My heart jumps into my mouth.
“Not really.” I pull out my phone and open the camera function. “But I will inform you that anything you’d like to say to me, you will be saying on film.”
Henry jerks backward, ducking his head as though it’ll help him avoid the lens.
I grin. “What did you want to chat about, Hen? Does it, by any chance, pertain to Thompson Farms?”
He shakes his head.
“You sure? Because I’ve heard the migrant workers aren’t being treated too well up there.”
Henry looks at me like he wants to kill me, and I realise I’m doing it again. Baiting. Pushing too hard. I’m so bad at this shit, but I can’t back down now.
“Are you involved in Thompson Farms?” I press. “I know you work there, but do you have shares? Own a little land? Gone to a few parties, maybe?”
Henry blanches, and I force a laugh. “I guess we’ll find out, huh?”
I move toward the elevators, and he blocks my path. “You’ve got nothing on Thrasher.”
“We’ll see.”
He drifts to the side, out of my camera’s frame. “You’re full of shit. Those migrants get a decent wage, and if they don’t like it, they can fuck off back to where they came from.”
I wrinkle my nose. Of course, Henry’s dumb enough to spit racist clichés into a camera. He probably thinks he’s just stating facts. I give him the finger with my free hand. “Unless we just time-warped to Europe,you’rean immigrant, you fucking clown. So why don’tyoufuck off back to whatever inbred barley bog your grandparents crawled out of because I’ve got crimes to investigate.”
Henry leans over my phone, his breath hot in my face. “You’re outta line.”
I take a step back. “Maybe. But like I said, we’ll see what comes out this weekend, won’t we, sheep-shagger?”
Henry shoves a finger in my face. “You’d better not show up tonight. Or tomorrow. No one wants you here.”
“I fail to see how that’s my problem.” I raise my phone. “Hey, I heard Sophie Claudine’s gonna be at the cocktail party. You know, the chick who fucked Jack Otama on a bathmat while you guys were still together at school? Was that sad for you, or what?”
His face darkens. “Bitch.”
“Cuck.” I jiggle my camera at him. “I notice you’re wearing a wedding ring. Congrats. I heard your fiancée dumped you, but she must have hit her head and decided to take you back. I think Jack’s gonna be there tonight, too. Maybe he can have a go on her and make her see sense?”
Henry bares his teeth. “You keep going, and I’m gonna?—”
“Put your dick in a heritage-breed Merino?” I try to step around him, and once again, he blocks my path. I sigh. “Do you really wanna keep doing this, Hen? ’Cos I can do this all night, and threats to harm are an indictable offence, y’know?”
The concierge appears at my left, looking between me and Henry with a nervous expression. “I’m sorry, is there a problem, here?”
I smile brightly. “Nope. I’m just going up to my room. Right now.”
I finally sidestep Henry and walk to the elevator, my heart pounding.
Betty’s calling again, and I have two new voicemails from Jake. I ignore them as I lean against the side of the elevator wall and try to steady my breathing. When the doors fly open, I jump, half-expecting Thrasher to be standing there holding a knife. He isn’t, of course, and I make my way to my hotel room. But as I do, a line from some old spy movie floats into my head, ‘We can no longer guarantee her safety.’
But I’m still not scared. And even if I was, the rage in me would rather die swinging than slink out of town.
Every second I’m in Pukekohe is another chance to put these assholes on record. I’m an adult. If they push too far, I can sue the balls off them for harassment, if nothing else.
I walk to the mini-bar andcrack open a baby bottle of red wine. My phone is going batshit. Jake is calling almost constantly, and so are Davis and Betty. I turn my phone off and get in the shower to wash my hair and shave everything from the neck down.
I get out and rub grapeseed butter all over my skin, put on my heels, and do my makeup naked in front of the mirror. It’s hard to look at myself, so I keep my gaze unfocussed as I apply pale gold eyeshadow and strip lashes. It’s too quiet in the bathroom, so I turn my phone back on. I try to switch it to airplane mode, but fifteen voicemails flash through before I can press the button. Jake. Betty. Davis. I tap a voicemail from Betty without thinking.
“Ada, my mum’s freaking out about all this. She’s starting to talk about the things she’s heard. There’s all these rumours about parties, and she’s seen girls get new shoes and cars for God knows what. She’s scared, and you need to listen to me and not go?—”
