Simon Beckett - Owning Jacob - SA

“Are you going to do anything about Kale?”

“We’ll look into it. Goodbye.”

“Hang on—!” Ben began, but Carlisle had already hung up. “Bastard!”

There was a crack of plastic as Ben struck the phone against the dashboard. He subsided, then smashed it down twice more, each time harder, and flung it on to the passenger seat. He stared through the windscreen, incensed.

He visualised walking into Carlisle’s office, kicking his desk over, banging the man’s head against the wall until it was bloodied and crushed.

Then he thought about Kale, and considered walking into the scrapyard to face him. He imagined knocking him down, incapacitating him with a kick to his crippled knee, towering victoriously over his beaten figure, but even his anger wasn’t enough to make that seem credible. With a cold breath of realism his temper was snuffed out and left him back in the car, impotent and bleak.

Brooding, he glared at the gates.

It was the rumble of his stomach that roused him. He stirred, stiff and uncomfortable. The rumble came again. It occurred to him that he was hungry, and with that realisation he suddenly remembered what he should be doing.

Oh Christ, he thought, the shoot!

He looked at his watch, swore, and reached for his mobile.

The sight of it lying smashed on the seat next to him was like a smug chastisement. He tried it anyway. Dead. He threw it down and scrambled to start the ignition. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

There was an irate blare of horn as he shot out into the road. He ignored it and tore back the way he’d come, praying for a phone box. But there was nothing except fields and fences.

He reached the junction where he’d seen Kale’s car, decided to go into Tunford to find a phone and changed his mind at the last moment, raking the corner in a squeal of rubber. The car vibrated as he hammered down the outside lane. He was making good time until he neared London, where the traffic thickened to the consistency of sludge.

When he reached the studio there were no parking spaces, and he had to meander further and further away before he found one.

He ran back to the building and pounded up the stairs.

He was breathless and sweating as he burst through the door, the apology ready on his lips. Zoe looked up from where she was sitting reading a magazine. There was no one else in the room.

He stood in the doorway, panting. “Where are they?” Zoe went back to the magazine, idly flicking over the page. “Gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“They didn’t say. Somewhere there’s a photographer, I expect.”

“Fuck.” He sagged against the door. “Couldn’t you have told them to wait?”

She flung the magazine down and jumped up. “What the fuck do you think I did? It’s half past fucking two, Ben! Where the hell have you been?”

He closed the door. “I got delayed.”

“Delayed? Well, that’s just fucking great! You get delayed, so I have to make excuses, get yelled at over the phone by the fucking photo editor — who, by the way, says he’s going to bill you for the models’ time — and look like a fucking idiot because I don’t have a clue where you are! You weren’t at your flat, I couldn’t get you on your mobile! I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do?”

His throat ached. He wiped the sweat from his mouth. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I, Ben.” She raised her hand, let it fall as though abandoning whatever else she had been going to say. “I mean, what the fuck’s the matter with you lately? It isn’t just today. All I seem to be doing is apologising and making excuses for you. You’re turning up late, you’re forgetting things. You don’t even concentrate when you’re on a shoot! You just don’t seem to give a shit any more!”

“Look I know I fucked up, I’ve apologised, let’s forget about it.”

“No, let’s not!” she flared. “I’ve been ignoring it for weeks! I’m getting sick of it!”

“Well, fuck off, then — nobody’s making you stay!”

Her face went white. She stared at him, then went to where her coat was hanging.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said.

She ignored him, picked up her bag from the sofa.

“I didn’t mean it, all right?”

She went around him to the door.

“Zoe...” He put his hand on her arm. She shrugged it off, not looking at him. “Look, come on...” He reached for her again.

“Don’t touch me, you bastard!” Her mouth was set and trembling. He could see that her eyes were wet.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you fucking shouldn’t.”

“Can I move away from the door now, or are you still going to walk out?”

She moved back into the room. She dropped her bag on the sofa and stood in front of him, waiting sullenly.

Ben ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it from where it was stuck to his forehead. It had taken it weeks to grow back after he’d had it cropped. “I know I’ve been a bit unreliable lately...” Zoe gave a snort. “...and I know it’s given you a hard time. It’s just that I’ve had a lot on my mind, and there’s a few personal things I need to sort out. But I promise I’ll try and get my shit together in future, okay?”

She looked at him, unimpressed. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on! You suddenly start carrying a big bastard of a telephoto lens around with you, you’re never at home, you’re always turning up late and rushing off somewhere. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to guess what you’re doing.”

And you thought you were being so subtle.

To give himself time he took off his coat and hung it up. Underneath, his shirt was plastered to his back. He pulled it away from his skin.

“They don’t deserve to have him.”

Zoe didn’t bother to ask who he was talking about. “It’s a bit late to decide that, isn’t it? I’m sorry, and everything, but they’ve got him. You’re just going to have to live with it.”

Ben shook his head.

“So what good is spying on them with a telephoto lens going to do?”

He didn’t answer.

“Fucking hell, Ben, can’t you see you’re getting obsessed? And while you’re playing at peeping Tom your career’s going down the fucking tubes!”

“It’s not that bad,” he said, stung, but he wasn’t sure which part he was denying. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.

“Isn’t it? And what’s it going to achieve?”

“I want him back.”

It was the first time he had admitted it, even to himself.

He felt a superstitious unease at having finally voiced the hope, as though now the gods, providence and pure shitty luck would conspire against it.

Zoe seemed about to argue further, but then abruptly gave up. She flopped down on to the sofa. “I just hope you know what you’re fucking doing.”

So do I .

Ben went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of water. Zoe watched him, worriedly chewing a nail. “Is there anything I can do?”

The offer touched him. “Thanks, but you’ve put up with enough already.”

She nodded, but still seemed abstracted. “Can I ask a favour, then?”

“Yeah, sure. What?”

“The shoot tomorrow. Do you mind if I don’t stick around after I’ve helped you set it up?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” he said, eager to appease. He refilled the glass. “Have you got something else on?”

She studied her bitten fingernail. “Not really. It’s just that Daniel’s one of the models, and I’d rather not see him.” She gave a shrug that was meant to be unconcerned. “We had a big row last week.”

It took a few seconds for him to realise what she was talking about. The model who had given Zoe a lift home from the shoot on the beach had been called Daniel. Ben hadn’t known he was involved in the next day’s shoot — or if he had he’d forgotten. He’d even less idea that Zoe had continued seeing him.