2 weeks earlier
The radiators began to creak as though waking up. He unscrewed a bottle of wine, pouring it into two plastic cups from the bathroom. The routine was so mechanical, predictable, she used it to get to sleep at night.
But everything—the routine, this hotel, this warped dance—was about to change, the way things often did in September. He just didn’t know it yet, even though he thought he did.
“Here’s to being free,” he said, touching his cup to hers. “My wife’s finally asked for a divorce.”
“That’s so sad. But if that’s what you wanted, then I’m pleased for you.”
“And for you.”
How? So much delusion, denial. They hadn’t even slept together. Nine months of teasing, sexy pics, and in return he’d emptied his savings accounts, buying her gifts, giving her cash handouts when she said she was short.
It was so easy to resell the stuff. He never even had the sense to ask where the jewelry was, or the handbags, lingerie. It didn’t seem to occur to him that she was still wearing charity shop castoffs.
He never saw the details, didn’t want to see them. To him, she was an orgasm he’d willingly anticipate for the rest of his life. She knew there were rich men out there who mailed gifts to girls in exchange for photos, not even pornographic ones—tasteful, stockings and suspenders. A virtual girlfriend who would never hold them accountable, ask questions. A blow-up doll, with her own postal address.
He was one of these fantasists, inventing stories in his own mind. Yet, now he was getting ahead of himself, as though they actually had a future. It almost made her feel sorry for him. He was way more lost than he looked.
“I’m going to tell her about us soon.” He kissed her forehead in a way that felt surprisingly affectionate. “I just have to time it right. But she’s suspicious, knows I’m seeing someone.”
You don’t say.
“I hope she won’t be too upset,” she said.
“Nah. She’ll be fine. Tough as old boots.”
She hoped no one described her like that one day. Yet, in some ways it was a compliment. Better that than fragile.
“So, now you’re on your feet, you’re definitely going to stay in the area, yes?” he asked, sitting on the bed beside her, pillows propped behind them. The headboard was lumpy; she shifted position, hoping he wouldn’t touch her. She was wearing a long dress with a side slit like a banana being peeled. He liked that slit, kept eyeing it.
She wasn’t going to answer that question.
“Is your apartment somewhere local?”
Nor that one.
“Maybe near the harbor?”
Same.
“I’ve got one for you,” she said, rolling onto one arm to look at him. “Why do all this?”
“What, help you out, keep you safe?” he said. “I suppose because you didn’t have anyone else to turn to. I wasn’t going to let you fall on the mercy of those disgusting flabby rich men. You’re too good for that.”
She smiled; he was a real hero.
“Plus, I enjoy your company,” he said, running his hand up her leg, tracing the slit in her dress. “Even though you’re mysterious…but maybe that’s part of the appeal.” He kissed her shoulder, lifted her hair to nuzzle her neck.
She wriggled away, picking up her wine. “But everything you’ve been spending… It’s such a lot.”
“It’s only money. It doesn’t mean anything. Gabby wanted it for the kids’ investments, but—”
“Gabby?” She turned to look at him. “She’s called Gabby?”
He frowned. “Yes. Why?”
“You haven’t mentioned her name before, that’s all.”
“Well, I wouldn’t, would I.”
She sipped her wine, drawing her knees to her chest. “So, what’s she like, aside from tough as boots?”
That wasn’t how Gabby had come across three nights ago at the bar—so miserable about her daughter leaving. There hadn’t been anything tough about her at all. It had been sad to see.
“My wife?” He looked taken aback.
“Well, yeah, she’s a person, isn’t she?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to discuss her here, with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because…she’s…” Irritated, he picked up his wine. “Let’s just change the subject. How’s work going?”
“Not too bad.”
“Well, just say the word if you need anything.”
“It’s okay,” she said, using her best purry voice. “You’ve done more than enough, Freddy.”
He so wasn’t a Freddy. But he seemed to like it.
“And I’ll do more still, if it means keeping you here with me.”
She tried to look pleased about that. “So the money…it’s from your kids’ investments?”
He played with the strap on her dress, slipping his finger underneath it. “They’ll be fine, Ellis, if that’s what you’re getting at. The house is worth six million and that was two years ago. How much more of an investment do they need?”
She looked shocked, lifting her eyebrows. “Six mill? I had no idea!”
“That’s nothing around here. Trust me, we’re the poor ones along our street.”
She played with her necklace, biting the cheap metal. “Still, that’s a lot of money. So…when you split up, who’ll get the house?”
“Well, that’s the big question.” He smiled, edging closer. “Why, are you saying you’d like to live there with me?” he murmured, tickling her ribs.
“Oh, my gosh, no!” she said, giggling, something she never did.
“Seriously though, why not? You’d love the pool. I can see you there, sunning yourself… Let’s buy you a sexy bikini, a gold string…”
“But your wife wants the house. She’ll never let it go.”
She watched his reaction, the hardening of his expression, the recoiling motion. “How do you know that?”
She shrugged, her strap falling from her shoulder. She let it dangle, an invitation. “It’s obvious. Women always fight for their homes, especially ones worth six million.”
He was looking at her skeptically, wavering, and then decided with a grunt that she was right.
“Were you ever happy there?” she asked, running her hand across his chest.
“For a while…” he said.
“So, what happened?”
“Oh, just life… Kids… Aging…”
“So, you looked for happiness elsewhere?”
He loosened his tie. “I guess.”
“With younger women? I mean, they do it for you then?”
“Not in a pervy way.” He traced the rim of his cup round and round with his finger. “But it happens to everyone in midlife—the siren call of youth.”
“Siren call?” she echoed, acting thick.
He looked at her. “It means wanting something, being pulled toward it.”
“Oh.”
“You’ll understand some day.” He pursed his lips in contemplation. “Death looks a lot closer after fifty. Suddenly you start backpedaling away from old age. Women do it through their kids, oversharing, meddling. And men… Well…” He turned to her, raised his glass. “Case in point.”
“So you cheat because you don’t want to get old? You don’t want to die?”
“Does anyone?”
She looked away, up at the decorative plasterwork on the ceiling—leaves, flowers, circles. She thought of the neck ache, craftsmanship, hours spent; how thousands of people came and went without even looking up at it. “So why doesn’t every man go off with a young woman?”
She already knew the answer—knew it was the same reason why one man labored on the ceiling and another lay on his back with a hooker on his balls. But she wanted to hear it anyway.
He took a long time to reply. “Some of us are braver than others.”
She tried to assess whether he was being sarcastic, funny. Yet, he seemed to mean it.
He actually thought this was brave.
* * *
She woke at first light, stepping into her heels. He joined her at the window, arms draped over her front. He was so tall he could rest his chin on her head. “The offer’s there,” he said. “A gold bikini, the pool, a beautiful house…”
Six million.
“That would only happen if she dropped dead.”
“Well, I could always ask her if she’d oblige,” he replied.
She smiled to herself, swiveled on her heel to kiss his cheek. “See you soon.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Bye, Freddy,” she said, almost giving herself away by casting a glance around the room that she would never set foot in again.
Outside, she felt the first chill of autumn. Drawing her coat around her, she began to run quietly to the bus stop. She couldn’t run all the way in heels, didn’t want to risk injury, so stopped when she got near the cobblestones, walking fast instead.
She always smelled the old fishnets before she saw them, before the building came into sight, a poster hanging off the wall like a flopping tongue. The fire door was open, brick in place, liked she’d hoped it would be. It meant Guts was here. She didn’t want to be alone for this, needed backup. He’d never indicated he would ever help or had any interest in her at all, save for the fact that she was here every day, wasn’t any trouble, ran her classes in a corner of his boxing training room, giving him a cut of her takings and always on time too.
“Morning, psycho,” he said.
She went to her crate, got her clothes, changed behind the screen. She felt sluggish today. The pull-up bar didn’t seem appealing, but she made herself do it anyway. By the time she’d finished, she hoped he was here. But he wasn’t.
The treadmill was still broken, so she made for the rowing machine, one eye on the door. As she pulled the sticky handles, the dark rope straining, she tried to ignore the irregular beat of her heart, the dizziness. It was just adrenaline, the increase of blood in her brain and muscles, sugar levels rising, preparing her for fight-or-flight.
The door darkened and there he was. He didn’t speak, went to his fruit crate, which seemed demeaning for someone like him, the tiger on the back of his jacket appearing as he squatted to pick up his gear.
He wouldn’t want her to talk to him while he was changing, or while lifting weights, or when he was all sweaty and done. He wouldn’t want to talk to her at any point. But she’d thought of a way around that—had thought of barely anything else.
In here, she had always been the girl no one wanted to talk to because she would bite their hand. No one had seen her in any other light. It was time to give them something different.
She stopped rowing, the mechanism whirring, then flapped her baggy T-shirt. Too hot, she wrestled out of her top, flinging it down. Underneath, she was wearing a sports bra, sculpting leggings.
Slowly, she picked up her bottle, drinking from it, ribs protruding. Then she looked round the room as though coming back to her senses, glancing down at herself self-consciously, making her way to the weights.
He was watching her in the mirror as she approached, his teeth clenched as though bolted. She leaned against the wall, taking another drink of water.
Guts was watching them both, towel around his neck, ready to leave and go next door, wondering whether to do so and miss this.
“I heard you’ve got a gun,” she said.
He carried on lifting, beads of sweat escaping, running into his eyes.
“And that you’re handy with a blade?” she said. “How much to do a job for me?”
He knew what she was asking. There was a creaking as Guts moved his feet.
“Twenty K.” His voice was squashed between lifts. “Never mind how.”
Exactly what she’d heard. Exactly what she had.
“Cash up front,” he added.
She picked up a small dumbbell, taking it to the mat in the darkest corner, starting a Russian Twist. His face was clouded, distracted by the disappointment of not being able to see her anymore.
Lifting her legs, she held the dumbbell before her, twisting from side to side.
It took him much longer than she’d thought. She had finished her mat work, was wondering what to do next, when he approached, armpits glistening. He squatted down again, like a sumo wrestler. “You good for the money?”
Guts was pretending to tidy up, pushing crates together, straightening them. There was a noise behind them as he kicked a crate into place.
“Yes,” she replied, sitting cross-legged, arms behind her, body on display.
“Okay.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Who?”
“I’ll give you the details. But I need you to be one hundred percent accurate, no mistakes, no trace what-so-ever.” She dragged out the syllables.
This angered him. He twitched his chin brusquely. “Who d’you think I am? This ain’t no hobby.”
“Just checking,” she said.
He pulled a small book and pen from his pocket, threw them onto her mat. “Write it down.” He glanced all around him. “No trace.”
She propped the book on her knee, began to write, thinking of the hands that had touched this pen and pad before her. “There you go.”
He read it. “Bring the cash tomorrow.” The book went back in his pocket and then he left, kicking the brick behind him so they knew he was gone, the fire door slamming shut.
Guts approached, a vein snaking across his forehead. “What the hell was that? What you playing at, eh? Eh?”
She let him cluck on as she collected her things, packing up her fruit crate.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, because he doesn’t mess around!” He followed her across the room, agitated, hopping from foot to foot.
“That’s good,” she said, pushing down on the bar to open the fire door. “Because neither do I.”
Outside, it was cloudy. As Guts unlocked the training room, she surveyed the harbor, looking at the oily water, the seagulls pecking bins.
“You must have a death wish or summat, talking to him,” Guts went on, feeling for the light switch. “No wonder they call you psycho.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, heading toward her corner to set up the mats for her class. “No wonder.”
They called her that just because she was better than them at pull-ups. It made them feel better about themselves, believing she was mentally imbalanced. Whereas in actual fact they had no idea who she was, no idea at all.