Читать книгу The Honey Trap - Mary Baker Jayne - Страница 9

Angel woke with the taste of Seb still on her lips. The bed was warm, but he wasn’t there.

Had he gone into the other room? She called his name. No answer.

She rolled over on to her back and examined the carved white cornice around the ceiling as she took stock of herself. She had some idea she should feel guilty after the complete obliteration of her inhibitions last night, yet the thing had seemed so natural, somehow.

The whole experience felt dreamlike, looking back. Surreal. The second man she’d ever slept with and under such bizarre circumstances…

She’d known Leo for over a year before they’d started going out and it was months again until they’d started sleeping together. Yet last night she’d given herself to a stranger, another woman’s husband, who’d made her feel her needs completely synchronised with his. It had felt almost empathic, the way he’d touched her and anticipated everything she wanted from him. She hugged herself, thinking back to his touch on her skin, a dream now in her memory. And it seemed the dream and its subject had dissolved into nothing.

She snapped back to reality. What time was it? She pushed herself over on to her side and reached for her handbag to check her mobile. 10.15, shit! Checkout was at 11.00.

Swiping across the touchscreen, she read the text from Steve that had been waiting in her inbox since last night:

Done. And nice arse by the way.

Angel felt a sickening jolt as she remembered what was coming. It was Saturday today. Steve had told her the story would break in the Monday edition.

She thought of Seb’s electrifying touch, the comforting warmth of his body as he held her while she drifted into sleep, and of the pain he’d feel when he saw himself on the front page of the Investigator – how he’d despise her. She blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears she felt welling at the thought of the touch she’d never feel again and the man she was about to destroy.

Her gaze fell on a sheet of hotel notepaper next to her bag and she unfolded the note he’d left her:

Sorry had to shoot off, didn’t want to wake you. Loved spending time with you last night. Give me a call some time. Seb x. PS Make it soon.

And then a mobile number she knew she could never dial.

Get a grip, Angel. He’s married, for Christ’s sake. Just another cheating scumbag who can’t control himself. Now put it behind you and move on.

It was true; she knew it was. And yet she gave in and sobbed convulsively, pushing her face into his still-warm pillow until it was soaked through with her tears.

***

‘Hello?’ Angel called out, pushing open the door of the cheap-for-London two-bed flat she shared with Emily. She’d managed to shove everything into her overnight bag and check out of the hotel with minutes to spare, closing the door on the suite she’d come to both love and hate. She’d shot off a quick report to Steve from her mobile on the train home, a few observations on Seb’s mannerisms and behaviour, trying to keep it as brief and free from sordid detail as possible.

Her flatmate popped her head out of the kitchen and smirked, before pursing her lips into an expression of mock disapproval.

‘Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. And in the same clothes as she was wearing last night, no less. Just where do you think you’ve been, dirty stopout? I’ve a good mind to send you straight to your room.’

But her face fell as Angel burst into tears and flung herself forward into a hug.

‘God, Ange, what happened? Are you okay? Did he do something to you? Did Steve –’

Angel let out a bitter snort through her sobs. ‘Not them. It’s – it’s me. I’ve ruined everything.’

Emily made soft shushing sounds to her and stroked the back of her hair. Angel managed to choke back the sobs as her friend guided her to the black-leather sofa and sat down beside her, one arm around her shoulders.

‘Okay, drama queen, tell me the worst. How have you ruined everything?’

Angel sniffed and blew her nose into the tissue Emily passed her from a box on the coffee table. ‘God, it was the weirdest evening. I… slept with him, Em.’

‘Yeah, I’d kind of got that far on my own, sweetie. Not with that sleazoid Steve watching, though, I hope?’

‘No, I covered the camera after I got his text. Jesus, Em, it was unbelievable. It’s never been like that before, not even before me and Leo started having all the problems.’

‘That’s my girl.’ Emily gave the auburn head a fond pat. ‘Don’t you think you deserve a night of hot slutty sexifying after your gajillion years of being a born-again virgin? Why beat yourself up about it? You had a great night, you got your end away, minds were blown, the end. Put it behind you and get on with the rest of your life.’

Angel gave the pretty, hazel-eyed girl an envious glance. Ever since Emily’s marriage had broken up three years ago, it seemed like she’d decided life was too short for insecurities and done just exactly what she liked.

‘It’s not that, Em. It’s him. Seb. He was so… oh, I don’t know. It’s like there was this connection, or he could read my mind or something. And on Monday it’ll be all over the bloody Investigator and he’ll hate me forever. God, it’s a horrible idea, him thinking I was just some call girl sent to set him up.’

‘God, is that all?’ Emily gave her ash-blonde curls a disapproving shake. ‘You’re being too sentimental, sweetie. That’s what comes of swearing off men for two years. As soon as you finally let yourself have a bit of fun, it has to be bloody true love or something. Look, who cares what he thinks? Okay, so he’s earth-moving in bed, hung like a stallion, buttocks like two boiled eggs in a hanky, can push your every button, whatever. That doesn’t change the fact he cheated on his wife. Nice guys don’t do that: trust me, I should know. Just be grateful he won’t be in any position to break your heart, unlike that poor cow he’s married to.’

‘I guess… I mean, I know you’re right, but…’

Emily took Angel’s face in her hands and looked straight into her face. ‘Listen, Ange. You’re too good for creeps like that. And no offence, but you’re not tough enough for them. Look what happened with Leo. He was a nice guy, issues aside, but you spent so many years trying to ‘save’ him you nearly ruined your own life. I can’t see that happen again. Not to my best friend. Just chalk it up to experience and move on.’

Angel managed a watery smile. She could always trust Emily to give her better advice than she gave herself.

‘What do you mean, not tough enough? Bet I could kick your arse.’

‘Yeah, and don’t I know it? Look, here’s Groucho come to cheer you up.’

The big black cat leapt into Angel’s lap with a plaintive mawk of greeting. He must be the only cat in the world who mawked instead of mewed. Angel tickled him behind one ear and he purred happily, pawing her with his claws in a way that was not doing her now very much worse-for-wear dress any favours.

‘And I hereby declare this Saturday night to be girls’ night, with enough wine and chocolate to drown all woes,’ Emily said, brandishing her box of tissues like a snotty Statue of Liberty. ‘No boys allowed except for you, Groucho, and maybe a Hemsworth brother or two if they care to beat down our door.’

‘Don’t you have a date with Danny the tattooed love god?’

‘Oh, forget him, I’ll ring up and cancel. You know the rules: sisters before misters. Tell you what, I’ll even let you watch one of your soppy old films.’

‘The Apartment?’

‘Alright, alright, if the last 500 times weren’t enough for you to have learnt all the words off by heart. We’ll get the duvet from your room, get into our PJs and “chillax”, as I believe all the cool kids are saying nowadays. You go run yourself a bath. Give me a few hours to finish what I’m working on, then I’ll phone the pizza guy and we can crack open the booze.’

Thank God for Emily. Angel had no idea how she’d cope without her, but she knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

***

Groucho’s mournful wails the next morning created a throb of searing white light in Angel’s brain. She clutched her temples and groaned.

‘Alright, mawky, just give me a second.’ She reached blearily for the packet of cat biscuits on top of the fridge and spilled a load into and around his food bowl. ‘You have to be gentle with Mummy today. Nasty Aunty Emily’s given her the mother of all hangovers.’

The black cat showed what he thought of this state of affairs by fixing her with an intent stare for a second before turning around and starting to wash his crotch.

‘Disgusting moggy,’ she muttered, tickling his neck as she pushed past him into the sitting room and plonked herself down on the sofa.

Empty wine glasses and pizza boxes littered the pine coffee table in front of her. She groaned and pushed away the stray slice of half-eaten pepperoni offending her tender morning-after nostrils. Bleurghh. It felt like a woolly mammoth had crawled into her mouth a couple of millennia ago and gone extinct.

Emily had popped round the corner to the newsagents to get a couple of cans of Coke and some Alka-Seltzer, tripping off brightly into the sunshine while her friend flung four-letter curses at her and her sodding alcohol tolerance.

The buzz of Angel’s mobile sounded from somewhere and she flung away the detritus on the table until she found where it was hidden under an empty Maltesers packet. Emily. Probably ringing to tell her there was no Alka-Seltzer. That would be just about par for the course this weekend.

‘Ange, it’s in!’ She sounded panicked.

‘In? What do you mean, in?’ Then realisation dawned. ‘God, already? But the story wasn’t supposed to break until tomorrow! Steve must have rushed it through last night for the Sunday edition.’ She let out a heavy groan. ‘Break it to me gently, Em: how bad is it?’

‘Um, I think you’d better see for yourself. I’ll be back in five… my flame-haired temptress.’ Angel could almost hear her friend smirking down the phone. She frowned. Flame-haired temptress? What details exactly did this exclusive include?

Emily burst breathless through the door a few minutes later and chucked her over a copy of the Investigator. ‘Sorry, Ange, I know it’s probably the last thing you want to see in your delicate state. At least your face is hidden in the photos though. Not even your best friend would know it was you, present company excepted.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘Looks like you had one helluva night…’

Angel’s heart pumped in her throat as she scanned the front page.

Not one of Steve’s best headline efforts. He’d gone with ‘Unreal Titty’ – a pun on the name of Wilchester’s first film, Unreal City – emblazoned across a woman’s naked back. Hers. She winced deeply. A sub-head read ‘EXCLUSIVE: married director in steamy romp with mystery girl’.

You could see Seb’s face, contorted with passion, over her shoulder as she straddled him on the bed. She felt a zing through her body, remembering the thrill of sitting astride him and guiding him down into the crisp white sheets, panting and wet after their bath together –

Hang on.

‘Shit! Shit shit shit!’

‘Oh come on, it’s not as bad as all that –’ Emily began.

‘No, you don’t get it!’ Angel groaned. ‘That shot – how did he get that? I hung a towel over the mirror! It must have fallen – that perve!’

Emily’s eyes widened as she caught on.

‘Jesus, you don’t mean Steve watched it all!’

Angel bunched her fists into her eyes and moaned. As if anything was needed to make her humiliation more complete. Not only did she have one stonking bastard of a hangover. Not only was her bare backside splashed across the front page of a national newspaper for all to see. Not only had she, Angel Blackthorne, spent her Friday night having oral sex with a married stranger in a hotel room. But now it turned out her letchy old boss had watched the whole thing!

‘Oh God. I feel like I’m going to be sick.’

Emily patted her hair, putting on her best comforting tone. ‘Look, sweetie, it might seem like you want the earth to open right now, but give it a week and this’ll all be forgotten, I promise. Just tomorrow’s chip paper, right? And as for Steve, he’s sleazy, but he’s professionally sleazy. I’m sure it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, if that makes you feel any better.’

‘How the hell is that supposed to make me feel better?’ Angel gave another long, muffled groan, hiding her face in her hands. ‘Just leave me, Em, leave me to die…’

‘Oh come on. I didn’t spend my hard-earned wine drowning your sorrows just so you could have a relapse next day. Look, I’ll get some coffee on. That at least might help deal with the hangover part of your symptoms.’

Fighting the surge of nausea, Angel pulled the paper towards her and began to read with kamikaze resignation:

Film-making wunderkind Sebastian Wilchester – husband of top actress and former child star Carole Beaumont, best known for her role as little Caroline in ’90s sitcom Something About Sally – was last night caught on the other side of the cameras, romping with an unidentified redhead, possibly a vice girl, in a swanky London hotel suite.

The pair spent the evening glugging champagne and indulging in a marathon sex session in the hotel bath, while Beaumont was at home alone in the Wilchesters’ Kensington mansion.

Angel felt her cheeks blazing with anger and mortification. If she’d been in any doubt Steve had stayed for the whole show, it was now utterly squashed.

A red flash in the corner promised ‘MORE SAUCY PICS INSIDE! Continued on p26 and 27’.

She flicked in panic to the double-page spread and experienced a surge of relief when she saw that none of the photos showed her face or anything that could identify her. Steve may be a scumbag, but he had principles of sorts, and an absolute commitment to protecting his sources was foremost among them. Thank Christ she’d wimped out of getting that tattoo on her bum at uni, though.

Inset was a photo of Seb and his wife Carole on their wedding day, the bride glowing in a creamy silk and Seb beaming as he curled a protective arm around her. Angel felt a twinge of shame and guilt when she took in the couple’s bright, happy faces.

The article continued:

The Palme D’Or-winning screenwriter and director, pioneer of the East End Noir genre, has been dubbed the saviour of the British film industry and a modern-day Orson Welles since his breakthrough film, Unreal City, was released to critical acclaim when he was just 22.

Neither he nor his wife of six years, former childhood sweethearts, were available to comment when contacted by our reporter. However, their lawyer has issued a statement asking for the couple’s privacy to be respected at this difficult time.

Wilchester, 30, and Beaumont, 28, had just completed work on their forthcoming film, The Milkman Cometh – a rare foray into black comedy for the director and his wife/leading lady.

‘I didn’t realise who he was when he ordered a drink at the hotel bar,’ said our source, a hotel employee who witnessed the encounter between Wilchester and his flame-haired temptress. ‘But I saw him meet up with this girl and they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other. I don’t know but it looked like it had been arranged in advance, and I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He bought her a drink and they were flirting for a bit, then he went upstairs to her suite. The maid said he left looking dishevelled the next morning.’

Et tu, Brad the barman?

Angel sank down against the arm of the sofa and moaned softly. What an almighty mess she’d managed to make of her life, her love life and her career, and all in the space of one weekend! God only knew what the next day at work would bring, but a massive bollocking piece of her mind was definitely on an unstoppable collision course with Steve’s face.