, I admit it. Being odd. I endlessly caught shared eye-slides passed between the other girls, who thought I was confounding; I saw teachers raise their eyebrows as they found me exasperating, and I watched my parents trying to hide the fact that they thought of me as exhausting. But what can I tell you? Different has always been my more.
I guess being murdered by the estranged father of my child is different. I suppose, thinking about my life philosophy, that should be some comfort. Of course, it isn’t.
RADA delivered different and more. My God, in spades. It was everything. Prestigious, a stretch, the opportunity to reinvent myself not once, but many, many times, every time I took on a new role. When I walked into the lofty halls of RADA, or along the crowded, buzzing streets of London, I knew I had finally found it. This, this was what I had always wanted, what I needed. This was what would finally satiate all my uncomfortable cravings. A place where everyone understood the desire to be extraordinary and no one was judged for it. People didn’t notice my outlandish hair or clothes; in fact, I started to develop a more conformist look – I let my natural hair colour grow through, most often I wore leggings and a sweatshirt – because that was the way to stand out at RADA. Appearing normal was eccentric. People talk about it, don’t they? The moment you know you’ve arrived. Well, for me, it was being at that institution and knowing I deserved to be there. That I was good. One of the best. Maybe the best. Oscars were joked about, people whispered excitedly about my promise and potential. My future stretched. My life mattered.
