Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (6 page)

“Nothing wrong in that,” Gavin cut in, bullish.

“Nothing at all,” I agreed, “but sometimes activity becomes an excuse for not spending time with friends and loved ones. Then we feel lonely, isolated in our technologically advanced little bubbles, our own private worlds. We lose the art of communication and with it our sense of being so we seek out TV talk shows with their
cod-psychology
, baying audiences, and hounded victims. We regard soap operas as a means to connect with others vicariously. More dangerous than this, because of our failure to genuinely communicate, we blunt our instinctive nose for danger. We don't spot it when it's staring us in the face.” I swallowed, the truth of what I'd said hitting home like a stray bullet. “When we're really having problems and life chucks its worst at us, we need someone
real
to talk to, someone we can sit in a room with, whose face will express a reaction to what we say, someone who will listen, but won't judge. And that's where people like me come in. It's my job to inhabit the silences, join up the dots, fill in the spaces, make sense out of what seems very real chaos in my clients' lives. I might be an overpaid listener in your book, but to some very damaged people I'm a lifeline.”

“Hear, hear!” Charlie stood up and raised his glass. “I'll drink to that.”

Claire flashed me a look of triumph. Chris caught my eye and winked. Lottie gawped, rapt at the feet of Mother Kim. Me? I was
rosy-cheeked
with stress. Perspiration gathered in my armpits. Had I been too intense?

“Perhaps you missed your calling,” Gavin conceded with a reluctant smile. “You'd make a worthy adversary in court.”

“Coffee?” Claire beamed.

I pushed back my chair. “I'll give you a hand.” As I got to my feet, my knees clanked together.

“Jesus,” Claire fretted, kicking the door shut behind us, and leaning hard against it. “All I can do is apologise.”

“Don't be soft,” I said, my accompanying laugh tinny. “Was I bit, you know, over the top?”

“Not at all, he really seemed to have it in for you.”

A sharp peculiar tang of misgiving assailed me. “Do you think so? He just likes the sound of his own voice.”

“I thought Chris was going to hit him.”

“Thank God he didn't. Our lawyer friend would have had him in court quicker than you can say Gav.”

“That depends on whether the witnesses were prepared to give evidence,” Claire said with a cutting smile. “I, for one, would have denied all knowledge.”

I smiled, tried to lighten my mood. It really was only a lively exchange of views, I told myself. A bit of sparring. Nothing to it.

“Where did you find them—under a rock on the beach?”

Claire groaned. “Charlie's idea. They met at the amateur dramatic society.”

“I didn't know Charlie was still into all that.”

“Frankly, it's a pain. There's enough to be done on the farm without him disappearing for rehearsals, but you know Charlie.”

I did. Charlie the unstoppable.

“I wouldn't have had Chadwick down as a wannabe actor.”

“Oh no,” Claire said. “He's helping with set design.”

I couldn't help but give a wicked grin. “You mean carrying props?”

“Probably,” Claire giggled.

“Lottie seems all right, bless her.”

“I feel sorry for the woman. Fancy being married to that tosser?”

“How long have they lived here?”

“Four months, or so. They live out at Harbertonford. He commutes, though I gather he's got time off at the moment.”

“Lucky sod.” It shot out a little too quickly.

“Problems at work?”

“No more difficult than usual,” I bluffed. Claire eyed me in a way that suggested I wasn't entirely believed. “How on earth did you make that
fabulous-looking
pudding?” I said, changing the subject.

“Impressive, wasn't it?”

“A masterpiece.”

Claire's eyes sparkled. She looked exceptionally pleased.

“Don't tell me. You bought it.”

Claire nodded, a distinctly naughty expression on her face. “I invested half the weekly housekeeping in a cookery delivery service called Posh Nosh.”

“Brilliant. Does Charlie know?”

Claire's eyes rolled in amusement. “What do you think?”

I let out a laugh. “Is this payback for his rehearsals?”

“Nothing malicious about it.”

The word
malicious
made the smile freeze on my face.

“Hey, things all right?” Claire touched my arm, the fun of the last few moments smashed in bits, sprawled across the floor.

“Sure,” I tensed, forcing a reply. “Good. Everything's good.”

eleven

Sunday passed in a
boozy blur. We got up late and ate bacon sandwiches.

“Fancy a ride out?” Chris said.

This was code for a spin on the motorbike, a Triumph Tiger Explorer. It had taken Chris a couple of years to persuade me to ride pillion. After what had happened to my brother Guy, I hadn't been keen, but eventually he'd won me round. The first time I'd stepped on board I'd found it exhilarating and quickly became a convert. Taking instruction from Chris, I'd even ridden it illegally myself when we'd ventured out to Dartmoor on the more lonely roads, where motorists were rare and I couldn't get into trouble.

It was too hot to bother with leathers so we grabbed our helmets and set off, Chris's muscular body upfront, me in the perfect sightseeing position with a warm wind against my face. Journeying into Kingsbridge, we looped round to Modbury, finally finishing back at the creek where we took off our boots and ambled barefoot, skimming pebbles, a bright sun perforating an ocean of blue sky.

A bleep from Chris's phone signalled a text message. He checked the caller and returned the phone to his pocket.

“Aren't you going to read it?” I said.

“I did.”

“Who was it?”

“Someone trying to sell me loft insulation.”

We walked some more. Sixth sense told me that Chris was gearing up to something. I was right.

“Why did you mention stalking?”

“What?”

“When you argued with that
jumped-up
creep last night, you mentioned stalking.”

The sudden note of accusation attacked me like a random blow from behind. “Did I?”

“Who the hell did he think he was, going after you like that?”

“He wasn't that bad.” I wanted to blot out the episode. No offence meant and none taken.

“Yes, he bloody was. What got me, the fact he's the outsider. We've all known each other for ages—you and Claire go back almost thirty years.”

“Makes me sound ancient.”

“Then Mr. Prick, the lawyer, turns up and starts mixing it.”

“Probably in his genes.” I really wanted to play it down, forget about it. It was Sunday, for God's sake. One more day before I had to drive back.

“You mean there's a genetic code for arrogant prat?”

I glanced across, caught his eye, and felt a nervous ripple of mirth bubble up from inside.

“What?” His face cracked into a smile.

“You.” I shook with laughter. “I love you when you're mad.”

“Mad angry, or mad deranged?” He melted into a broad grin and pulled me towards him.

“Angry, you fool.”

Afterwards things got strained. The phone rang. Chris tore into the sitting room and snatched it up. I barely paid attention to his response at first, too busy preparing vegetables in the kitchen. With my forthcoming birthday, it was also possible that Chris was planning a surprise, but something caught my ear—the tone, or slight catch in Chris's voice. Against my better nature, I found myself eavesdropping.

“It's rather awkward to talk.” Chris's voice sounded unnaturally quiet. “I appreciate how you feel about it … yes, of course … I realise that … yes, but I don't want her hurt. It's not worth it, you understand. Look, I have to go … What? The usual routine, I guess … Yes, now I really have to go. It's not a good time. See you on Monday. Cheers.”

Chris walked back into the kitchen. I issued a breezy smile. “Andy,” he said.

“What did he want?”

“Checking up on dates for
parent-teacher
evenings. He seems to have lost his sheet.”

“Funny, I thought he'd have it all recorded on his laptop.”

“You know Andy.”

I thought Chris's accompanying smile was lame. I didn't buy it.

Later, while Chris sat at the kitchen table marking essays, I opened a crisp white sauvignon and drank while I cooked. The cottage was as quiet as air. I welcomed it.

On impulse, pushing a saucepan away from the gas, I went over to Chris and slid my arms around his neck. He carried on marking, his handwriting reminding me of my father's, stylish but impossible to read. My mouth nibbled the top of his ear.

“I have to get these done,” he said pointedly.

“Not now.” I laughed, tousling his hair.

“Don't.” He pulled away. Something deep inside froze. A memory of rejection, long buried, threatened to push through into the present. I smothered it. He touched my arm. “Sorry, Kim, the heat is making me crabby.”

I drew up a chair and forced a sympathetic smile to prove that I wasn't really hurt or alarmed. “Are you okay?” It sounded ridiculous—
of course
he wasn't. Neither was I, if I were honest.

He rubbed his eyes and fixed on the papers in front of him.

A rush of irritation coursed through me. Whoever was playing with my life was having a destructive impact on both of us. “What if I tried to get a job closer to home?”

Chris started. “Doing what?” We both knew that Bristol, almost a hundred and twenty miles away, was about the nearest I could get for my particular line of work. He put his pen down. “Is this because of what's happened, or because that's what you really want?”

My stomach creased with disappointment. I'd wanted him to be ecstatic. I longed for him to be too delighted to challenge it. Shit, I thought, is this my way of asking him to commit, the thing that most women seemed to need from the man in their lives? I backtracked quicker than a politician exposed in a fierce debate. “It was only an idea. I haven't thought it through. Silly of me.”

He leant over and crooked a knuckle under my chin. His eyes were level with mine. Blood and heat surged through my temple. The rest of me was cold.

“I don't want you to rush into changing everything for the wrong reason,” he said.

“I understand.”

He nodded. His eyes seemed more grey than blue.

“I expect he'll eventually lose interest and go away.” I didn't believe a word of what I said. Whoever it was had latched on. I was rapidly becoming the centre of his universe. Even if he stepped things up and I involved the police and they had a word with him, it wouldn't alter his behaviour.

The knuckle tightened. A tense expression entered Chris's face, but it was gone so quickly I thought I'd imagined it.

“Think about any decision carefully, yeah?”

I inclined towards him, my heart dancing in my chest, and lightly kissed his mouth. “I will.”

twelve

And I did. All
the way in the car early the next morning, I thought of nothing else. I told myself that Chris was protective of me. He didn't want me to make any decisions based on a knee-jerk reaction. I'd grown up under the guardianship of men, so this type of response was normal to me. In a more sober frame of mind, I was also taken aback by my off-the-wall suggestion. It wasn't like me to be impulsive.

I arrived back in Cheltenham shortly before eight in the morning. Home there was a
second-floor
apartment in Lansdown, a short hop from Montpellier. Built in a Regency style, including large, airy rooms and an ornate
wrought-iron
balcony, it was indistinguishable from originals that populated the town. I loved it for its grandeur and style even if parking was a nightmare. Instead of leaving the car at the Lodge as usual, I parked it on a meter nearby so that I could drive the short
eight-mile
journey to Gloucester for the
phone-in
later.

As I went inside the
stucco-columned
entrance, I bowled into Lizzie, my downstairs neighbour, on her way out to work.

“Hiya! Any luck with the sale?”

Lizzie smiled and tossed her
butter-coloured
hair over her shoulder. She had small feline features and a worryingly slight build. “We had a couple round at the weekend but I'm not sure if they were that interested. The fact that it's a ground floor flat put them off. People worry about security. We've got more viewers lined up this week, so fingers crossed.”

“As long as they're nice quiet types,” I teased.

Lizzie shot a smile. “We'll do our best to vet them.”

I dashed upstairs, bubbly inside. I convinced myself that it was due to natural apprehension about the radio show. Deep inside, I knew that nerves underpinned my fear of entering the flat. Had there been any silent phone calls, any messages, any notes shoved under the door? Listening hard for the telltale beep of the answering machine, I let myself in; relief seeped out of me on seeing everything the way I'd last left it. To be really sure, I reclaimed my territory: through the narrow hall with its large
gilt-framed
mirror, into the sitting room and dining area with
golden-coloured
walls, silk drapes at the windows, elegant cream leather sofa.

Sitting down, I glanced up at the limited edition print cresting the feature marble fireplace. Entitled
Beautiful Losers,
the work portrayed a tense drama played out between two men and a woman. Heavily atmospheric and sinister, it was a fine example of Jack Vettriano's style. I often sat and mused upon the relationship between the man standing and the man who sat with a weary expression smoking a cigarette. And what was the exact nature of the relationship between the woman and the two men?
Had they been lovers? What was going through their minds? And what type of man had left a dead animal pinned to my windscreen? What kind of person was vying in the most bizarre fashion for my attention?

I ran a bath and chose what to wear. I often dressed casually for work and wore jeans. Pure psychology. With a young clientele, I didn't want to “get down with the kids,” yet neither did I wish to come across as too far removed from them. But today I could dress in full authoritative mode even though unseen by the listening public. I decided on a
peacock-blue
sleeveless dress and high heels.

On the point of sinking into a foamy layer of bubbles, the phone rang. My watch told me that it was before nine. Probably Chris checking that I'd arrived back safely. Stepping out, I grabbed my robe and padded through to the sitting room, leaving a trail of damp, soapy footprints. The answering machine kicked in as I reached out for the receiver, hand hovering, unsure whether to pick up. “Come on, Chris,” I muttered. Oh damn it, I thought, snatching up the phone.

There was no familiar voice, nothing other than the faint noise of someone breathing. Instantly, my pulse rate stammered as though I'd popped amphetamines. My legs trembled and I felt mildly sick. In spite of an instinct to slam down the phone, I gathered up every bit of courage and forced my mouth open. The voice that emerged didn't sound like mine.

“Look, whoever you are, this isn't going anywhere. I don't know why you're doing it, but it's not welcomed. Go and talk to your GP or, if you're embarrassed, you can phone a mental health line and a member of staff will find someone in your area to counsel you. Please don't contact me again. Ever.”

I hung up and wondered whether I'd done the right thing. I should have ignored it. I shouldn't have engaged. If only I hadn't been so rash. And then the cold thought entered my mind that the caller had waited for my return, seen my arrival, knew that I was there. Christ, I thought.
H
e's watching me
. Livid, I crossed the room, briefly scanned the street, wrenched the curtains closed, then returned to the bathroom and locked the door after me.

As I sank beneath the surface of the water, a question plagued me. Could it be Phil, my
ex-husband
?

I hadn't given him a thought in years, but this was exactly the brand of obsessive behaviour he'd indulged in. He'd almost broken me with it. But that relationship was years ago, when I was young and gauche and inexperienced. It couldn't have any bearing on the present, could it? Why would he crawl out of the pit to intimidate me now, after all this time? More likely, he was exercising his jealous streak on another poor woman. Still, I was forced to consider as I reached for the soap, was it possible? And if so, what could I do about it? The last I'd heard he was in Canada.

Twenty minutes later, my scars itching, I carefully applied camouflage cream, eternally grateful that the titanium dioxide, acting as a
high-density
primer, managed to mask most of the discolouration. Lightly dusting my skin with finishing powder to make it waterproof, I applied
make-up
to the rest of my face, leaving my lipstick until after I'd eaten breakfast—not that I felt much like eating—then clipped on a pair of gold earrings. Halfway through a miserable slice of toast, the phone rang again. Leave it, I thought, taking an insistent bite. It kept ringing. Ignore it. Still it rang.
Mustn't
touch it. The messaging machine kicked in and the caller rang off.

The toast hovered in midair. Rooted, I regarded the phone as if it were primed to detonate. Can't breathe in. Can't breathe out. Willed the thing to stay silent, to shut up, to fuck off. He knows I'm sitting here like this. He knows that I'm waiting. The phone started up again, this time it blared, deafened, screamed. So insistent. So intrusive. Oh God, anything to shut off the bloody noise …

“Piss off!”

The smooth reply sounded faintly amused. “I'd no idea you swore with such vigour, Kim.”

“Jim,” I spluttered. “I'm terribly sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“They must have upset you a great deal to elicit such a florid response so early in the morning.”

“It's a private matter,” I said, silently cursing. Jim was smart. He'd piece it together with the “litter” incident. “Nothing I can't handle.”

“Glad to hear it,” came the disbelieving response.

My stomach squirmed. My professional persona had slipped and I hated looking out of control, especially in front of Jim Copplestone. How had things spiralled so quickly? Why hadn't I simply let the answering service collect the call?

“About this morning,” he said. “All set?”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Good, thought I'd give you a ring to wish you luck.”

“Thanks.” As I signed off I wondered if Jim Copplestone was featuring too heavily in my life.