Slowly, the grin faded from Martyn’s face. ‘I hope you’re joking.’
Turning the laptop around, Ru passed it over.
‘Fuckinghell!’ Martyn exploded. ‘What the hell is going on?’ He tapped rapidly at the keys. ‘A whole series of status updates has been posted about my supposed interest in adolescents “of either persuasion”. And — holyfuck— slagging off clients I’ve worked for and saying they haven’t paid me or they test their products on puppies!’
‘You’ve been fraped,’ Ru observed.
‘What’s frape?’
‘Facebook rape — frape,’ Ru clarified. ‘You must have left your accounts open on your machine and someone decided to post a lot of stuff pretending it’s you. It happens.’
Martyn frowned at him. ‘But I’ve never done that.’ Grimly, he returned to the computer. Then he sat back. Stared at Ru. ‘The Facebook and Twitter passwords have been changed.’
Honor swallowed. She opened her mouth but Martyn’s phone began to ring and he pulled it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. ‘Hi, Ace?’
Ace responded at such a volume that no speaker phone was needed for Honor to hear, ‘Martyn, what the fuck is going on? When I try and open the Agency website it clicks me throughto a website called www.allmodelsrperverts.com, full of porno images of you and some of my other clients!’ He paused, and his voice dropped a decibel or two. ‘They’re Photoshopped images, of course, sticking your head on to an image of some porn star’s body — hard porn at that. The agency’s Facebook and Twitter pages are full of supposed confessions from you about your perversions.’
Martyn’s knuckles were white. ‘My Facebook and Twitter pages have been messed with, too.’
‘How have you let it happen?’
‘It hasn’t come from me,’ Martyn rapped. ‘Did you think I’d found a “destroy your career” button on my laptop? Some bastard has hacked everything.’ His fingers were busy on the keys as he talked. ‘Shit, it looks like he’s hacked into every single site I maintain. Leave it with me, Ace and I’ll sort it.’
He threw down the phone and stared, white-faced, at the screen.
Honor forced herself to speak. ‘It’s Stef,’ she croaked.
Martyn didn’t look at her. ‘Fits with what you’ve told me. Bastard.’ He breathed hard. ‘The only missing part of the puzzle is how he got my passwords.’
And he looked at Ru.
‘No!’ Honor, exhaled her outrage, jerking upright.
Ru looked startled and then affronted. ‘I didn’t give them to him! Fuck off.’
Shaking with rage, Martyn turned the laptop towards Ru, showing him the naked figures cavorting across the screen under crude headings. ‘You’re the only other person who’s had access to the passwords. Did you give my notebook to him? Did he pay you? Or is this some sick way of getting back at Honor, and you timed it to happen whilst you were here, so you could watch the fun?’
‘The book’s right there.’ Ru pointed to the slim black book, lying in its normal place on the footstool.
‘Martyn, I’m sure it wasn’t Ru,’ Honor began, hotly. ‘How could you think it was? Stef must have got in here and—’
‘Don’t talk such bollocks, my front door is next thing to Fort Knox. It’s too convenient that your new-found baby brother knew where to find my passwords and your ex-husband has used them to try and destroy both my careers in one swipe.’
Ru jumped up, looking much more child than adolescent. In a few quick strides he was at the front door and gone.
Honor stared at Martyn. ‘I’m so sorry. This is all because of me.’
All his attention was fixed on his computer. ‘No, it’s my fault. I know that married women always fuck everything up.’
‘I’ll go see him and make him change it all back.’
‘He won’t just be waiting there to be discovered—’ he began. But Honor snatched up her bag and followed Ru out of the door, clanging down the metal stairs, swinging around at the bottom and setting off at a dead run for the bungalow.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
She was too late. Of course. She hadn’t held out much hope; Stef was too neat in the execution of his pranks not to have left himself time to jump ship.
In the silent bungalow, Honor strode past the sitting room, strewn with magazines and empty beer cans, and the kitchen with its sink full of dirty dishes and a bulging bin of cartons. In the bedroom, the bed was unmade. On the pillow was a note.See you in Hamilton Drives, babe.
