Dead Romantic (36 page)

“That’s not a head injury, Cleo: that’s dating. You are one hundred percent fine.”

Satisfied with her diagnosis, my best friend flips open the biscuit tin and hands me a digestive. “I prescribe you eat this, take a hot shower and then get ready for your Christmas party. Go to the museum and hold your head high. You’ve done nothing wrong. Show that Simon that you’re not defeated. He’s messed with the wrong person this time and now it’s war. It’s only a matter of time before he gives himself away. Then you can wear his balls as earrings.”

“Blimey,” I say, taken aback. “Remind me not to annoy you.”

She winks. “You don’t spend ten years in the NHS without learning to toughen up. There’s a way to prove he’s a cheating lowlife; you just have to find it, that’s all.”

We munch our biscuits in companionable silence. The thought of Rafe is still painful but I know I’m going to have to get used to this. Simon Welsh, however, is a different matter entirely. Dare I hope that there’s still a chance I can expose him? If I can tell Aamon’s story – drawing my mother and grandmother’s lifelong work to the ultimate conclusion – and manage to salvage my career, it might soothe the ache in my heart. My work has always been a great panacea.

Tea drunk, biscuit eaten and one funny story about Susie’s love life later, I’m feeling a little more human. I delete the six texts from Rafe without reading them, clear the call register and then swing my legs over the side of the bed. Bambi-like, I walk to the window and gaze out at the snowy city. It’s only the slightest dusting but enough to make the street look magical. Over there, hidden behind the rooftops and iced treetops, is the museum and the work that I love, as well as a cheating colleague. I need to be there. I can’t give in without at least trying.

“You’re right, Susie,” I say. “I’ve got a party to go to.”

Chapter 29

If Susie hadn’t chosen nursing as a career then she would have made a fantastic make-up artist. By the time I arrive at the museum there’s no sign of my earlier sob fest. Armed with her brushes and lotions and tubes of goo, my best friend has smoothed away my tearstains beautifully. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of the door and think that if she could restore the same glow and sparkle to the way I feel, she might be really onto something.

“Wow! You look amazing!” Dawn, squeezed into a tiny pink frock that’s trying valiantly to contain her boobs, joins me in the museum café, which this evening has been turned into the venue for the party. The place is packed with the museum staff and chatter flows as easily as the cava.

“You too,” I tell her, and I’m not joking. She does look amazing. She’s channelling her inner WAG tonight and I can’t help being mesmerised by her giant false eyelashes the size of tarantulas. The hairpiece too is a feat of engineering, piled high and topped with a sprig of emergency mistletoe. In my floor-length green velvet dress and with my hair in loose curls over my shoulders I’m feeling a little underdressed in comparison.

“Thanks! My Gary said I look like I’m off to a lap-dance bar, cheeky git,” she giggles, swiping a handful of canapés from a plate and cramming them into her lipsticked mouth. “Mmm! Yummy! You should try those, Cleo. They’re lush!”

I don’t think I can eat. My stomach is churning like a washing machine on spin and it’s as much as I can do to sip my drink rather than hurl it down my neck. I’m ill at ease here; the place is full partying people, both living and dead, and I’m starting to feel crowded. Maybe this was a mistake.

“I said to Gary, if I can’t dress up and let my hair down on Christmas Eve, then when can I?” Dawn grins. “Ooo! Talking of letting my hair down, there’s Simon and he’s coming over! Doesn’t he look gorgeous! I wonder if he’ll let me try out my mistletoe?” One tarantula-like row of eyelashes winks at me. “Or maybe you’d like to give it a go?”

I’d rather mummify my head than kiss Simon. Sure enough though, he’s making a beeline straight for me. He looks ridiculously handsome in a black tux, with his blond hair hanging to his shoulders and his blue eyes bright in his fine-boned face. The look he gives me is glacial but Dawn doesn’t notice.

“I’ll let you into a secret.” She nudges me. “I think Simon really likes you. He’s always talking about you. He’ll be gutted when you go to Egypt.”

“Who says I’m going to Egypt?” I mutter. The closer Simon gets the angrier I feel. When he finally weaves his way through the crowd to join us it’s all I can do to resist kicking him in the shins.

“Dawn, looking beautiful as always!” Simon leans forward, has a good gawp down her Cheddar Gorge cleavage and then kisses her cheek, while Dawn simpers and turns the same colour as her frock. Afterwards, he smiles down at me. “And the lovely Cleo too. I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

I glower at him. “Really? Why not?”

He shrugs. “You’ve been unwell lately and I know that my promotion has been difficult for you. Nobody would have thought ill of you if you’d stayed at home and rested.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I reply, so acidly that I’m amazed my tongue doesn’t shrivel.

He laughs. “I’m always thinking of you, Cleo. Did you like idea of the secondment in Egypt, by the way? Paul thought you’d be happy staying here but I managed to persuade him that you’re far too ambitious for that.”

I keep my face impassive but I’m clutching my champagne flute so hard it must be close to shattering. He doesn’t know that I’ve resigned, which means the Prof hasn’t told him. Is this because the Prof doesn’t want to accept my resignation or because he’s starting to have doubts about Simon?

Simon reaches forward and brushes a curl from my face. “I’m loving seeing your hair like that, by the way. It’s wild and out of control. Is that a side of you that we’ll see here this evening?”

I snap my head away. Much as I’d love to slap him I have to bite back my anger. I’m still searching for a suitable retort when a voice calls to me across the party. Henry Wellby and Aamon are waving frantically from the staircase.

“Dr Carpenter! Come up to your office! Bring the scoundrel with you!” Wellby calls. He’s brandishing his hat excitedly while Aamon bounces beside him. “We have a plan!”

We do? It’s a sign of the times that I’m willing to go along with figments of my imagination, but what do I have to lose? It’s not as though I’ve managed to figure out a solution of my own. I catch Simon’s elbow and look up at him.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” I say. “In private.”

“Oh! Don’t mind me!” Dawn’s eyes widen. She drains her glass and grins. “I need another one of these anyway.”

“We can talk here,” Simon insists as Dawn wiggles away, the dress doing a sterling job of containing her rear end. “Besides, you must realise there’s no point going over it all again.”

“Appeal to his academic curiosity,” Wellby urges. “He won’t be able to resist.”

I keep my hand on Simon’s elbow. “There’s one thing you didn’t manage to find. It’s the key to everything.”

His eyes light up. “I knew there had to be more. What is it?”

“It’s text on the base of the statue,” I say. I bet he never even thought to check underneath it. Simon’s lazy like that.

“And why would you share this with me?”

His interest is piqued. Time to reel him in.

I shrug. “Because I’m an academic and I want the full story on the record. But up to you, I guess.” I make a show of glancing around the crowded room. “Where’s the Prof? He may be more use anyway.”

“Paul’s still in his office. He had a last-minute funding meeting to chair. All right, Cleo, you have my full attention. Let’s go.”

We edge our way through the party, nodding and saying hello to various colleagues and acquaintances. Simon collects another drink on the way. His cheeks are flushed and he’s clearly had a few already. Will alcohol make him careless?

As we mount the staircase and then head for the departmental area, the chatter and chinking of glasses start to fade. All I can hear when I turn my key and let us into the office is the ratcheting up of my pulse.

“Let me guess,” drawls Simon, looking around idly while I flick on the light. “You’ve actually linked the death of Aamon with the succession of his stepmother, Sehepne? But hard rather than circumstantial evidence?”

I nod. “Yes, I have proof that Sehepne murdered him. The injuries to the body are inconclusive, but my mother had evidence that confirms the crime.”

“You’d better pass that to me then.” Simon folds his arms across his chest. “This is my area of expertise now, not your pet project.”

Pet project? For a second I’m robbed of speech. The cat is hissing like crazy, Aamon blows raspberries and even Henry Wellby uses a few choice words, but of course none of this bothers my colleague. Water finds it harder to slide off a duck’s back. My fingers are itching to slap his smug face. How did I ever find him attractive?

“Goad him!” Henry Wellby barks. “Make him say something! And for God’s sake, don’t give him that evidence.”

I can’t because it’s on the bottom of my statue, which is safely hidden in my bedroom. Not that I’d give it to him anyway. I’m determined that I’ll get my research back and tell Aamon’s story properly rather than allow Simon’s half-baked tabloid-style retelling.

“I’ll have to dig it out,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’ll take a while.”

“Well, get a move on. God, this is a chilly office.” Simon is looking around disdainfully. “Poky too, and dark. I don’t suppose you’ll miss it that much. I bet you’re looking forward to Luxor, aren’t you? It’ll be a darn sight warmer than here.”

I bristle like the cat. “I don’t know how you’ve even got the gall to speak to me after everything you’ve done.”

“And what exactly have I done?” Simon takes a large swig of his wine and widens his blue eyes.

“Stolen my research!”

There’s a rattle from the corner of the room. Aamon is playing with the phone again but unusually Henry Wellby is helping him. They appear to be trying to figure out how to dial. Knowing my luck they’re probably onto Domino’s by now. So much for a great plan. That pesky phone is one thing I won’t miss.

Simon shakes his head sadly. “So dramatic, Cleo. That head injury really hasn’t helped you, has it?”

“It’s helped
you
,” I say bitterly.

“I can’t deny it.” The satisfaction in his voice sets my teeth on edge. Simon’s face is bright with victory and as he settles himself onto my desk I know he’s just dying to twist the knife. The alcohol has loosened his tongue and, like a
Scooby-Doo
villain, he simply can’t resist telling me how clever he’s been.

“I’ll grant you it’s been useful,” he agrees. “You really are far too naïve, Dr Carpenter, and far too trusting.”

“Honest and trustworthy are how I’d describe myself,” I shoot back. “Simon, I trusted you! I thought we were friends. Why else would I have left my application with you and given my laptop into your keeping?”

Simon smirks. “Yes, I must admit that was a bit of luck I hadn’t anticipated.”

“And my documents on the network? I take it that it was you who wiped them?”

“Of course that was me. You’d been so helpful too, labelling all the folders so beautifully. It only took me minutes. You’d chosen a blindingly obvious password and used the same one for everything, which helped. It’s disappointing really, Cleo. I thought you were smarter than that.”

I begin to open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of this, but Simon’s still gloating, enjoying every minute of his triumph. He finishes his drink and starts to laugh.

“Of course, all this would have been a great deal harder had you not suffered your unfortunate head injury. Not much usually gets past Dr Carpenter, the department’s golden girl, does it? Jesus, Cleo, have you any idea how bloody nauseating it is for the rest of us to always be compared to you and have to listen to the Prof drivelling on about how brilliant you are?” His teeth are bared in a sneer. “He probably just wants to get in your knickers, but you’re a frigid bitch, aren’t you? Even I never managed that. He’s got more hope of shagging one of the mummies.”

“You’re disgusting,” I say, sickened. To be confronted with such venom is shocking. How did I not notice that Simon hated me so much?

He shrugs. “Maybe, but I’m the Associate Director of our department and you’re being shipped out all the way to Egypt, so call me whatever you like. The truth is, Cleo, you’ve lost. Your research is mine, your job is mine – and your reputation? Well, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t want that because it’s in tatters. You’ve been flaky lately, head injury or not, and you’re not on top of your game. It’s disappointing. I’d expected more of you. This has all been rather too easy.”

In a haze of rage I watch him hop off the desk and saunter around the office, picking up my belongings and rifling through my documents as though he has every right to do so.

“You won’t get away with this,” I promise him, but Simon gives me a pitying look.

“I already have, many times, Cleo. I’m good at what I do. Make all the fuss you want. Nobody will believe you; they’ll just think you’re jealous. Which you are, and I totally understand. Of course the job was going to be yours – we all knew that – which was why I needed to level the playing field a little.”

“Level the playing field? With what? A wrecking ball? Simon, you cheated!”

Simon smiles at me. “I do hope they’re an understanding faculty in Luxor. I’d hate any rumours of your instability to reach them out there. That could cause all kinds of problems.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Are you threatening me?” he mimics. “God, for such an intelligent woman you can be very stupid at times. Yes, Cleo, I’m threatening you, or maybe more accurately I’m giving you a promise. If you continue trying to tell everyone that I’ve stolen your research I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure that what academic reputation you do have is left in such tatters you’ll be lucky to get a job teaching GCSE history in a sink school.” He leans forward until his face is inches from mine. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Very,” I say bitterly.