The train picked up speed, the scenery melding into a smudge of hesitant greys and greens. Clover looked out over red rooftops, seeing nothing.
‘There’s hardly any snow!’ Johnny complained, looking out at fields that were muddy, not frozen.
‘Well, give it a chance. We’ve only just left Salzburg,’ Matty mumbled, not looking up from her phone.
Clover shifted in her seat, refusing to acknowledge the nerves that were tickling her fingertips and toes and making her tummy fizz. She had that feeling she always got when standing at the top of a skyscraper, a sudden fear that she couldn’t trust herself not to jump. But this wasn’t vertigo and there was nothing imagined about the tension that had crackled through the six months of email correspondence for the pitch, which had come from an idea, born of a promise.
Neither Johnny nor Matty had believed her when she’d unveiled her proposal on her return from California. They’d expected her to come back with an Oscar, not a plan for ‘career suicide’. First they’d laughed, then they’d laughed harder. Only her paleness had convinced them she meant every word. Liam too, sitting opposite her in their usual chairs in Soho House, had looked at her as though he couldn’t decide if the proposal was a stroke of genius or entirely mad. Couldn’t it be both? she had argued.
Crudely put – in commercial terms – the story had moved on. Pipe Dreams had been about life after Cory’s injury: loss of identity, loss of health, loss of the dream. Now they had life after Cory’s death. Only, she didn’t want to come at it from the same angle as before. This wasn’t a sequel. She wanted to pivot a full one-eighty and examine how this played out for the antagonist of the story. How did Kit Foley live with what he’d done? How did someone like him sleep at night?
People had loved Cory precisely because he was forever the underdog, always the groomsman, never the groom. They saw themselves in him, especially when pitched against a competitor who wasn’t just a supreme athlete – Foley had had every advantage: he was six foot one to Cory’s five nine; his famously pale blue eyes and chiselled bone structure had made him a second fortune as the sponsorships rolled in; he had seduced a trail of Hollywood actresses. In short, Foley had been winning his whole life. He’d had no idea what it was like to lose – until now.
And now he couldn’t win. If his surfing career and reputation had become collateral damage in the fallout from Cory’s injuries, Cory’s death was the fatal blow to his hopes of any sort of comeback. In the weeks after Cory’s suicide, the papers had run features on his tragic decline from every possible angle: should helmets become mandatory in big surf events? What were the long-term concussion risks, not just in surfing but all contact sports? Where did legal culpability begin in the professional sporting arena when safety rules were deliberately breached? Only one fact was taken as fixed – Kit Foley had done this. He had brought the sky falling down on Cory’s head. And also his own.
Liam couldn’t understand it. ‘Everyone’s going to expect you to hate him,’ he’d said.
‘I do hate him. But I can still do my job.’
‘But why do it?’
‘Because it’s the very last thing anyone expects,’ she had shrugged.
‘But you’re crossing enemy lines! It will undo everything you set up in Pipe Dreams. You risk dismantling your own work.’
‘That’s assuming I fall for his spin. But I’ve lived and breathed this story for three years. He can’t justify his actions to me. I know exactly what he did – I just don’t know why.’
‘Well if Cory would never tell you, why should Kit?’
‘Because this is his one shot to publicly restore his reputation. His life’s in tatters. Surfing’s done with him, he knows that; but if he wants to start a new chapter – and he does – then he’s going to have to redeem himself first. He can’t just ignore this and hope it’ll blow over. It’s been four years since Peniche and now, with Cory’s suicide blowing up in his face . . . This isn’t going to go away. Until he apologizes and fesses up, it’s his Kryptonite.’
‘So you want him to beg?’
‘I want him to own what he’s done. People want to see that. Cory’s death is on him.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then they’ll see him for what he really is.’
Liam had stared at her, seeing her anger. ‘He won’t do it. I don’t know much about the guy, but I do know a tell-all isn’t his style.’
‘His fancy new sponsor with deep pockets is saying otherwise.’
Liam’s eyes had narrowed. He had sighed. ‘Okay, say he does want to give his side of the story. Why would he collaborate with us, the very people who helped trash him in the first place?’
‘Because who better? If he can convince me he’s a good guy, misunderstood, whatever . . .’ She had given an amused, disbelieving laugh. ‘He’ll convince everyone.’
‘Or he could just do Oprah.’
Liam hadn’t bought it. Quite literally. They had both left the meeting in shock, Clover unable to believe Liam wouldn’t back her and Liam stunned that she’d go ahead without him. For months afterwards they had each believed the other would backtrack but now here she was, on a train winding through the Austrian countryside, gathering speed towards her target.
Her tummy fizzed again. Pitching the idea and actually delivering on it were two different things. Day in, day out for the next six weeks, she, Matty and Johnny were going to be living with the man they had come to loathe – and who loathed them. But if this project was going to work – and the remortgage on her flat meant it had to – she would need to find some neutral ground; show him they were, if not friends, at least not outright enemies either. She had a job to do. There was no place for personal emotion here.
To her surprise, despite Foley’s pivotal but off-stage role in Pipe Dreams, she had quickly realized she didn’t know much about him, beyond the tabloid headlines. Her focus till now had only been on what he’d done and not who he was.
That had all changed. For six months, she and Matty had researched everything there was to know about the man. She had sat through thousands of hours of surf competition footage, watching the heats, the post-comp interviews. She had watched him grow from a pre-teen prodigy to a young gun scooping up trophies like they were sweets. He had gone pro at fourteen and won his first world title at sixteen, but even as a very young man he had been guarded and seemingly old for his years. He was always professional, terse and brief. Difficult to interview.
‘You okay?’
Matty was looking over at her from the chair opposite. Her gaze fluttered lightly towards Clover’s legs and Clover realized she had been frantically jigging her leg against her seat.
‘Yeah, fine.’ Clover uncrossed her legs and placed her hands under her thighs instead. She looked out of the window. The distant mountains were gradually drawing closer, their white-capped peaks already beginning to pitch into high relief, revealing steep gullies and glistening glaciers.
‘Have you updated our new friends on the delay?’ Matty asked her. They had spent two hours on the tarmac at Heathrow, having missed their slot thanks to an errant crew member.
‘Of course.’ Clover nodded. ‘I told them not to hang back for us and that we’d make our own way to the chalet.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Nothing. They didn’t reply.’
Matty’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh. Nice. Great start.’
They all looked at one another apprehensively. Matty was biting her lip. Johnny looked sick.
‘Don’t look so nervous. It’ll be fine,’ Clover said, trying to rally them.
‘Will it, though?’ Johnny asked flatly. ‘We’ve all seen the emails. They’re not on board with this.’
‘Well, Julian Orsini-Rosenberg is, and he’s their pied piper. Where he leads, they follow. Right, Mats?’
Matty shrugged. ‘That’s what he’s saying. He’s been very helpful, practically falling over himself to make sure this happens.’
‘Well, of course he is,’ Johnny muttered. ‘He’s relying on us to polish the turd.’
Clover laughed. ‘You did not just say that!’
Johnny just grinned. ‘All I’m saying is, I’m the one who’s going to be in the firing line.’
‘Why?’ Matty scowled, as though she wanted to be in the firing line.
‘Because I’m the token bloke! They’re not gonna hate on you two, are they?’
‘Why not?’
‘Duh. Looked in a mirror lately? I’m the only dude. I’m the one they’re going to target.’
‘Oh, so you mean it’s like an alpha male thing?’ Matty asked innocently.
‘Well, y—’ Johnny almost fell for it. ‘Sod off, Mats.’
She laughed. ‘Come on! What are they going to do to you, Johnny? Challenge you to an arm-wrestle? A plank-off?’
‘Maybe!’
‘Relax. If it comes to that, I’ll step in for you.’
‘Oh, you think you could beat me in an arm-wrestle?’
Matty pinned him with a withering look. ‘Johnny, I know I could.’
Clover chuckled quietly and Johnny looked between them both. ‘I don’t think you two quite get what it’s going to be like up there. The big guns in surf culture are hard nuts. You’ve got to be, to do what they do. It’s not Baywatch! Surfing is tribal. Localism is a thing. They defend their territory like hyenas – and we’re out-and-proud Team Cory. I’ve been telling you for months – this is a bad idea.’
Clover’s leg had begun jigging again. ‘Look, I know it’ll be a bit awkward for a day or two but we don’t have to pretend to be their friends. This is a business proposition for all parties. We stay neutral and professional. There’s certainly no need to go in braced for all-out war.’
‘Clo’s right,’ Matty said, flashing them a photo on her phone. ‘I’ve been scoping them out and you can’t tell me this guy’s not a complete pussycat.’ Her grin widened as Johnny took in the image of Kit’s manager, Ari Jones, from his own pro surfing days.
Clover rolled her eyes as Johnny whimpered at the sight of Ari roaring victoriously, riding on his board. He was a brick of a man, with aboriginal tattoos and some severe scarring on his face that made Clover worry for the well-being of whoever had done that to him. ‘He looks like he could crush my legs just pulling a fist.’
‘Well don’t irritate him then,’ Matty said simply. She swiped the screen. ‘And then there’s Tipper McKenzie. Now, he’s hardly threatening, is he? He looks like my old geography teacher.’
Johnny peered closely at the image of Kit’s coach, a tall, narrow white-haired man in a padded jacket. It was true there was less to fear physically – Clover thought he looked like the love child of Ted Danson and Arsène Wenger – but he had a stern, dour look about him. He had worked previously with Shaun White and it was his presence in the Foley camp that had first tipped people off that Foley’s intentions might be a bit more serious than first assumed.
‘And as for Beau, well, what an overgrown puppy dog. Look at him – he’s all shaggy hair and long limbs. He’s like Pluto!’
Johnny spluttered. ‘He’s not like bloody Pluto! Beau Foley’s a loose bloody cannon. He got arrested in the summer for being drunk and disorderly. He’s a total pothead. He’s his brother’s wingman and a complete freeloader.’
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ Matty quipped. She arched an eyebrow at his agitation. ‘Johnny, chill. There’s nothing to worry about. Clover and I will protect you.’
Clover chuckled at her friends’ endless banter; it made her feel braver again as she looked back out the window at the soaring mountains. Kit Foley was up there somewhere – and she was coming to get him.
‘Well, they obviously took you at your word,’ Johnny said as they stood on the street an hour later, bags at their feet. The sun had come out to play and the light was dazzling, reflecting off the snow-tipped mountains that encircled them in a splayed bowl. At the heart, along the valley floor, lay a sapphire lake, and the town of Zell am See clung to the shallow stretch of land between its shores and the Pinzgau mountains. The views approaching by train had been spellbinding and Johnny had done his best to capture them, hastily unpacking his camera and filming from the doors.
It had been a warmer welcome than their hosts had managed. There was very clearly no one here to greet them. After fifteen minutes of standing forlornly on the pavement just in case someone should show, Clover walked over to the bright yellow taxi at the head of the rank, dragging her ski bag behind her and showing the driver the address Ari Jones had reluctantly provided. Matty and Johnny climbed in after her.
‘Have they got a Jacuzzi, d’you reckon?’ Johnny asked.
‘I doubt we’ll be allowed in it, if they have,’ Clover sighed. This snubbing was a highly inauspicious start.
They looked out of the windows as they were driven through town. It was lively but not crowded, people walking about in jeans and down jackets. It was still a couple of weeks too early for tourists. Zell am See was 700 metres above sea level but the snowline currently stopped 100 metres above the town and although there was a good covering on the upper slopes, the pistes wouldn’t open until early December.
It was a pretty town even without the spectacular lakeside setting. Unlike the purpose-built 1970s concrete jungle resorts Clover had visited when skiing in France, the buildings were largely traditional low wooden chalets and rendered apartment blocks in colourful hues of lemon, custard and clay. It was perhaps a little tired-looking in places, but Clover liked that – it made the place feel real and lived-in year-round, rather than somewhere that was a ghost town through the summer months. It all seemed impressively, stubbornly ‘normal’.
The taxi soon came to a stop outside a double-height wall and solid gate.
‘We’re here already?’ Clover asked in surprise, climbing out and looking up at the four-storey chalet that rose behind it. It was a large new build, but modestly blended to its environment, with pale grey stone foundations rising to dark, aged timbers above. One gabled wall, facing straight back down to the centre of town and the lake, was fitted with faintly smoke-tinted glass, withholding from the street any glimpse of the interiors within. Clover felt her heart beat a little faster. The whole place spoke quietly, but the quality shone – like Gianni Agnelli in cream cashmere. Foley’s fortunes hadn’t taken that much of a dive, then? It was a world away from the Allbrights’ reality; Mia and the boys had moved to a condo in Redwood City, half an hour from the coast, with a concrete backyard. ‘Their own bedrooms, though,’ Mia had said, grasping for upsides.
‘Well, this is disappointing,’ Johnny quipped under his breath. ‘I hate it already.’
‘Same,’ Matty breathed, looking awed.
Clover, feeling her resolve stiffen again, stepped forward and pressed the buzzer. They all waited, trying to look relaxed, knowing they were being watched through the intercom system. None of them said a word, just in case.
It was a full minute before anyone responded, and Clover had reached to press the buzzer again when the double-width gate slid open to reveal a cobbled driveway and a series of stepped terraces. A shiny black Range Rover was parked at the far end, beside a jet bike.
‘Shit,’ Johnny said under his breath. It clearly wasn’t intimidating enough that they were hard nuts; they were also rich hard nuts.
Clover looked at him, determined not to panic. ‘Johnny. He won the World Tour nine times.’ She was speaking in such a low voice, her lips weren’t moving. ‘We know he’s got money. There’s no surprise in that.’ She pulled herself up to her full five-foot-six height. ‘But we’ve got a Golden Globe and a BAFTA, which is not too shabby either, so we go in as equals. Capiche?’
‘Capiche.’
They carried their equipment through before the gate could close again. Johnny in particular had multiple bulky padded bags of camera apparatus to transport, as well as his snowboarding kit; he had been boarding since he was eleven and took it seriously. Clover had skied throughout her childhood, first clipping her boots in as a toddler – although she hadn’t skied now in over ten years. Matty had come to the sport late, learning only when a family she nannied for in the university holidays took her to Les Arcs with them. Naturally, she had picked it up within days and was skiing blacks by the end of the first week.
The door to the chalet opened, revealing a muscular bald man in a white tunic. His austere look completely diminished as he smiled at them. ‘Hello there. You must be the film crew?’ he asked in a broad Scottish accent, his gaze falling to their luggage.
‘Yes,’ Clover replied. ‘I’m Clover Phillips and this is Martha Marks – Matty – and Johnny Dashwood.’
‘A pleasure to meet you at last. I’m Fin Maclennan, the chef.’ A small grin played on his lips. ‘Everyone’s been very excited about your arrival.’
‘Excited? Really?’ Clover tried to keep her tone free from scepticism. Behind her, she could hear the gate slide back smoothly on its runners.
‘Oh yes. Come in, come in. We’ve been expecting you . . .’ He stepped back to allow them into a long hallway with rough stone walls. An antique Spanish table was pushed against the left wall and arranged with some squat black-clay lamps and a contemporary sculpture. ‘. . . Although I’m afraid they’re not in just at the moment. They’ve gone up to the glacier at Kitzsteinhorn for a training session.’
‘That’s quite all right. Our flight was delayed, so we’re two hours behind schedule anyway. We texted ahead. We didn’t want to hold them up.’
‘It’s Carlotta, the chalet manager’s, day off today too – she’ll be back on duty from seven – but Ari said to make yourselves at home. They’ll be back later.’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll give you a quick tour, shall I? Seeing as we’re down here?’ he asked, walking to the nearest door and opening it. ‘That there’s the boot room – heated sticks, racks et cetera. No outdoor ski kit on past this point, I’m afraid. The antique stone floors don’t like ski boots.’
‘Nor do my feet.’ Clover smiled.
‘Quite,’ Fin agreed. ‘Next along is the gym and right at the end, the hammam and spa.’ Clover knew Johnny would be wondering what a hammam was.
Fin then pointed to the doorway on the right-hand side at the far end. ‘Opposite is the Jacuzzi and pool. And next to it, over there, is the garage.’ He pointed to a lift on their right and gave a shrug. ‘Self-evident. Useful on big nights when you can’t manage the stairs.’
‘That’s happened, has it then?’ Clover asked innocently.
Fin laughed and wagged his finger. ‘Ha! Strictly no comment!’
He led them up a winding staircase that was halfway along the hall on the right. It had slate treads and spotlights every third step, a sculpted giant bonsai on a console on the half landing.
‘This floor is where the smaller bedrooms are – for staff and guests. Mine is down that end, opposite the lift, Carlotta’s is next to mine. There’s an empty room at the end there,’ he said, pointing to the door in the right-hand corner. ‘Ari’s got the big corner room opposite and there’s a twin next to him, here.’ He opened the door onto a bedroom with two single beds draped with charcoal-grey throws edged with red blanket stitch. A medley of soft toys was arranged on a shelf, along with some jigsaws and board games. Fin raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry, we’re a full house now. This room is usually used by the kids.’
So there were three beds but only two bedrooms?
‘Well then, I guess that’s us in here,’ Clover said, looking at Matty . It wasn’t like Johnny and Mats could share; they’d kill each other.
‘Sleepover time.’ Matty gave an easy shrug.
‘Lucky me,’ Johnny murmured as Fin began leading them up to the next floor. ‘So I get to sleep directly opposite Ari “Killer” Jones?’
Matty guffawed loudly. ‘I told you. I’ll protect you,’ she sniggered as Fin brought them up to the next level.
‘And here’s what we call the fun palace.’ He stood back and waited as they trooped up behind him, their jaws dropping open one by one.
‘Yeah. I know,’ he nodded. ‘Pretty amazing. It takes some getting used to.’
The space was vast: double height, double width, double . . . everything. At the far end, beside the smoky floor-to-ceiling picture window, were two banks of vintage burnt-orange velvet Camaleonda sofas, arranged either side of a giant ‘onion bulb’ hanging fireplace. Sheepskin beanbags were dotted around the floor. On the left-hand wall was a huge colour-soaked canvas of abstract art above a four-metre-long Shou Sugi Ban dining table and fourteen chairs. At the near end, at a perpendicular angle, was a billiards table and a fully stocked butler’s bar set into a wall that was shelved and stacked with books – as was the entire wall opposite. An oak pole ran across at three metres high, with a ladder perched against it. At a guess, there had to be over a thousand books in this one room alone.
Clover looked up, seeing a mezzanine upstairs. She realized her mouth was hanging open and made a conscious move to close it.
‘Through there’s the cinema and games room.’ Fin pointed to a door at the opposite end. ‘Fifty-two-inch plasma, Playstation, Xbox, you name it.’
‘Scrabble?’ Matty enquired, poker-faced.
Fin grinned. ‘Naturally.’
‘Uh . . . where’s the kitchen?’ Clover asked, noticing the chalet was set up for all play and no work.
‘Ah-ha.’ Fin walked over to the library wall to their right and pushed lightly against a book. With a faint click, a jib door opened to reveal a bright and beautiful ode to stainless steel, with long, pristine workstations and super-scaled Wolf and Sub-Zero appliances. Beautifully arranged fruit was visible in glass-fronted chillers and there was an industrial juicer in the corner.
‘Kit takes his smoothies pretty seriously,’ Fin said, seeing Clover’s amazement at the size of a metre-wide bowl beside it, piled high with oranges.
‘Everything here’s so . . . extra,’ Matty murmured, stepping back into the living space again.
‘To match the scenery,’ Fin shrugged. ‘The light’s beginning to go now but you can see the view’s pretty sensational over the lake.’
‘D’you know what?’ Johnny turned to face them. ‘Maybe we don’t even need to interview Kit. Let’s just film this place! It’ll be a hit just doing that. Talk’s cheap, we all know that.’
Clover gave him a smile and a look. ‘What time will they be back, do you know?’
‘They didn’t say, but Ari did ask that I have dinner ready for you for seven, if that suits?’
‘Yes, fantastic,’ Clover said, relieved to have a short reprieve before the formal introductions. ‘Thanks.’
‘As I said, Carlotta will be back on duty at seven. I’ll leave you to unpack and settle in. Everything’s pretty self-explanatory but let me know if you have any queries. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’
‘Uh . . . which book do we press to open the door?’ Matty asked, with a thoroughly bemused expression.
Fin chuckled again. ‘I know. It’s a bit nuts. Here.’ He showed them a small run of burgundy leather folios on a shelf at eye height. ‘They’re dummy books. Just press anywhere on these spines and it’ll activate the panel.’
‘Do you never worry about getting locked in?’ Matty asked.
‘No. I dream of it!’
‘Uh, Fin?’ Clover asked, as he went to go back into the kitchen behind the library.
‘Yuh-huh?’
‘. . . Where’s Kit’s bedroom?’
Fin pointed upstairs. ‘Up there. He’s got the master suite and his brother Beau is in the other one. But I can’t take you up there, I’m afraid. Strictly off limits.’
Clover smiled. ‘Of course, yes. That’s fine. I was just wondering.’
Fin disappeared back into his shiny refuge, the door closing automatically behind him. Clover followed the others downstairs again; they were beginning to babble with excitement, but her mind was already on other things.
They pulled their bags out of the hall and up to their rooms. Matty and Clover’s room was pretty small for two grown women to share, even without Matty’s overpacking tendencies. Clover was done within five minutes and she looked on in reluctant wonder as packing pods and organization cubes were laid on Matty’s bed and the wardrobes and drawers steadily filled.
Leaving her friend to it, she went across the hall and popped her head into Johnny’s room.
‘How are you getting on in here? Slumming it?’ His bags were untouched and he was lounging on the double bed, a shearling throw draped over his legs as he worked out the remote on his TV. ‘Ha! Make yourself at home, why don’t you!’
‘What?’ he protested. ‘We had an early start and we’ve been travelling all day. They’re not back yet and like you said, we’ve got six weeks here. It’s not like every single minute counts. I just wanna chill before Ari “Evil Eye” Jones murders me in my sleep.’
‘He’s not going to murder you in your sleep,’ she grinned, but he refused to look consoled. ‘Listen, I came over to see if you wanted to . . .’ She jerked her head towards the ceiling. ‘Come and check out upstairs?’
Johnny looked panicky as he immediately realized she didn’t mean the living room. ‘You mean the bedrooms?’
She nodded.
‘Clo! That’s breaking and entering!’
She rolled her eyes. ‘How can it be breaking in if we’re already in?’
‘And if Fin catches us? He specifically said no and that would be so awkward.’
‘Yes, but he’s locked away in the kitchen. And if he did catch us, we would just say curiosity got the better of us. No biggie. I mean, where’s the harm in just having a peek?’
Johnny cocked an eyebrow, looking distinctly unconvinced. As far as he was concerned, there was harm all around.
Clover sighed. ‘Listen, this isn’t exactly planned and I appreciate it may not be my wisest idea ever . . . On the other hand, the housekeeper’s got her day off and they’re all out . . . We might not get another opportunity like this.’
‘But what do you want to do up there?’
‘Nothing. I just want to look.’
‘You mean snoop.’
‘Fine. Snoop, then . . . I want to get a sense of him before we meet. You can tell a lot about someone from their private spaces.’
Johnny smirked.
‘Bedrooms! You know I meant bedrooms!’ she groaned. ‘I’m not going to do anything or take anything. I just want to get a glimpse of how he lives when no one’s watching. He gives practically nothing away in public; he’s like a machine in press interviews. This is just a chance to have a peep behind the curtain.’
‘What about Matty? Why can’t she go?’
‘Because apparently she lives here now and she’s still got the kitchen sink to unpack.’ She pressed her hands together in prayer. ‘Please, Johnny. Don’t make me go on my own.’
‘Ugh,’ he groaned, kicking off the shearling throw. ‘Well, can we at least take the lift?’
‘You’re not five!’ she grinned. ‘And we can’t – it might ping.’
They crept like pantomime burglars, hunched and on tiptoe, up to the living room, and straight up from there to the mezzanine. The décor on the top floor became immediately softer and more sumptuous. Gone were the rough stone walls and antique flagged floors, deployed to withstand higher footfall; instead a thick cream carpet closed over their socked feet. A pale charcoal mural of a mountain scene was etched in pen and ink on the walls and offset by a pair of oxblood linen side chairs. There were only two doors on the whole floor, one on each side of the hall.
They opened the door on the left first, peering in tentatively. It was empty but they still held their breath as they stepped in.
‘Oh yes,’ Clover whispered, pleased by what she saw. The room was large – at least twice the size of her bedroom – with huge windows looking up the valley towards the mountains, the rising cables for the Schmittenhöhebahn ski lift visible; it felt even bigger on account of the vaulted ceiling and exposed timbers. The walls were linen-lined in dark moss, with a buttoned headboard as high as the bed was long.
But if the room’s concept and design were refined, the person inhabiting it was not. The bedsheets were a twisted tangle, a pillow on the floor, a laptop left charging in the middle of the mattress. The wardrobe doors were hanging open but it seemed to be superfluous, for there were clothes everywhere: jackets, jumpers and jeans piled high on chairs, bunched-up boxers and single socks on the floor, snow base layers inside out on the radiators. Vape cartridges and Rizla papers had been left on the desk, some magazines – car, surf, porn – slowly sliding off a chair.
‘Huh. So he’s forever fifteen, then,’ Johnny muttered. ‘This looks like he had a party in his parents’ room.’
‘He’s certainly a slob,’ she said slowly, following Johnny into the bathroom.
There were wet towels on the floor; a stale urine smell told them the loo hadn’t been flushed. More vapes. A shampoo bottle upside down in the shower.
‘Ah. This is Pluto’s room,’ Johnny murmured, reading the name on the label of a white pill bottle in the wall cabinet above the basin.
‘What?’ She walked over and stared at it. ‘Beau Foley.’ Dammit. ‘Alprazolam. What is that?’
He gave a disdainful snort. ‘It’s a street benzo . . . Benzodiazepine? . . . Treats anxiety.’
‘He’s got anxiety?’
‘Oh, I sincerely doubt it. Uses it as a downer, most likely.’ He reached in and pulled out some more bottles. ‘Yeah. Bringing him down from these.’
Clover looked at him blankly.
‘Our boy likes to party,’ he muttered, putting them back again. ‘Wingman and freeloader – playing to type so far.’
She walked back into the bedroom and looked around it with disdain. ‘And supposedly he’s the nice brother!’
‘Oh good.’ Johnny rolled his eyes. ‘Here’s a thought – let’s not do this in Ari’s room. I’d really rather not chance upon his exotic knife collection.’
They walked out into the hall and stood outside the door opposite. ‘Ready?’ she asked him. Johnny shrugged – he just wanted this all to be over as quickly as possible – and she realized she had been asking for her own benefit. She needed to take a breath before she stepped in here, into the most private space of the most hated man. ‘Here we go, then . . .’
They went in. It was like stepping into a cathedral – the instinct to look up, to gasp. Beau’s room could have been, should have been beautiful, but this was a whole other level. Three times bigger and decorated entirely in milky whites, it was like stepping into a cloud. The entire far wall was crittall and smoked glass, looking onto the main living area downstairs and beyond it, the picture window over Lake Zell. A giant freestanding copper bath was positioned front and centre, affording the bather wonderful views, but for the person having a cup of tea on the sofa downstairs . . .?
The walls were papered with a hand-painted Fromental wallpaper of cherry blossoms. A sheepskin sofa sat against the end of the emperor bed with two matching armchairs opposite, should he want to host some kind of meeting or gathering in his bedroom. Clover felt certain no one had ever sat down on them.
She went over and contrarily sat on them each, in turn.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ Johnny whispered, looking amused.
‘Oh yes,’ she grinned. But she felt strangely disappointed, too.
This was their first indirect encounter with Kit Foley, a deliberate breach into his inner sanctum. It was supposed to speak about him without words, but as she looked around, she wasn’t hearing much. The room looked exactly as it had been conceived – pristine, beautiful, calm. The bed had been made, the wardrobes were shut. No porn mags, no smokes, no dirty underwear lying about. She got up – not even a scummy waterline inside the bath.
She went over to his wardrobe and looked in. There were three white shirts, one black suit, a clutch of snowboarding jackets – all in solid, sober colours – with JOR in matt shadow along the shoulders. JOR: Julian Orsini-Rosenberg. The man behind Foley’s comeback. Supposedly, Kit had designed this himself?
She checked the drawers – he was a Calvins man; clearly not much interested in socks – just black ribbed pairs. She checked the other drawers – base layer thermals, jeans, some merino wool sweaters in dark grey.
‘Ugh, he dresses like a bloody architect,’ she muttered. ‘Where are all the Hawaiian print shirts and board shorts?’
‘He gave it up, remember? This is Foley Mark Two.’
‘Well, Foley Mark Two is . . . dull.’ She stood by his bedside table and did a visual inventory: vitamin tablets, a phone charger, airpods, some paperbacks. He was a reader?
‘Oh god,’ she smirked, holding up the top one to show Johnny. ‘Unfuck Yourself: Get Out of Your Head and Into Your Life. He’s a deep thinker? Please.’
She went to the second. ‘The Power of Positive Thinking . . . Maybe he should take the anxiety pills?’
Johnny chuckled.
‘Obama’s biography,’ she murmured, holding up the copy of Dreams from My Father. She flicked through it idly. ‘Oh, look at that. A signed copy. Friends in high places.’
‘Not anymore. I bet he wouldn’t get a signature for Obama’s new book.’
Clover smiled, mollified by the thought. ‘True that.’
She picked up some loose papers and glanced at them – architect’s drawings for a house. Surprisingly twee, she thought, looking at the pillared porch.
She put everything back down thoughtfully. What did all this reveal about Kit Foley? He could actually read – fine, so he wasn’t a complete moron jock. He liked to associate with the great and the good – she already knew all about his ego. He was building a house. Okay, where? Was it simply an investment, or for him? Did he want to put down roots? He was thirty, no longer the teen sensation travelling the globe, breaking hearts and catching waves.
Johnny followed her into the bathroom. It positively gleamed. Towels were folded and hung on the heated rails. Clover looked at the products in the shower – local supermarket brands, nothing fancy. He used an electric toothbrush, the bristles bright and upright, suggesting the rotating head had seemingly recently been changed. ‘Looks after his teeth,’ she murmured. ‘Clearly likes his smile.’
‘I don’t think anyone would deny the guy’s got a killer smile, Clo.’
Clover looked back at him with narrowed eyes. ‘I would. He’s a snake.’
The contents of the bathroom cabinet were unremarkable. Paracetamol. Aspirin. Muscle rubs. Tubed support bandages. Some herbal remedies – echinacea, ginseng, St John’s wort . . .
‘Ugh . . . it’s all so . . . yawn . . .’ she hissed irritably.
‘We should probably shift and get back downstairs. They could be back any second,’ Johnny said nervously.
She looked around the space, feeling increasingly frustrated. Nothing that she could see revealed anything about the man. It was all so . . . unremarkable. And that was odd, because Kit Foley was many things, but unremarkable wasn’t one of them. There was no subversive reading material, no dodgy substances, not even a glimmer of bad taste. If this was a glimpse inside his head, there wasn’t much to see. Where was his personality?
‘Clo?’
‘Huh?’
‘Let’s not push our luck?’
‘Oh, yes . . . coming,’ she mumbled.
Johnny visibly relaxed as she walked silently over the plush carpet and he closed the bedroom door behind her with a soft click. Clover followed him down the stairs in pensive silence. If it had been a revelation, it had been for all the wrong reasons. She had spent the past half year studying this man; she knew his birthday, knew that he was a goofy-footer, allergic to shellfish, preferred blondes, idolized Bruce Lee, had a Hawaiian kākau tattoo on his left bicep, had torn his ACL in both legs . . . But having gone in hoping for added insight into a man she already knew so much about, she had come away somehow knowing less. He not only hadn’t conformed to expectations – he simply hadn’t been in there at all. It was troubling. If even in private he was hidden, how was she supposed to find him?
She had a sudden dread feeling that filming Kit Foley was going to be like getting a photograph of the invisible man.