Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (8 page)

Drawing the curtains, I plumped down on the bed, kicked off my shoes, and went into the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the cool tiled floor. I filled a glass of water and took a deep drink. Perhaps I'd call Chris. I'd tried to phone him before going out that evening, but he hadn't picked up and I'd left a brief message to the effect that I was all right, my only reference to the radio
phone-in
that it was
interesting
.

A glance at my watch revealed that it was well past midnight. However much I wanted to hear his voice, it was probably not a good idea. Once, I wouldn't have hesitated. Once, we would have been on the phone for hours. Only a day apart and we'd be telling each other how much we missed being together. Once, Chris would have signed off with “I love you.” I hugged the memory tight, felt it wriggle in my grasp and steal away.

Drained, I walked over to the sitting room window and kinked back the curtain. Daylight always gave a clear view of the road where it funnelled into Montpellier with its stylish shops, bars, and beauty salons. At night, the buildings lost definition, the roar of traffic dropping to a low burble, the road melting into the blackness except for scattered illumination from street or house. Without warning, I caught a faint outline, a sudden movement. I craned forward, strained my eyes. Nothing.

Apart from the reddish glow of a cigarette
.

I stood perfectly still, mesmerised. I squinted, trying to make out a face, but it was swathed in a spooky haloed glow from the streetlight. Was it him? Could he see that I was watching him watching me? Something buckled inside. Was this the ultimate connection?

Silence roiled around me. Shaken, I retreated behind the drapes, rested my head against the wall, and closed my eyes. My heart clattered in my chest. My skin crawled with goosebumps. Make notes, Simon said. Log times and locations. Think, I ordered myself. Use your mind.
He
wants you to see him because it's critical to the game.

I clenched both fists, willing myself to confront the fear writhing inside me. Whatever happened now, I would not walk away. I would not let it go. I would not be beaten.

I snatched back the curtain. The light from outside splashed across my face and arms. Whoever it was had vanished.

sixteen

Kirsten Matherson was plucked
from obscurity at the age of twelve to begin a fledgling career in modelling. So far so inoffensive, I thought, reviewing the girl's notes. Then came the hitch: the agency in question didn't like the naturally occurring changes in the girl's body shape as she reached puberty. By the time she was fifteen, Kirsten had resorted to a combination of starvation and amphetamines to fulfil the skeletal proportions required by her employer. Three years later, her physiology screwed up, anorexia nervosa had ravaged her. Thin, wispy, close-cropped blond hair clung to her skull for dear life. Luminous dark eyes dominated her face. Transparent skin stretched over bones as tight as a drum. In spite of the heat, she wore a loose-fitting sweater that swallowed her up, and when she hitched up the sleeve to scratch her arm, a fine covering of downy hair lay like animal pelt, the body's response to low body mass. She sat perched on the edge of the seat, hands resting in her shallow lap.

“So how are you feeling today?” I asked.

“All right.”

“Cathy says you're doing well, eating more, and I gather Jim's cut down your drug treatment.”

“Yeah.”

I scanned the notes. “You've put on a couple of pounds. Does that bother you?”

“No.”

“Not frightened?”

“Not especially.”

“That's good. What about the exercise regime?”

“Nothing more than a walk in the grounds.”

I smiled approval. “And the lists?”

Kirsten had arrived with a thick wad of notebooks in which every item of food and drink consumed during the previous three years was noted. At the suggestion that they might be taken away, she'd screamed and yelled for almost an hour.

“I've cut down.”

“Terrific.” I beamed, genuinely pleased. “Last time we talked about what you wanted to do when you leave here. We discussed the possibility of you going on to further education, remember?”

The girl shifted her weight, listless, her focus on a far away point beyond the room or even the building. I attempted to coax her.

“You said you were interested in textiles, fashion design.”

“I wouldn't be good enough.”

“Why not?”

“Haven't got the right qualifications.”

“Then get them.”

“I
said
I'm not clever enough.” There was sudden rage in her voice. Perfectionism was a hallmark of the condition so I wasn't surprised, but I was taken aback by what she said next.

“I'm not a good person.” Her mouth pinched into a thin, brittle line.

“Who says?”

“I
know
.”

“Is this about not wanting to take risks, about a fear of failing?”

She eyed me with sullen dislike.

“Kirsten, who are you letting down exactly?”

The door suddenly flew open. “Sorry to interrupt,” Jim burst in, unusually brisk, “but I need you to come with me.”

“Why?” I suppressed a streak of irritation.

“There's something you need to see.”

“Can't whatever it is wait?”

“Frankly, no.”

I stifled a huge sigh. “Excuse me a moment, Kirsten.”

Spotting an opportunity to escape, the girl got to her feet and began to shamble out of the room. Jim raised the flat of his hand. “Sorry, can you stay here please?”

“Fuck's sake.”

“Don't you
fuck's sake
me,” Jim snarled.

I stared. Whatever the provocation, Jim never swore at clients. Kirsten plumped back down.

“What's this all about?” I hissed, following at speed. He didn't reply, simply stalked in the direction of the common room. At his approach a gaggle of girls scattered. Clocking me, they burst into laughter, hands smothering their mouths. I knew instantly that I was the figure of fun. My face flamed with historic hurts.

“That's enough,” Cathy said, crossing the hall out of nowhere and shooing them into the garden. I tried to catch her eye, but Cathy refused to meet my gaze.

Jim entered the common room, shut the door behind us, and pointed in the direction of the computer screen. I approached and, winded, stopped. It was hard not to fasten on the image of a semi-
naked woman wearing a black suspender belt and stockings, back arched, nipples erect, one hand cupping a breast, legs apart revealing a wide open vagina.

“Christ!”

“Pretty graphic, isn't it?”

“I don't understand,” I spluttered in confusion. “How? Who?”

“Emailed from an anonymous source.”

“What?”

“Apparently, it's perfectly possible.”

“But, but,” I protested, half winded. “It's not me.”

“It looks like you. I mean …”

“It's my face,” I snapped. “Some crank has done this.” Before Jim could protest, I launched forward, hit delete, emptied the trash, and yanked the plug and cable out of the back of the computer.

“That wasn't very smart,” he muttered.

“But very fucking satisfying.” I sat down with a thud.

Jim grabbed the back of another chair, scraping its legs across the floor and, twisting the seat around in front of me, sat astride as though riding a horse. “A manipulated computerised image?”

“Of course it's a manipulated image.”

“It's okay, Kim,” Jim said softly. “What you do in your downtime isn't an issue here.”

I gaped at him as though he were suddenly speaking in tongues. “I didn't do it. It's not me.” Hot tears of shame and anger sprang down my cheeks. Jim gallantly pulled out a clean handkerchief. I took it, blew my nose vigorously, and let out a wail. “Oh God, how many girls saw it?”

“That doesn't matter now.”

“
Doesn't matter
?” More unsettling, I wanted to waste the person responsible. Unfamiliar with such extremes of emotion in myself, I felt as if my mind had split in two. Had I reverted to type under pressure? Had I been so conditioned by the masculine concept of venting rage, striking first and talking later? I shook my head. My current response had no connection to my past. Mine was simply a classic reaction: shock, fear, followed by anger. It's how we all behaved, I assured myself, feeling shaky.

“I have a
first-class
honours degree in damage limitation,” he said, clearly trying to calm me down. I didn't want to be calm. I wanted to shout, scream and yell. I wanted it to stop. “Sometimes stuff happens, Kim.”

“Not to me,” I said through clenched teeth. On the emotional spectrum, I was probably hitting around nine out of ten.

“Clearly, there are sexual overtones.”

“I'll say.” I was heartbroken. How could someone do this to me at my place of work? How could some sick bastard undermine me in this way? I'd worked so hard to succeed and build a professional reputation, to be good at my job. When everything else was going to rat shit, work had always provided a solid ballast to my life. I enjoyed my work at the Lodge and at Bayshill. I liked the people and the clients. And now this? Suddenly, every obstacle I'd overcome, every relationship forged, every achievement won felt worthless. The stranger with malice in mind was threatening to rip away everything. I would not let him.

Jim continued to talk. “And that's a tad worrying. Could it be an old lover, perhaps? Someone scorned?”

Immediately, a light went on in my head. What had Simon said?
IT.

“Yeah?” Jim said, spotting recognition in my eyes.

“Leave it with me. I'll check it out,” I said, determined and feeling a sudden surge of energy.

“Because if it's a creature from your past, we'll prosecute.”

“Prosecute?” I said, aghast. “I'd have to go to court.”

“And we'll back you all the way.”

“I don't know, Jim. What about the publicity?” Then another possibility grabbed me, an easier possibility, a possibility that didn't pack an emotional punch; one that made sense, and one that did not require legal or criminal intervention, or a jury staring at a grotesque replica of myself. I shuddered at the thought of some techie police officer mining the computer and retrieving what I prayed to God was irretrievable.

I looked Jim in the eye. “It could be one of the girls. You know how highly strung they can be, that they don't always appreciate support.” I failed to curb the expectant note in my voice. “Obviously, if that's the case, I wouldn't dream of …”

Jim shook his head and held my gaze. Horribly weary, as though someone had injected me with anaesthetic, I crumpled. The thought of disclosing all to Jim and, by default, Cathy did not appeal. None of this was my fault, yet I felt inexplicable shame. Another textbook psychological response to what was going on around me, I recognised. Not that it helped. How could I treat my clients in the future knowing what they'd seen?

“I'm not technologically adept,” Jim said, “so I don't know how easy or difficult it is to post an image. I'm pretty certain the police have dedicated officers who—”

“No,” I burst out, alarmed that Jim had given voice to my most immediate fear. “Absolutely no way.”

“Kim, I appreciate—”

“You don't. You have no idea. I feel violated.”

“But it's not you,” Jim said, grabbing hold of me by the shoulders. “You said so. It's just a picture.”

“If it's
just
a picture,” I said, “why are we sitting here having this conversation? It's got my head on it, my face, my …” I struggled to get it out, “… scars.”

Jim let out a slow breath and dropped his hands. “All right, I respect your wishes, but if anything else happens, we're going to revisit it.”

“Deal?” I felt like I was driving a
trade-off
with Mephistopheles.

“On one condition.”

I inclined my head.

“You tell me everything.”

“There is nothing to—”

“Everything,” he said through tight lips.

seventeen

I emerged an hour
later,
the afternoon sessions postponed, the day wrecked. My confidence and status at work undermined, I shot out of the building as though rabid wolves snapped at my heels. Was this a warm-up, a preliminary to violence? Was he plotting something truly awful? I nibbled thoughtfully on a nail. Assailed by a paralysis of confused feelings, and recognising every damned one of them, I settled into a slow trudge. Familiar streets that usually brought a smile to my face seemed somehow blighted. Buskers along the way sang out of tune. When Connor, a homeless old guy and permanent fixture near the smarter shops, called a hello to me, I almost passed him by.

“Sorry,” I garbled.

“You all right, Kim?” Connor looked up at me from his pole position on the pavement. I'd slipped him the odd sandwich and hot drink on previous occasions and we'd struck up a rough kind of friendship. He'd hit hard times two decades before when his business failed, his wife left, and he'd been done for assault. After a short spell in prison he'd wound up on the street. What was supposed to be a temporary event had turned into a lifestyle.

“Yeah, lost in thought, nothing more.” I pulled out a couple of quid from my bag and pressed the coins into his hand. His skin was the colour and texture of bark. The tang of unwashed clothes and skin hit my nostrils full force.

“God bless you,” Connor said. Chris's “waif and strays” remark hammered through my brain. Part of me wanted to call him, to tell him what had happened at the Lodge. The other feared his reaction.

Crossing the road to the apartment block, Lizzie was up ahead. She spun around, a mass of smiles. “We've got someone lined up for the weekend. Cash buyer. Apparently the area's perfect and there's no problem with the flat being ground floor. Looks promising.”

“Good for you.” At least something was going right for somebody. “Have you found anywhere?”

“We don't dare. You know what it's like. You're afraid to get excited because you know it could all fall through in an instant. It's such a stressful experience.”

“I'll be sorry to see you go, but I hope it all works out.”

Remembering Simon's advice, I checked for shadows that didn't exist, eyes swivelling to all corners of the
sunshine-filled
staircase. Bunch of keys digging into my palm and at the ready, poised, I heard the phone beeping as soon as I stepped inside.

Catching sight of my reflection in the hall mirror, I saw that, in the space of
twenty-four
hours, I'd developed lines. My skin looked waxy. My eyelids drooped. Fear, I thought. What the hell had happened to my determination to nail my stalker? How come he'd so easily knocked the fight out of me and damaged my resolve?

I slumped down on the sofa, eyeing the phone. I didn't know how long I stayed like that, watching the flashing light, listening to my own shallow breathing and the insistent cheep of the messaging service. In the end, I got up, crossed the floor and went for it.

The phone revealed two messages. The first from Chris: “Away for a couple of days escorting a grubby group of eight years to Huckham for a
team-building
exercise.” This raised a smile. Sceptical of using corporate terms for school activities, Chris particularly disliked the trend to upgrade the title of secondary schools, designed for eleven- to
eighteen-year
-olds,
to university status, eighteen plus, and to exchange art or technology blocks for
campuses
. “If you can't get hold of me, it's because communications out there in the wilds are pretty poor. Best if I give you a call as soon as I get back. Lots of love.” I felt a sick pang of disappointment at not being able to talk to him. Fed up, I listened to the next message and brightened. “Hi, Kim, it's Simon. Sleuthing on your behalf has paid off. Phil is working in London. Do you want to talk?”

You bet. As soon as Simon picked up, I came straight out with it. “Give me Phil's number.”

“Has something happened?”

I hesitated, foolishly revealing the lie, and made a mental note to get better at deception. “No, I simply need to rule him out.”

“Is this a good idea?”

“Yes.”

“Only then he'll know that I've given you his number.”

“Is there a problem with that?”

“Tell you what. I'll phone him and explain.”

“Explain what exactly?”

“Look, Kim. I'm in the middle of something right now. Give me five minutes, and I'll call you back.”

“With Phil's number.”

“Yes,” he said, defeated. “All right.”

“You promise?”

“You have my word.”

I headed to the fridge, took out a bottle, and poured a glass of wine. Taking it over to the window seat, I sat down and stared outside. Rather than dropping away, the air had reached new levels of humidity. It looked like a whiteout, the trees and shrubbery shrivelled in the nuclear heat. You'd have to be suicidal to venture out there for pleasure, I thought.

Twenty-five
minutes passed. I drained the glass and poured another. My stomach jittered at the thought of speaking to Phil after all this time. I reminded myself that I was intelligent, a shrink, for God's sake, impossible to be pushed around, let alone manipulated, and yet my marriage had once reached a point where I felt that I couldn't breathe without permission. Chill tiptoed along my spine. Was there something about me that invited that kind of attention? Was it my fault, a defect in my personality? Was it happening all over again, only this time with someone I didn't even know? Even if Phil were guilty, he wouldn't admit it, not on a telephone, not ever.

The phone rang shrill. I picked up. “Hi, Si.”

“Kim Slade?”

I frowned and tried to connect the voice to a face. The caller had a precise and controlled way of speaking. “Who is this?”

“We haven't met.”

I reached for a connection: male, low pitch, cultured tone. Then it walloped me.

“You,” I gasped. “Kyle Stannard.”

“I contacted the
phone-in
.”

“You also concocted that vile computer image.”

He didn't speak for a beat. “What image?”

I couldn't work out whether it was confusion or deception. “The pornographic one, you liar.”

“Are you mad?”

My responding laugh was hollow.

“Why would someone do something like that?” he said.

“That's my next question.”

“Kind of embarrassing, I guess.”

“Not for someone like you,
I guess
. Isn't that the sort of thing you get up to on
photo-shoots
? Drugs and sex and rock and roll?”

“Your information is out of date.” Stannard's voice was as cold as chilled water. “I left the game some time ago.”

“So what
game
are you playing now?”

“I haven't a cl—”

“You admit you sent it?”

“I already told you, no.”

“Why are you following me, standing outside my flat, sending me …” I faltered. “… things?”

“Kim, I'm not.”

“Don't you fucking use my name.”

“Why not? That's what you're called.”

Smart mouth. “What do you want Mr. Stannard?”

“Your professional help.”

“I only treat women with anorexia.” Which wasn't true, but hey.

“I saw you on that television programme.”

So that's how this all started.

“I really admire your style and courage.”

Flattery will get you nowhere.

“We're two of a kind, you see. I thought we might meet informally for a drink unless, of course, that might upset your boyfriend.”

“I don't do drinks with clients.” I sidestepped the issue of boyfriends.

“Well, I'm not strictly a client, am I?”

No, you're a stalker.

“There's a terrific little cocktail bar off Cambray Place.”

“Which bit of my answer don't you understand? I only work in a limited sphere. You need a different sort of professional.” Someone who can cure your delusion. “I can give you names.”

“Won't you make an exception for me?” It sounded more threat than plea.

“No.”

“You're supposed to help people, aren't you?” The tone rattled with accusation. “Why won't you help me?”

Cut the call. Now. Hang up. Just do it.

“People generally do as I say. I've waited a long time to find the right person.”

“I'm not the right—”

“And I always get what I want.”

My vision snarled up. The walls slurred and blurred. “Then I'm sorry to be the first to disappoint you.”

“I don't do disappointment, Kim. Not in my vocabulary.” He hung up.