She looked around the flat and smiled to herself. Silk drapes and tall windows looked out on to an iconic view: Tower Bridge and the slick black ribbon of the Thames glistening in the night. Sometimes she wanted to hug herself with excitement; just being here, in her own luxury flat, surrounded by all her nice things. Who’d have thought that someone like her would live in such a smart flat in the centre of one of the most exciting cities in the world?
Walking over to the kitchen, she poured herself another large glass of wine from the open bottle. Would he still come tonight? The thought of their last conversation jumped into her head, but she shook it away. No, of course he would still come, he always did. She admired herself in the mirror: the long legs, the high breasts. Even in leggings and a T-shirt she looked fantastic. No, he’d come. She knew he’d come.
She sank back into the sofa then flicked through her favourite celebrity magazine. In her more honest, introspective moments she knew it was her obsession with magazines like this that had led her to choose this career path. Not that she could imagine Miss Davies, her careers adviser at school, calling what she did a career. But what was wrong with wanting to be rich and famous? She’d bet Miss Davies didn’t have a flat like this one.
Tossing the magazine to one side, she knew she should get ready in case he did drop by. A bottle of nail polish was on the coffee table and she held it up to the light. Scarlet. He always said he loved it when she painted her toenails red. Slutty, that was what he meant. Well, she was happy to oblige in that department, especially when they’d be making up tonight.
One toenail had been painted when the doorbell rang. Flustered, she put down the polish and went to the door. She peered through the spyhole, expecting to see flowers or some small, tastefully wrapped box clutched in his hand. Instead she saw an unfamiliar man in a suit, his face stretched and bulbous in the fish-eye lens.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Jack. Jack Devon. I’m a friend of Peter’s.’
She frowned. Who was he? Had Peter sent him? Attaching the chain, she opened the door and looked through the gap. The man was about forty. Smartly but conservatively dressed, like an accountant. Pale watery eyes blinked behind small rimless glasses.
‘What do you want?’ She hadn’t meant to sound rude, but it was past nine o’clock and she wasn’t used to strange men turning up at her door, no matter what other people might say about her.
‘It’s about Peter.’ He glanced behind him. ‘Do you think we could talk inside?’
She felt a jolt of panic. Was he hurt? Was something wrong?
‘Is he okay?’ she asked.
‘Under the circumstances,’ replied the man.
‘What circumstances?’
‘I think it’s best if we discuss this inside.’
She wavered for a moment, then slid back the chain and opened the door. He walked into the apartment, looking nervous, uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry to have to visit you so late,’ he began. ‘I don’t enjoy this any more than you do.’
‘Who are you?’ she asked, fold
ing her arms across her chest. ‘What do you want?’
The man shrugged as they moved into the open-plan living space. ‘It’s not what I want. It’s what Peter wants.’
She didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. ‘And what’s that exactly?’
He pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘He wants you to start acting reasonably.’
Her heart was beginning to hammer in panic, but she was determined not to show it. ‘So who are you? His lawyer?’
‘No, not exactly,’ he said. ‘But that might be next. Blackmail is a criminal offence, after all.’
‘Blackmail?’ She almost laughed. ‘Is that what this is about?’
Okay, so she had applied a bit of pressure, told him she wasn’t prepared to wait any longer, maybe said a few things she shouldn’t have. But that was hardly blackmail, was it?
‘Does Peter know you’re here?’
‘Of course. He simply wants a solution that works for both sides. We really don’t want to have to involve the police.’
She snorted nervously. ‘You and I both know that Peter is not going to go to the police.’
The man blinked at her, then nodded. ‘Indeed. Which is why I’m here.’
He moved over to the table and opened his leather briefcase. He pulled out a chequebook and held it up. ‘How much?’ he asked.
She glanced at the chequebook, then looked out of the window. ‘I don’t want his money,’ she said.
The man allowed himself a small smile. ‘Really. And who paid for all this?’ He glanced pointedly around the apartment.
‘I don’t want money,’ she snapped, trying her best to sound indignant. ‘What I want is Peter.’
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not an option any more,’ he said flatly.
‘We’ll see about that.’ She strode to the coffee table and snatched up her mobile. ‘I’m phoning him.’
He shook his head, that half-smile again. The bastard was enjoying this.
‘I don’t think so.’ He peered at his watch. ‘It’s two a.m. in Uzbekistan.’
‘Uzbekistan? He’s supposed to be here.’
‘Just us here,’ said Devon, gesturing with the chequebook again. This time her eyes followed the book, unable to look away.
‘So give me a figure,’ he said, sitting at the table.
She grabbed her glass of wine and took a fortifying sip. ‘I’ve told you, this isn’t about money. This is about Peter and me.’
‘How much is it going to take?’ he asked, taking a fountain pen from his inside pocket.
‘How much would you suggest, Mr Devon? How much would you say a relationship is worth?’
‘In this case, nothing, because your relationship is over.’
His words were simple and stinging, their impact cruel because she knew they were true. Perhaps she had pushed Peter too far, overplayed her hand. And now he had sent a lackey to mop up his mess. A thickness filled her throat and her vision blurred in a cloud of tears.