Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

‘You’ll be fine,’ Maggie said briskly as the rolling shutter descended behind us.

‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’ It was always like this before the start of a new job. My stomach chewing itself into knots, convinced that this time I would be exposed for the fraud I was.

Pete had hardly been reassuring the night before. ‘Why are you getting so worked up?’ he’d said. ‘She’s just some scummy bimbo. I’ve had dogs with more about them than her. If somebody like that is capable of putting you on the back foot, maybe you should think about jacking it in.’

‘Jacking it in? What would I do then?’

His eyebrows flickered. I loved his eyebrows; so straight and fine, not thick and coarse like most men’s. I always thought they were surprisingly expressive. Beneath them, his brown eyes looked like they were weighing me up. I felt uncomfortable, as if I were being scrutinised and found wanting. ‘You could be here when I get home,’ he said. It was hard to tell from his voice whether he was serious.

‘You want this to be your home?’ We hadn’t actually talked about living together before. Not in so many words.

‘I’d like you to be waiting for me when I get back from work,’ he said carefully, his face giving nothing away.

‘When you’re in the middle of something, I never see you,’ I said. ‘You work such weird hours, I never know when to call you. If I was supposed to be here when you get back from work, I’d never be able to leave the house, never mind do my job.’ I tried to keep my voice light and teasing but the anxiety was running through me like a wire.

Pete shrugged. ‘At least then I’d never be wondering where you’ve got to.’ And then he turned and kissed me, which led straight to the sort of distraction that completely removed the conversation from the front of my mind. But now it was back again, feeding the niggle of apprehension about my encounter with Scarlett. Looking back, I realise how undermining Pete could be. Always was, really. But back then, I couldn’t see it. Just felt the effects. So when Maggie and I got out of the car, my confidence wasn’t at its peak.

We entered the hacienda through the kitchen. I expected brushed steel and granite, in keeping with the age and style of the house, but the first incongruity of the day was the cream and pine of a Cotswold cottage kitchen, complete with the enamelled range cooker. Behind closed doors, there would be a fridge, freezer and microwave. But you’d never guess which ones. Everything was spotless, immaculately arranged like the display in a kitchen showroom. The room smelled of citrus and herbs from one of those sprays that cost a small fortune in South Molton Street. ‘Not a cook, then,’ Maggie said drily.

A skinny young woman in jeans, high-heeled boots and a skinny-rib sweater clattered in through the door at the far end of the kitchen. ‘Stephanie?’ she said, looking at Maggie.

‘I’m Stephanie,’ I said. ‘This is Maggie, my agent.’

Flustered, she nodded frantically. ‘I’m Carla. I’m with George’s agency.’

‘Ah. New girl, eh?’ Maggie smiled. ‘You’ll soon pick it up.’

Carla gave a frightened rabbit smile. ‘Scarlett and George are waiting for you in the den.’ She led us down a wide hallway that opened into a white cube with a sunken seating area arranged round a fire pit where gas-fuelled flames flickered. The room fragrance here was more floral but just as fake.

Scarlett and her agent were lounging on white leather sofas with cow-hide throws. The walls featured decorative displays of longhorn skulls, interspersed with sub-O’Keeffe Western landscapes. A long way sub. It felt much more Essex than Texas. If I’d been Scarlett, I’d have stripped it right out. All it did was draw attention from her, and that’s never what minor celebrities are aiming for.

But Scarlett was what I was interested in, so I dragged my gaze from the décor to her. Her hair had been expertly coloured, highlights and lowlights coming together to produce a natural-seeming cascade of dark-blonde hair. To my surprise, she wasn’t slathered in make-up – just a slash of dark-red lipstick and a coat of mascara to emphasise the blue of her eyes. The spray tan, which I assumed was top-to-toe, filled in the rest. She was wearing a red muscle T-shirt that showed off full breasts and the rise of her pregnant belly. Her legs were covered in loose grey sweatpants. Her feet were bare, but her toenails were painted the same shade as her lipstick. She didn’t look like a reality TV show slapper. From somewhere, Scarlett had dredged up a whiff of sophistication.

George struggled to his feet as soon as we walked in, but Scarlett didn’t budge, making us come to her. George ran through the introductions with his usual urbanity. Scarlett slipped warm, dry fingers into my hand and withdrew them almost as quickly. She didn’t say anything, just tipping her head and squeezing out a meaningless smile. I think I’m pretty good at pulling something useful from first impressions, but with Scarlett, I got nothing to add to what I’d already gleaned from my research. I was intrigued, and that was enough to stifle my anxiety. Never mind the cat, curiosity’s always killed my collywobbles.

‘So, what we’re here for is to iron out the fine print of our agreement,’ George said once we were all settled in the enveloping sofas and Carla had been dispatched to produce coffee.

‘Well, not quite, Georgie boy,’ Scarlett said, the hard drawl of her Leeds accent noticeable even in those few words. ‘The first thing we’re here for is to see if I want to work with Stephanie. ’Cos if we don’t hit it off, there’s not gonna be no agreement.’ She was much more assertive than I’d expected.

It was George’s turn for the meaningless smile. ‘Naturally, my dear. Stephanie, perhaps you could outline your working methods for Scarlett’s benefit?’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Scarlett said. ‘Me and Steph here, we need to get to know each other without you two breathing down our necks. Georgie, you and Maggie might as well go back to London and sort yourselves out there. I’ll take care of Steph.’ She stood up and made a shooing motion with her hands. ‘Go on. Bugger off, the pair of you.’ She turned to me and jerked her head towards the far end of the room. ‘Come on. Let’s get our kit off and get to know each other.’ And off she walked, as if there was no need for further discussion.

4

It turned out a lot less scary than it sounded. Scarlett had a swimming pool. Well, of course she did. And a Jacuzzi, and a sauna and a gym. What every well-dressed Essex hacienda is wearing. I followed her to the back of the house and through a double door that acted as an airlock for the smell of pool chemicals. In a changing room heavily fragranced with cedar and vanilla, Scarlett flung open a locker to reveal a selection of identical black one-piece swimsuits on hangers. ‘There’s a full set of sizes from ten to twenty,’ she said. ‘Help yourself.’

With the complete lack of self-consciousness that comes from having been drunk and naked on the nation’s TV screens, she stripped off and slipped into a turquoise and blue suit. She looked surprisingly toned and fit, which made the gentle swell of her four-month pregnancy seem incongruous. I’d been right about the all-over spray tan, though.

I didn’t share Scarlett’s ease at public nakedness so I stepped into a curtained cubicle to undress. By the time I emerged, she was ploughing up and down the ten-metre pool in a ragged but effective crawl. I sat on the edge and dangled my legs in the water. I reckoned it wouldn’t hurt to give Scarlett the initiative and see where it took us. There would come a point where I would need to draw my own lines. If she couldn’t stick to that, it was as well to find out now, while I could still walk away.