Perfect Strangers

She glanced at her watch; it was only four thirty, plenty of time to stop off at the supermarket. She’d buy some steak, good wine and something sweet and sinful, have it all ready for when David got back at eight. That’d give her a couple of hours to work on the Riverton story, then they could kiss and make out. She found herself smiling as she rode the Jubilee Line to Docklands. She was in that weird pause when the tubes were eerily quiet before the post-work exodus, so she easily got a seat. She stared out at the blackness of the tunnel, the gentle sway of the train almost hypnotic. However much she tried to think of other things, her mind kept jumping back to Nick Beddingfield; her hazy picture of him was finally starting to feel more distinct, more solid. Far from being a wealthy businessman, he was possibly – no, probably – a fraudster and, as a criminal, even a white-collar criminal operating in the upper echelons of society, he was likely to have countless unsavoury people with a beef against him. That was good news for Sophie Ellis, of course, as it was looking less and less likely that she was his killer. But if not Sophie, who? Ruth thought back to her conversation with Jeanne Parsons and the comment Nick had made to her; something along the lines of, ‘If anyone sees me in London with a beautiful woman, don’t worry, it’s only business.’

Was the woman he was referring to Sophie Ellis? She certainly fitted the description. But would he think of her as ‘business’? Had Nick been trying to con Sophie? Maybe get her to invest in a bogus Texan oil well? Ruth wondered if Inspector Fox had any of this information; probably. Barbara Beddingfield had told her that Nick had been charged four years ago; that would have been on his record. It was irritating how closely Fox played his cards to his chest. For a moment Ruth considered calling Dan Davis – he was always more than happy to leak information on the vague promise of a reward – but then she rejected the idea. She had enough complications with men at the moment.

She got off the tube and headed for the Marks and Spencer at Canary Wharf plaza for her made-up feast, then popped into Hotel Chocolat for a cute little box of expensive truffles, although she couldn’t resist breaking into them on the short walk to David’s apartment. He wouldn’t notice a couple were missing, she thought.

She frowned as she opened the door of the flat. She could immediately smell the distinctive aroma of her Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir candle – she’d bought it for herself as a moving-in gift only last week. Strange: it wasn’t like David to even notice a scented candle, let alone light one. Then she heard the sound. A splash, dripping water, coming from the bathroom. Involuntarily, Ruth’s mind leapt back to that Riverton Hotel room, to Nick Beddingfield’s lifeless toes pointing at the ceiling. But that was stupid: what was she thinking? That there was some crazed bathroom killer on the loose who had now murdered her lover? Much more likely David had come home early and was washing off the grime of the city. She smiled to herself: she could surprise him, maybe wash his back, that’d be a good way to make up. She tiptoed towards the bathroom and, with one finger, pushed open the door.

The floor was covered with clothes: David’s boxer shorts, David’s blue shirt, but also a tiny lace bra and a barely-worth-it thong, all tangled on top of each other. Bile rose in her throat, but she couldn’t help looking. In the low candlelight there was David, swathed in bubbles, and in front of him – of course, of course – was the blonde PR Ruth had seen him with in the bar the other night. The girl’s head was resting tenderly on David’s chest, her breasts peeking out just above the water as David played lazily with her nipples. For a moment the scene was frozen, suspended in time. Then Ruth dropped the bag of shopping with a clatter.

‘Fuck, Ruth!’

David sat bolt upright, spilling sudsy water all over the floor. The blonde, whose name Ruth couldn’t even remember, leapt out of the water, grabbed a towel and pushed past her without making eye contact.

Ruth bent down, grabbed the pile of clothes from the floor and threw them after her.

‘Here. You’ll be needing these,’ she said.

David was standing now, his flaccid cock covered with bubbles. Pathetic, ridiculous.

‘I’m so sorry, Ruth,’ he stuttered. ‘I never meant for you to see this.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ she spat. ‘That’s why you brought that slut back here at five o’clock when you thought I would be at work.’

David’s expression changed.

‘Susie’s not a slut,’ he said.

Ruth almost laughed. Her boyfriend was standing there, bubbles sliding down his legs, trying to defend another woman. How gallant.

‘Oh no? So what is she then?’ said Ruth, whipping a towel at David, suddenly disgusted by his nakedness.

‘She’s . . . I like her,’ he said simply.

His words felt like being slapped. She would have preferred it if David had gone for the standard ‘it’s all been a terrible mistake, she meant nothing’ defence. But it hadn’t been a mistake, had it? The only mistake had been letting Ruth find out about it.

‘Well if you liked her so much, perhaps you should have thought about that before you asked me to move in with you,’ she said.

A look of shame and discomfort crossed David’s face.

‘I don’t know why I did that,’ he said.

‘No, neither do I, David,’ said Ruth.

She heard a bang – the front door closing. At least the girl was gone. For now, anyway. With sudden clarity, Ruth knew she would be back. David would be forced to make a choice, and Ruth knew deep down he would go for the younger, perkier blonde who flattered him and made him feel important. Well, she wasn’t going to hang around for him to inflict that final wound. She walked through into the bedroom and grabbed a bag, shoving clothes inside.

‘Please, Ruth,’ said David, following her in. ‘Don’t go off like this, we need to talk.’

‘What is there to talk about?’ she shouted. ‘You’ve fucked some airhead bimbo and now I’m leaving. That all seems pretty straightforward to me.’

She yanked open a drawer and grabbed a handful of her underwear – comfortable, everyday underwear, she thought, not like Susie’s lacy wisps.

‘No, actually,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘Actually I would like to ask something. How long has this been going on?’ Ever the journalist, suddenly Ruth wanted to know every fact, every detail.

David shrugged, the towel clasped in one hand at his waist.

‘Just a handful of times,’ he said.

Then it hit her. That night, the night they’d come back here and had amazing sex, the night he’d asked her to move in – he’d been seeing Susie then. In fact, was that why they had had sex in the first place? Because he had been canoodling with his new girlfriend in the bar, got all horny and didn’t know what to do with it? Ruth felt filthy and violated.