Читать книгу House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist - E. Seymour V. - Страница 12

The fucking bastard, I rail to the cold night air. Unable to take it in, I stumble through dark wet streets. Planning to berate him with obscenities, I phone Tom’s cell phone mobile but nothing happens. Must be switched off. I can’t even let him have it and tell him exactly what I think of his lousy behaviour.

Torturing myself, I obsess about the recent past. Were there signs I failed to spot? Like the night he was exhausted and didn’t want to be intimate and made me feel a fool for trying to initiate sex? Did I really put him under pressure to go to the magazine party? I’m full of things I’d like to say and do to him. I’m not a violent person. It’s against everything I believe in, yet for his cruelty and his cowardice, at this precise moment I’d like to beat the living crap out of him.

To think that only this morning we made love in the sitting room, or would it be more appropriate to say that we ‘had sex’? Thundering with alcohol, rage and confusion, and without any recollection of where I’m heading, I plunge down to the centre of town, past shops and restaurants at full tilt and feel such an overwhelming sensation of desertion that it mangles me. With sharp and penetrating focus, my minds reels back to how we met.

It was Vick’s idea to use an internet dating site. With hindsight, and given Tom’s general avoidance of social media, it seems paradoxical. Did it for a laugh, I remember without mirth. Most of Vick’s dates were either fully functioning alcoholics or gym-mad narcissists. One looked nothing like his photograph, another had dog’s breath. According to Vick, every male expected her to perform a sex act on him on a first date. Meanwhile, I land Tom Loxley. Burning at the memory, I press my hand to my lips to force down the dry cry that threatens to escape.

He looked so gorgeous and rock-solid dependable and all I could dream of in a guy.

Smothering my distress, I consider going to Vick’s. Except Reg is probably already there, feeding his face. The thought of both of them dispensing tissues and sympathy is more than I can bear, but I can’t go back home. Instead, I take a minor diversion and head to Bayshill, with its white-stuccoed houses, and beyond to leafy residential Overton Park. The hotel and restaurant where Tom works is tucked away, its short forecourt crammed with cars screened from the road by laurel. I weave a path around them to the back entrance.

Sure enough, there are two sous-chefs working at a manic pace, and a lad, no more than eighteen, pot-washing. I don’t hang around. “Is Tom here?” I ask.

Three men stop what they are doing and swivel their gaze to me. I feel as if Tom’s name is the equivalent of uttering a profanity.

The eldest of the three by at least fifteen years, a man with a greasy complexion and eyes the colour of pebbles, steps forward. He doesn’t look friendly. “Handed in his notice.”

“Well at least he wasn’t scheduled to work tonight,” the lad chips in, eliciting a dirty look from Grease-face. “It’s true,” he bites back, giving the impression that he can be subjugated in a kitchen environment but not outside it. I briefly wonder how long he’ll last.

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

“What’s it to you?”

I turn to the second chef. Silent until now, he stands, watching me like I’m the dish of the day. “I’m his girlfriend,” I say with a pleasant smile, even though it near kills me. It isn’t reciprocated.

“Left you in the lurch, has he?” He runs his hands down his apron in a suggestive manner. Creepy sod.

Grease-face intervenes, the self-elected spokesman. “Tom isn’t here. That’s all we have to say.”

My eyes scope the kitchen. Food piled high. Unwashed plates. Hobs and workstations all in need of a good clean. Nothing like the glam disorganisation of TV cookery shows.

“Could be on a bender. It happens. Maybe he’ll come back.”

I look at the young guy who spoke and is doing his best to make me feel better. The second chef is still stripping me with his gaze. The tip of his tongue touches the corner of his mouth, as if he imagining what I might taste like.

I force a smile. “Sorry to have bothered you.” My shoulders round. My hands plunge into my pockets as I back out and exit.

Fuming, I walk slowly, head down. A fast footfall behind me, I twist around into a fug of cigarette smoke that darts straight into my eyes. It’s the young guy. “Fag break,” he grins, jabbing the air with a lit cigarette. “My name’s Stevie, by the way.”

“Thanks, Stevie, I really appreciate what you did in there.” I look furtively in the direction of the kitchen. “I don’t want you getting into trouble on my account.”

“Fuck ‘em. They don’t own me.”

Telling the world to screw itself is the luxury of naïve youth. How much I miss it. Being dumped makes me feel spectacularly middle-aged. “Mind me asking why they are so defensive?”

“Easy.” He takes another drag. “Chef runs a little business on the side. Not that I’m knocking it. Cooking is a high-pressure game.” I ignore the pun because I’m staggered by what Stevie, so like my brother, infers.

“Drugs?”

“Blow, uppers, downers, you name it. For the right price he can get you anything.”

My thoughts spiral. I remember Vick’s perception of Tom as a nervy guy. I recall Reg’s declaration that Tom bummed smokes off him. “Was Tom taking anything?”

“Reddys.”

“Speed?” I splutter.

“Red capsules, amphetamines,” he expands.

How could I miss something like this? “Did he take them often?”

“All the time. Good for your confidence, although the headaches can be a bit of a fucker.” He blows out another cloud of smoke, narrows his eyes, reading me. “You really his girlfriend, then?”

Angry tears brim to the surface of my eyes in response.

“Harsh,” he says. “Might have been a bit contained, private like, but I reckon he was fond of you.” Fond, but not in love with. “He hated working really late because it meant you were on your own, see?”

I’m puzzled. “That worried him?”

“Proper mind-fuck.”

“Was he jealous?”

“Tom?” He snorts with a loose grin. “No way. Cared. You on your own and that.” He says it with emphasis as if I am dim as well as deaf. Again, I feel all of my thirty-seven years.

“Ever thought he was about to flit?”

“Not really.” Which is not the same as no.

I hike an eyebrow. “Another woman?”

Stevie pauses. “If there was, he never said.”

“So?”

Stevie looks left and right as if he expects Tom to stride out of the darkness. “He wanted me to do something for him, couple of weeks ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Asked me to buy contact lenses off the net.”

My mouth screws into a frown. “Tom never mentioned a problem with his eyesight.”

“Nah, you know, the ones that change your eye colour.”

Disguise, I think with a thud. ‘For what?’, I say.

“He wanted blue. Tom had– ”

“Brown eyes, I know.” I baulk. By chucking simple details in the air, the bigger picture is about to come crashing down, gashing open my scalp badly enough to require ten stitches.

“Did Tom have enemies?” I’m scrabbling for something tangible to grab hold of, something that makes sense and provides a lead.

Stevie hitches a shoulder. “Never said.”

“Anyone he had a problem with, someone he disliked?”

Stevie considers, his face serious, and then breaks into a stupendous smile. “Yeah, actually.”

“Who?” I catch my breath. Could this be the breakthrough I’m looking for?

“Frank Sinatra. Couldn’t fucking stand him. Shit,” he says, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with the heel of his trainer. “Gotta get back.”

“Thanks,” I call after him, dazed. Like quicksilver, he’s already gone.