I had, until recently, always preferred being out of the office. Doing fieldwork, so to speak. Now, I felt more comfortable being base camp. Sitting behind my desk. Doing research. I’d always enjoyed working, but it had never been as vital as it was now. My paycheck was actually needed for us to live the life to which we’d become accustomed.
I had grown up in a bubble, protected from the horrors of real life by my family’s money and privilege. When my brother and I had finally stood up to our parents, ganged up to throw them out of the family business, the fallout had been the dissolving of our trust fund.
The security net that had been there my whole life, to be plundered as and when I saw fit, was now gone. Thankfully, I had squirreled away enough that money was still in plentiful supply. I just had to be a little more cautious than before. Especially as I’d now realized how expensive private school fees were.
My company, Cabot Matthews Investments, was based out of a Mayfair townhouse that we’d converted into offices. Haze was only really involved to the extent that her surname was there alongside mine. I wanted her to feel a part of everything I did. “CMI” was embossed on a small, discreet sign above a large mahogany reception desk that was always manned by my assistant Richard, a short, well-built man who’d dabbled in professional rugby before one accident too many had made him rethink his choices. He had four kids with his childhood sweetheart and was very motivated to be out of the house as much as possible, and to make as much money as possible. He might have had the least experience of all the candidates I’d interviewed, but he had a steeliness I respected. I was bored of the well-spoken, suited-and-booted graduates who were too green to understand exactly what high stakes really were. Richard was also good at turning a blind eye. He never had any questions about what exactly my wife, her best friend, and I were plotting when we booked out the meeting room for two-hour-long stints. He also never questioned exactly how I’d previously been so good at predicting which companies were about to tank or skyrocket.
Our business model for ending bad men had always had the added bonus of helping with our finances too. Our targets always fit a certain criteria that Haze had insisted on from the start of our little enterprise. Straight, white men who were culpable of many a terrible act were, thankfully, easy to find. We targeted thembecause of the things they’d done. Making sure we focused on those who might also have certain knowledge that would help our investments was something we’d now zeroed back in on.
I had acknowledged that last year, I’d gotten too ambitious with my choice of targets. Suddenly having Jenny in our corner had given me the overconfidence to go for bad men who were part of big, bad networks. I wanted to turn the needle enough to really make a difference to the world.
I had thought we were different, that we didn’t need to rein in ambitions just because we had a family. Somehow, I’d been idiotic enough to believe we were immune from the pressures of trying to have it all. I’d been out there working hard to hit our peak professionally—and at what cost? Whatever we’d done that year had brought The Chameleon to our door.
My phone pinged. A new email from Mike Martin, sharing his mobile number in case I—“Harriet”—wanted to call him to arrange our first meeting. I knew using the reappearance of The Chameleon was not a good enough reason to put off talking to Haze about her father. But really, I was grasping for any excuse to not come clean to her about what I’d done.
Chapter Nineteen
Haze
Killing Clark Dixon had sparkedour creative outlets again—for Fox, that spark was about how best to invest. For me, it was about how best to paint. I was currently working on a raw, uncompromising canvas titledPressure Cooker.We’d had another baby, and now we were getting back to work. It was business as usual for this suburban family.
But now The Chameleon was here.
On our home turf. There had been a long line of those I deemed total shit stains not worthy of life, but right now there was no one I hated more than the one who was making us look over our shoulders. The one who had tried to end our lives, and was now encroaching on the life we’d built for ourselves here.
It had taken time for me to adjust to living here. If it was all to end, I wanted it to be on my terms, to be because I’d reached the limit of how much I could take of normal suburban existence. Choosing to pull the plug and start over elsewhere. Sometimes I entertained thoughts of being one of those cool traveling familiesI’d seen on Instagram. Tie-dyed, bed-haired, upscaling an old camper van and driving around Europe. Our kids being free-range, homeschooled: #theworldisourplayground.
But Fox was far too rigid to ever roll with the “take each day as it comes” itinerary, neither of us had the patience to teach our kids anything other than manners (even that was a push—whycan’t you fucking remember “please”?), and I liked the nice things in life too much to ever want to wash my hair in a weak RV shower. And all that was before you factored in how you couldn’t exactly paint huge canvases or make financial trades crammed into a van with no Wi-Fi and dodgy phone reception.
We could’ve moved abroad. Somewhere, anywhere. But who could be bothered with trying to get yourself understood in a foreign language, or being made to feel like an arrogant English waste of space for not trying to? America was out, as the thought of being in the same country as Fox’s parents was deeply unsettling.
We were here because we’d chosen it, mostly due to a lack of other options. And we were, for the most part, happy.
That was what it came down to. The idea of starting again somewhere else was not an option. We had put down roots. We’d got the house, the 2.4 kids (Sausage the dog made up the 0.4), the minivan. Bibi had started primary school and was enjoying it. And I had Jenny nearby—there was no way I was giving up having my best friend in close proximity.
When Jenny had asked me once what the other mums at Bibi’s school were like, I’d looked at her blankly.
“You must’ve talked to them?” she said. “Done some coffee mornings?”
“Why would I talk to them? I just drop her off and go. And those coffee mornings aren’t mandatory, are they? I’d rather drink coffee with you.”
I spoke to Jenny every day through several different mediums—WhatsApp, emails, Instagram reels, weblinks to designer items I was considering buying, voice notes. I’d become reliant on her counsel in every aspect of my life. Our messages never said hello or goodbye, as we were always in the middle of a conversation that never ended.
Rather than be touched by my fidelity to our friendship, Jenny had sighed and rattled on about how I needed to make an effort and find some allies. Ever since she’d mentioned it, I had started to notice how, at pickup, the other parents—okay, well, motherswith the occasional lesser-spotted father mixed in—were always standing in different clusters, deep in conversation.
No one ever tried to speak to me, and it wasn’t like I didn’t try. I mean, did I ever make eye contact with anyone? No. Did I ever attempt a smile? God, no. But I was there, wasn’t I? Every day I was there, sunglasses on, staring at my phone, keeping one eye out for Bibi and her pigtails to come bouncing out of the school gate.
This morning, I was one of the last to arrive at drop-off. I hugged Bibi goodbye and headed back to the car with my head down, staring at my phone. A gaggle of mothers, deep in conversation, was still hovering by the gates.
“Hazel!”
I kept staring at my phone.
“Oh, Hazel!”
I looked up to see Frederica walking toward me.
Frederica’s daughter had only started this term, but Frederica had quickly become a prominent figure at the gates. She was an influencer. I knew this from the way the other mothers would shout over to her about how much they’d loved her latest post. Frederica wore leather trousers and flicked her hair a lot. I’m not big on tips to make life easier, but “Don’t wear clothes that are dry-clean only around kids” seemed a pretty obvious one. At least her job helped explain why she was making the effort to look that perfect every day—she was a walking #ad. I managed to force out a “Hi.”
