Michael Robotham - Shatter

Eugene Franklin laughs along with the rest of them.

‘I want to personally thank Dirk for clinching our biggest deal. And I also want to thank the woman who helped him, the beautiful, talented and (another pause) multilingual Julianne O’Loughlin.’

Amid the applause and whistles, there are nudges and winks. Dirk and Julianne are summoned onto the staircase. She steps forward like a blushing bride, accepting the praise. Glasses are raised. A toast is given.

There’s no way of reaching her now. She’s caught in a public lovefest. Instead, I slip backward through the crowd and linger on the edge of the party.

My mobile phone is vibrating. Charlie’s mobile. I cup the phone to my ear, pressing the green button.

‘Hello,’ says Darcy, expecting my daughter. I can barely hear her over the noise.

‘Don’t hang up.’

She hesitates.

‘And don’t blame Charlie. I guessed.’

‘I want you to stop calling me and leaving messages.’

‘I just want to know you’re all right.’

‘I’m fine. Stop calling.’ My voice mailbox is being used up. It costs me money to collect your messages.’

Turning left past the cloakroom, I find an alcove beneath a set of stone stairs.

‘Just tell me where you are.’

‘No.’

‘Where are you living?’

‘With a friend.’

‘In London?’

‘Do you ever stop asking questions?’

‘I feel responsible-’

‘You’re not! OK? You’re not responsible. I’m old enough to look after myself. I got a job. I’m earning money. I’m going to dance.’

I tell her about Gideon Tyler. He could be the man she spoke to on the train when she came to London for her audition. The police need her to look at his photograph.

She contemplates what to do. ‘You won’t try to trick me?’

‘No.’

‘And you’ll stop calling me.’

‘As often.’

She ponders for a little longer. ‘OK. I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to go back to work now.’

‘Where are you working?’

‘You promised.’

‘OK. No questions.’

I wander back to the party, finding another drink and then another. I listen on the edges of conversations as men exchange views on the share market, the strength of the US dollar and ticket prices at Twickenham. Their wives and partners are more interested in private school fees and where they’re going to ski this winter.

Julianne’s arms slip around my waist.

‘Where have you been?’ she asks.

‘Around.’

‘You haven’t been hiding.’

‘No. Darcy called.’

Her eyes cloud momentarily, but she chases any doubts away.

‘Is she all right?’

‘She says so. She’s in London.’

‘Where is she staying?’

‘I don’t know.’

Julianne brushes her hands over her hips, smoothing her gown.

‘I love your dress. It’s stunning.’

‘Thank you.’

‘When did you get it?’

‘In Rome.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘It was my bonus.’

‘Dirk bought it for you?’

‘He saw me admiring it. I didn’t know he was going to buy it. He surprised me.’

‘A bonus for what?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You said it was a bonus.’

‘Oh, yes, for all the long hours. We worked so hard. I’m exhausted.’

She doesn’t seem to notice how hot it’s become in here and how difficult it is to breathe.

She takes my hand. ‘I want you to meet Dirk. I’ve told him how clever you are.’

I’m being led through the crowd. Bodies simply part. Dirk and Eugene are chatting to colleagues beneath the jaws of a dinosaur that looks ready to eat them. We wait and listen. Every one of Dirk’s utterances is a statement of personal principle: opinionated, loud and dogmatic. There’s a lull. Julianne fills it.

‘Dirk, this is Joe, my husband. Joe this is Dirk Cresswell.’

He has a fearsome grip; a finger crushing, show-me-the-whites-of-your-eyes sort of handshake. I try to match it. He smiles.

‘Do you work in finance, Joe?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

‘Very wise. What do you do? Oh, that’s right, I remember Jules mentioning that you were a shrink.’

I glance towards Julianne. Eugene Franklin has asked her something and she’s no longer listening.

Dirk suddenly turns his back to me. Not completely. A shoulder.

Others in the circle are more interesting or easier to impress. I feel like a footman, standing cap in hand, waiting to be dismissed.

A waiter passes with a tray of canapes. Dirk comments on the foie gras, which isn’t bad, he says, but he’s had better at a little restaurant in Montparnasse, a favourite of Hemingway’s.

‘It tastes pretty good if you come from Somerset,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ answers Dirk. ‘Thankfully, we’re not all from Somerset.’

It gets a laugh. I want to put a kink in his perfectly straight nose with my fist. He carries on talking about Paris in a voice full of privilege and bravado that cuts right through me and reminds me of everything I hate about bullies.

I drift away looking for another drink. I meet up with Flip again, who introduces me to her boyfriend, who’s a dealer.

‘Shares, not drugs,’ he says.

I wonder how many times he’s used that line.

By now I’ve passed from the tipsy state to being grimly drunk. I shouldn’t be drinking at all, but every time I contemplate switching to mineral water, I find another champagne flute in my hand.

Just before midnight I go looking for Julianne. I’m drunk. I want to leave. She’s not on the dance floor or beneath the dinosaur. I walk up the staircase and peer into dark corners. It’s crazy, I know, but I keep expecting to find her with Dirk’s tongue in her mouth and his hands in her dress. Surprisingly, I don’t feel angry or bitter. This is the materialisation of a certainty that has been with me for weeks.

I walk outside the main doors. There she is, backed up against a stone pillar. Dirk is in front of her with one hand braced against the stone cutting off her escape.

He spies me approaching. ‘Speak of the devil. Having a good time?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ I turn to Julianne. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I was looking for you. Dirk thought he saw you coming outside.’

‘No.’

Dirk’s hand slips down, touching her shoulder.

‘Please take your hand off her,’ I say, unable to recognise my own voice.

Julianne’s eyes go wide.

Dirk grins. ‘You seem to have the wrong end of the stick, my friend.’

Julianne tries to laugh it off. ‘Come on, Joe, I think it’s time to go. I’ll get my coat.’

She ducks under his arm. Dirk looks at me with a mixture of pity and triumph.

‘Too much champagne, my friend. It happens to the best of us.’

‘I’m not your friend. Don’t touch my wife again.’

‘My apologies,’ he says. ‘I’m a very tactile person.’ He holds up his hands as though producing the evidence. ‘Sorry if there’s been a misunderstanding.’

‘There is no misunderstanding,’ I reply. ‘I know what you’re doing. So does everyone else here. You want to sleep with my wife. Maybe you already have. And then you’ll swagger off and brag about it to your clubster mates on golfing weekends to the Algarve or shooting weekends in Scotland.

‘You’re “Mr Hole in One”. You’re “Dead-Eye Dirk”. You flirt with other men’s wives and then take them to dinner at Sketch and back to a little boutique hotel in London which has matching robes and an oversized bath with a spa.

‘You try to impress them by name-dropping- first names only of course: Nigella and Charles, Madonna and Guy, Victoria and Davidbecause you think it’s going to make you more attractive to these women, but underneath that sun-bed tan and sixty-quid haircut you’re an overpaid glorified salesman, who can’t even sell himself.’