The young woman– I think her name is Jane, or Jen– drops several envelopes on my desk, just missing my coffee. I wince, glancing at her. She’s standing there, biting her lip.
“Is there something else?”
“Um, it’s just, I’m sorry. I think you’re supposed to be in a meeting now.”
“I’m supposed to be?” I check my diary. Nothing is blocked out. In fact, my week looks strangely clear.
“Yes, with the, um, the…” She twirls her finger, looking up as though whatever she’s forgotten is on the ceiling. “The clothing people!” she says, triumphantly.
“It’s not in my diary.”
“No. That’s what I’m sorry about. I forgot to put it in. They just rang to see where you were.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I get up, grabbing my notebook and laptop. “Where is it?”
“They’re in meeting room four,” she says. “Sorry, three!” she calls, as I head out the door.
She’s the fourth temp in as many weeks, each of them as useless as the other. I miss Zara with every fibre of my being. I don’t want her back working for me, certainly not as my assistant, but I cannot live my life like this either. Eloise, bless her, contacted me just after the Morocco trip, offering to return early from maternity leave. I’d asked her about Zara, but all she could tell me was that she was all right. I’d pressed her, and eventually she’d admitted that Zara had asked her not to say anything about her, or what she was doing. “She’ll kill me for saying this, and you mustn’t tell her I did,” she ended with, her high voice sounding worried. “But I think she still cares about you.”
It’s the only thing that keeps me going.
I head into the meeting room, apologising for being late. I take my seat at the end of the long table and switch to business mode. If I keep my head on my work, I don’t have as much space to think about Zara.
It helps, a little.
ChapterThirty-Seven
Myles
When I return from my meeting, Jane/Jen is doing her nails at her desk. I think of saying something but decide to let it go. She’s only here for another week, if she lasts that long, and then Eloise will be back and things will start to run smoothly once more.
I head into my office and sit down, pulling the pile of post towards me. There are a few small envelopes, and one large white one. I leave that till last; it’s probably photos from Katya. Even though I keep returning everything she sends me, she keeps trying.
I go through the letters, putting them into piles to deal with in order of importance. Usually my assistant would do this for me, but at the moment it’s easier and less time-consuming for me to do it myself.
Finally, I pick up the white envelope. I think of putting it in the bin without opening it, but then I frown. It’s addressed to me, but typed on a plain white label. Katya likes to handwrite her correspondence, stamping everything with a large ornate ‘K’. I have no idea why.
I slit the edge of the envelope with my letter-opener, and turn it upside down. A photograph falls out, landing face up on the desk. My mouth goes dry. For a moment I can’t move, feeling as though I’ve been hit in the chest with a hammer.
The photograph shows a gleaming beach, the sun almost set. And, seated on a bench to the right of frame are a couple in the throes of passion. It’s me and Zara. My hand is up her skirt, my mouth on her throat. Her head is back, one beautiful breast partially exposed. It’s obvious what we’re doing.
And it all rushes back to me. How she’d felt in my arms, the sweet scent of her, the heat and wetness between her legs, her soft breasts. How it felt making love to her in the bath and holding her afterwards as she slept. It’s almost a month since Morocco, yet the pain of losing her is as strong as ever. I don’t know if it will ever change.
I open the envelope and look inside. There’s a single sheet of white paper, the message typed.
There’s more where this came from, and video too. How much are you willing to pay?
There’s a phone number underneath. I won’t bother getting it traced; it’s most likely a burner phone. Instead I call Martin.
I explain the situation and wait for Martin to tell me I screwed up again. But he surprises me. “What’s going on with this girl?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve never really cared about this shit before, no matter what I tell you. The pictures in the papers, for instance. Yeah, it could have been a fuck-up, but it wasn’t. Yet you’ve worked hard to shut it down. And now this.”
I pause. I don’t know if Martin needs to know this. But at the same time, I feel like I need to talk to someone. “I love her.” There’s a small sense of release as I say the words, a tiny easing of the pressure inside me. “She’s the one. And I cannot keep messing up her life like this. That’s why I killed the story. Why I’ll do anything to keep her safe.”
“So, what are we dealing with?” Martin’s voice is friendlier than I’ve ever heard it being. “More of the same?”
