There’s a bang down the line that makes me jump. ‘Damn it, Scarlett, it wasn’t all a lie.’
‘Say it. Tell me Katrina Martin is lying. Tell me I’m wrong.’
He’s silent for seconds, eternal seconds that cause my heart to pound and my breaths to shorten.
‘You’re not wrong.’
From the moment Katrina Martin told me, I knew it was true. That doesn’t stop his admission taking the weight from my body, my knees crashing to the floor. ‘Then I’m not free. I never was.’ The phone falls from my hand. His voice is a quiet mumble in the background as I stare at the reflection of a corrupt, broken woman in the wall of windows.
4
5.40A.M.
I haven’t slept. I’ve tossed and turned in the heat of my bed, too lethargic to move the ten steps required to turn on the air con. My mouth is dry and my body feels the wrong side of thirsty, the hungover side.
What am I supposed to do now?
That’s the question I’ve been asking myself for the six hours I’ve been staring at the ceiling.
It’s not like I can hand myself in to the police and request a trial. I’d put everyone else in jeopardy and I don’t know if I could stand the uncertainty of another investigation, the police interrogating people I love. And whilst I’m raging at him for what he’s done –everythinghe’s done – there’s no way I’d turn Gregory over for corruption. I’d never want him to risk his freedom again. He took the blame for me. He committed multiple crimes but he did it for me. Living with what I’ve done is my penance.
I grab the TV remote from the bedside table.
Crystal Grand homepage: teasing pictures of Crystal Grand Singapore, Crystal Grand Sydney, Crystal Grand…
Dubai news, in Arabic…
Dubai early-morning soaps… whoa… not soaps… stuff that shouldnotbe shown on TV in my room!
With a grumble, I throw the remote to the opposite side of my bed, where the duvet is in a ball from a heated tantrum about two hours ago. Peeling the thin cotton sheet from my clammy body, I shower, rinse off my unsettled night, then pull on my gym clothes and head to the ground floor.
The gym is empty but for one other ex-pat, a muscle-bound fitness trainer. I have free run of the machines as I watch BBC World News on the screens.
Cranking the treadmill up to a run, I hammer the belt with my feet and I try to focus on nothing but the sound of my breathing and the images of stock markets around the world.
It’s around two in the morning in London. Gregory should be sleeping. I wonder if he’s alone. My stomach churns at the thought of anyone, ever, being in his bed with him. I hold my blink for seconds until the only image I see is of him, naked in his satin sheets. I wonder if his nightmares have stopped.
The tread automatically cuts out at an hour, so I move on to the stepper for twenty minutes, then the bike for a ten minute cool down. Any other Friday, I probably would have hit the outdoor pool for a few lengths too, but my dry martinis and lack of sleep are catching up with me.
Instead, I stand on the poolside and dip my toes in the water.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Paddy appears next to me wearing white trousers, shirt and shoes.
‘Of course not. Why are you here so early?’
‘Volunteered myself for pool duty today,’ he says, leaning down to scoop a sample of water into a clear test tube.
‘So, you’re here for tax breaks, then?’ My very slight smile is more for his benefit than my own.
Unusually for Paddy, he doesn’t return the gesture. He puts a lid on his test tube and gives it a shake. ‘Actually, no. Woman.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m over it now.’
‘Mind sharing your secret?’
He offers me a pitiful curve of his lips and I can’t help but think how much I wish it was Gregory standing in front of me withhishalf-smile.
‘I take it your guest was unwanted last night?’
I scoff into the sports cap of my water bottle. ‘You could say that.’
