Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

I returned the embrace. ‘Of course you can.’

We were halfway down the hall, nattering about when we’d see each other again, when the front door opened. Pete took a step inside then stopped dead. His face gave nothing away. That was never a good sign. Scarlett stepped back and somehow in the narrow hallway I managed the introductions. Pete grunted in response, but Scarlett either didn’t notice or didn’t care. ‘You got a good one there, mate,’ she told him as she squeezed past him to the door. ‘You want to take care of that one. See you, Steph.’ And she was gone, leaving only a whiff of Scarlett Smile in the air behind her.

It would be fair to say that Pete wasn’t best pleased by my new best friend. He seemed affronted that I would want to be pals with someone I’d come to know through ghosting them. No, that’s not quite true. If it had been a politician or someone else with status and power, he’d have been happy to include them in our circle. But all he could see was the Scarlett Harlot and all that went with that image.

‘People make judgements about us by the company we keep,’ he said patiently, as if he was explaining to a child. ‘I don’t want them misjudging you because you’re choosing to be with her. Everybody knows she’s racist and homophobic and thick as a brick—’

‘And they’re wrong. That’s not who she is. It’s who she’s chosen to portray.’

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter whether they’re right or wrong. What matters is how people view her. They think she’s a contemptible slapper. And that should be enough to keep you away from her. You’ve got nothing in common with her, Stephanie.’

‘I like her.’

‘I like Reginald D. Hunter, but I don’t want him in my kitchen.’

‘Who’s the racist now?’ I tried to sound light-hearted, but Pete didn’t see the funny side.

‘Don’t try to be clever,’ he said, going to the fridge and taking out a bottle of beer. ‘I’m only thinking of you.’

I knew that was a big fat lie. He was only thinking of himself. Concerned that people would judge him because of the company I kept. But I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. It would only end with bad feeling and I hated to see the hurt in his eyes when he was upset. ‘I’ll make sure your paths don’t cross in future,’ I said.

Evidently I hadn’t managed to sound conciliatory enough. ‘The easiest way to make sure our paths don’t cross is not to invite her here again,’ he grumbled, walking past me and settling down on the sofa, remote in hand. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘I didn’t know you were coming over,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some spaghetti carbonara.’

He grunted. ‘That’ll have to do then. Come here and give me a cuddle before you get stuck in. It’s been a long and weary road, getting this mix right.’ And that was that. Looking back, I wonder whether he thought I’d agreed to dump Scarlett. It never occurred to me that he’d read me so wrong.

12

While I was working on the first draft, Scarlett and I met up once or twice a week. Mostly we got together for lunch in town, but she did come back to the house a couple more times. By now, we both knew we were going to be pals. But there was business to be done too. The plans for the wedding were rattling on, including the selling of the exclusive stories. In spite of Georgie’s entirely reasonable protestations that I wasn’t a journalist, Scarlett had insisted I was the only writer she would talk to. So as well as sorting out the book, I had to write a big magazine piece and a newspaper special about the bloody wedding.

It was like wrestling cats. Neither Scarlett nor Joshu seemed to have the slightest interest in talking about their love, their wedding or married life and parenthood. In the end, I drove out to the hacienda when I knew they’d both be home and corralled them in the Western-themed living room, where I forced them to give me enough quotes to cobble something together.

While I played at being a journalist, Scarlett was reading the first draft of the book. We were up against it now, since Stellar Books wanted simultaneous publication with the wedding. Thankfully, Scarlett liked what I’d done, only asking for a few minor changes where I’d misunderstood what she’d been trying to say in her Scarlett Harlot persona. By the week of the wedding, the book was at the printer and the articles were with their respective publications. I had fulfilled my end of the professional bargain.

That only left the personal stuff. My invitation had been for both Pete and me. I’d dithered over whether I should even tell him about it. He’d probably be working. And he wouldn’t want to come anyway. In the end, I decided not to mention it. I realise I was taking the coward’s way out, but I just wanted to enjoy the day without feeling crap about myself. I knew there would be lots of photos in the press, but I reckoned I could stay out of the front line. Nobody would be interested in me when there was a whole raft of C-list slebs to choose from.

The happy couple were dressed to the nines. Scarlett’s dress was a miracle of designer finesse. Although she was almost eight months gone, so artfully was the ivory silk dress cut and styled, the pregnancy barely showed. A froth of lace and gold thread surrounded her head in an extravagant halo, turning her into a Yes! magazine madonna. Joshu had cleaned up nicely too. His morning suit fitted perfectly, his hair was neatly barbered and he appeared to be drug-free. I wished for his sake that his family had been there to see how beautifully turned out he was. Mind you, given his adamantine conviction that his mother would not be happy till she saw Scarlett stoned in the street, it was probably as well they’d stayed away.

The ceremony itself was surprisingly dignified. They’d opted for a non-denominational service with a spiritual dimension. The readings were genuinely moving, the music had not been mixed or juggled by Joshu, and because they held it in the morning, before most of the guests had started drinking, nobody disgraced themselves in public. I was amazed; the media were disappointed.

By the end of the evening, the hotel ballroom wasn’t trashed, though the majority of the guests were. The groom included. Scarlett had spent most of the wedding reception sprawled on a banquette with a cushion rammed into the small of her back. She’d held court, graciously air-kissing everyone who wanted to stop by and be snapped with her. But I could see that she was starting to wilt.

I found Joshu in the bar with a gaggle of his buddies. His tie dangled from his collar, his coat was slung over a chair and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He was the very picture of ruined debauchery. It was clear there was no prospect of calling on him to rescue his wife from her hangerson. I left him to it, wondering if this would end up being the impetus for the first of many marital rows. At least he wouldn’t ruin the honeymoon.

There wasn’t going to be one.

Well, not for a while anyway. Scarlett’s pregnancy was so advanced no airline would touch her as a passenger. And neither Scarlett nor Joshu could conceive of a honeymoon that didn’t involve intercontinental air travel. The plan was that they’d have a quiet couple of days at home. The honeymoon would have to wait until the baby was old enough to make it to the Maldives. So it wasn’t like Joshu was strictly necessary for this part of the proceedings.

My next best option was George. But he was nowhere to be found. I did eventually stumble on Carla, his assistant. She was fawning drunkenly over a minor soap star but she unpeeled herself long enough to reveal that George had left hours ago. She did, however, have the details of the car service that had been detailed to take the newlyweds home.