‘If all you want is fresh air, just say so. It’s not as if anything ever happens here. Stay away from the house though,’ he said, still focused on the photo of a Harley-Davidson.
‘I’m sure I saw something odd.’ Pretence was better than appearing foolish.
She collected a pair of binoculars and hurried into the garden. She skirted around the perimeter wall and performed a cursory hunt for the benefit of the cameras. Ruse completed, she snuck into the shrubbery and trained the binoculars on the large bay window at the back of the house. There were no curtains drawn or blinds lowered, the house was lit up like a Christmas tree. Choosing a bush to perch behind, she had an excellent view of the sitting room.
They were both there. He was lifting the baby out of her arms; Mrs Haynes had been feeding the child. He left the room with Evey. Hettie rested her head against the couch. The room relied on the dim light of lamps, which projected tentacle rays, reflecting off surfaces and zigzagging over the glass-top coffee table. The shadows obscured the finer details. Hettie was bathed in a warm glow where the beams crossed. Her hair was bundled into a bird’s nest bun. She was relaxed, lounging in baggy pants, quite unlike the upmarket attire she wore when out and about. Her eyelids drooped. Then, abruptly, she stirred.
The binoculars nearly slipped out of Julianna's hands. Mrs Haynes was wide awake. A small smile descended over her face. Her bra remained tangled around her waist. She hadn’t bothered to replace the cup over her breast. Her nipple was invisible under the t-shirt.
Mrs Haynes, Hettie, goddammit, what to call the woman, turned to face the other end of the room, which wasn’t visible to Julianna. She giggled and covered her open mouth with her hand. With little decorum, she slid along the leather sofa until she was flat on her back and opened her arms, creating the space to receive him.
Watching the lovers embrace with roving hands and intertwined limbs, Julianna gorged on the fortune of another. Alex had not shown one instance of the passion she was witnessing across the immaculate lawn. As Chris said, they had their ways. They were adroit lovers. In the privacy of their home, they put aside formalities and frolicked like teenagers.
And what was she? A concerned individual undertaking a covert act of surveillance or a voyeur, spying on her boss as if he was a common criminal? Any of her mentors would have slapped her wrist and told her she had missed the bigger picture. Haynes was a CEO and not a romantic hero who smothered his wife in an open display of unbridled affection. The conversation she had overheard in the car earlier in the week now made perfect sense. Hettie Haynes wasn’t afraid of her husband. She knew exactly what “sorting out” meant. Her hand hadn’t been shaking with fear, but excitement. Jackson had dashed home to comfort his wife, but chose to appear aloof and detached in the presence of his newest driver. An intensely private man who hated the limelight and, having created a tough boss image at work, he wasn’t going to ruin his reputation by fawning over his wife in the middle of the day. It made more sense than the ridiculous post-Alex scenario Julianna had hurriedly concocted.
The blow, when she allowed herself to feel it, was a devastating as the one she had given Alex. Still on her knees, she bent over, hugging the flayed pit of her stomach and thought of the hours she would need to spend in the cellar.
Backing away into the darkness, she stumbled over hidden roots before finding a path. She hated what she had become. Hated the idea she had lost it. Wiping the perspiration from her brow, the dirt from her knees, she switched off the light and punched the keypad code for the gatehouse.
Draper made no comment on her prolonged absence.
‘You were right – foxes.’ She pretended to read a book for the rest of the shift. She didn’t turn a page.
The stupid exercise she had engaged in had backfired badly. Far from demonstrating exemplary investigative skills, she’d misinterpreted the facts, insinuated emotions that weren’t there and come up with her version of a carefree wife ridiculed by an uninspiring husband. It was exactly why she had left her last job. She wasn’t fit for purpose any longer.
Blaming Alex was wrong too. Her natural cynicism had dragged her into this cock-up. She should just do her job – driving fast cars in slow traffic interspersed with measly surveillance operations. It wasn’t on the scale of anti-terrorism or serious international money laundering, but it paid the mortgage and, without Alex's income, she was struggling.
2
Mark
The elevator doors opened to reveal Jackson Haynes, a man best known for sporting a tailor-made suit with monographed pockets and gold cufflinks, and not sweatpants and t-shirt. He leaned against the mirrored wall, towel coiled around his neck, and swept aside a lock of damp hair with his manicured hand. Girded with the kind of muscles that belonged on a dedicated athlete, Jackson boasted without requiring the use of words. He acknowledged Mark with a curl of his thin lips.
Mark felt inadequate and small. He would never be that fit nor was he the kind of person who spent every morning lifting weights and running nowhere on a treadmill. Apparently his boss was just that and Mark’s heart sank a little as he wondered if he should take up a new hobby to impress Jackson.
Wiping his sweaty face with the edge of the towel, Jackson waved him into the lift. It should be an auspicious start and Mark needed plenty of good omens. He wore his grandfather's watch; a scratched talisman he kept with
