Immediately, Dan makes a decision.
‘Then we’ll line his pockets even more.’
‘Be careful,’ Bill warns. ‘Dean knows you took one of his men. He also knows you won’t be giving him back.’
I’m about to ask what on Earth he means by that, but I’m cut off, sternly.
‘Relax. He’s alive and well, and he wants to stay that way; Dean’s not the type to forgive a Judas. We’re helping our guest to disappear.’ He looks back at Dan, his eyes hard. ‘But that means your Mr Dean’s a man down. I need to fix that before you do anything else.’
‘Then get it done.’ Dan sits forward, clasping his hands together. ‘Quickly. Whatever Boyd’s paying him, I’ll go further … just enough to encourage him to spit the bastard out.’
‘It needs to be a significant amount of money.’
‘I’ll do whatever’s necessary. I assume you can arrange a meeting?’
‘Of course, but I wouldn’t get involved, not personally. He’s bad news.’
‘I’ve met him before.’
‘On different terms. Remember where you met him.’
‘What of it?’ Dan scowls, impatience getting the better of him. He’s beginning to lose his temper.
‘He knows about the club.’ Bill glances at me, evidently uncomfortable now. ‘He knows about your past. Who’s to say he won’t use that knowledge? If you pay Dean to give up Boyd, I’m willing to bet he’ll come back for more. I’m talking blackmail, because that’s the kind of man he is. Once he’s got his claws into you, once he’s smelt your money, he won’t give up.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I’ll say it again,’ Bill growls, ‘you don’t want personal contact.’
‘Then how do you suggest we do this?’
‘Allow me.’ Slamming a final drawer, Gordon perches himself on the arm of a sofa. ‘Seriously, you need to look in those drawers. This place is full of secrets.’
The room dips into silence, everyone staring at Gordon, waiting for the first scrap of sense to dribble from his mouth.
‘Fitting, really,’ he beams at Dan. ‘Seeing as we’re being all, you know … secretive.’
‘If you’ve got something to say,’ Dan admonishes him, ‘get on with it.’
‘Okay.’ Unaffected by his friend’s irritation, Gordon shrugs. ‘I’m not scared of the big bad wolf, believe me. Nobody gets to Gordon Finn. I’ll meet with Dean.’
‘I can’t let you do that,’ Dan protests.
‘And I can’t let you stop me. You don’t need any connections with this piece of crap. No more threats … from anywhere. If we’re still play-acting, Maya’s my girlfriend.’ He me blows an ironic kiss. ‘So, logically speaking, I should be the one to sort this out, money and all.’
I check on Dan, catching the first signs of another objection.
‘Do it,’ I tell him before he can open his mouth. ‘They’re right. You don’t need any more complications. You’ve got good friends here. Let them help you.’
‘But …’
‘If you’re really willing to do anything to make your future wife happy, then do this.’
He chews at his bottom lip.
‘Fine, but I’m paying him back.’
‘And that’s the extent of your involvement,’ I warn him.
‘And that’s you told,’ Clive adds. ‘I have to say, as your accountant, I concur with your future wife. Let Gordon deal with Richard Dean – I’m sure he has some twisted ways to account for cash transactions – and I’ll find a way to pay him back, non-traceable.’
‘Let’s do this thing.’ Like an over-enthusiastic inspirational speaker, Gordon springs up from the sofa, eager for action. ‘And you two lovebirds?’
We look up at him in unison.
‘If you want to thank me for this … just remember to invite me to the wedding.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Yuk.’
I put down the mug.
My tea tastes strange … metallic.
And something stirs at the back of my mind. Another week’s passed in wilful oblivion. I still haven’t come on, or worked out when I’m due, or even got round to using that bloody test.
‘Later.’
I turn back to the current work in progress. It’s almost finished. The wall sets off the vibrant white of the dress, the richly textured cotton, embroidered with tiny, delicate floral patterns. A host of multi-coloured sweet peas frame the scene. All I need to do now is finish off the details of my face, arms and hands, adding the engagement ring. I lean back, thoroughly satisfied with the week’s work. This is my most personal painting yet, a message of my commitment to Dan. I swallow back a tiny wave of nausea, not for the first time today, and focus on the painted version of me, the flat stomach I’ve created.
‘You should work on that bit,’ a mischievous voice niggles in my head. ‘Maybe a bump’s in order. A massive bump, about the size of a bus. And huge bazookas too.’
‘Shit.’
I can’t put it off any longer. There are no more ‘laters’ to be had. It’s time to confirm what I already seem to know. In a trance, I clean up, change into jeans and a blouse, grab my handbag and take it downstairs to the basement toilet. A silent cubby-hole buried away in the bowels of Soho, it’s freezing cold in here, the air tinged with damp. Under the harsh light of a bare bulb, grey paint flakes away from the walls while up in the corner above the toilet, a desiccated fly, long since dead, lies suspended in an abandoned web. It’s not the most salubrious place to welcome a new little person into my life; but it’ll have to do.
On automatic pilot, I lift the cracked toilet lid, noting the tiny ceramic camper van resting on the cistern, and begin to follow the instructions. When I’m done, I lower the lid again and risk sitting on the crack. Clutching the plastic stick and gazing into space, I
