Agent Provocateur
Authors: Faith Bleasdale
AGENT PROVOCATEUR
FAITH BLEASDALE
© Faith Bleasdale 2004
Faith Bleasdale has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2004 by Hodder & Stoughton
This edition published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2014.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Extract from
Pinstripes
by Faith Bleasdale
Chapter One
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
Grace Regan raises her head slowly, instinctively knowing that it is him. She is pleased about the lack of originality in his approach; it makes what she is about to do so much easier.
She spotted him as soon as she walked into the bar an hour ago. The photo that she had been given was a good likeness – almost too good. Generally people bear some resemblance to their photographs, but most don’t look identical. Mr X did. Not just his face, but also the details, right down to the spotted yellow tie, the slightly crooked smile, and the navy blazer. Standing at the bar was the real man, but she could have been looking at the photo. It was unnerving.
Grace sat down at a table in full view of the bar. She studied him, the man who looked like his photograph. He was talking to someone wearing a similar uniform to his, a colleague, perhaps. She waited for someone to take her drink order and she requested a glass of champagne. Champagne was part of playing the role. Then she scanned the bar before briefly letting her eyes rest on him. When she turned away, she knew that he was still staring, so she crossed her long legs. She imagined him turning to his companion and pointing her out. She could almost feel both pairs of eyes on her. It was just a matter of time.
And now here he is.
She looks at the almost full glass in front of her.
‘I’ll have a glass of champagne, thank you.’ She looks directly into his eyes. They are grey and small. A little too close together. Small eyes sitting too close together are, Grace believes, an obvious sign of a philanderer. Although, in reality, philanderers don’t have a specific look, Grace has met so many she really believes she has started finding common identifying marks.
‘Why don’t we make it a bottle and I’ll join you?’
She smiles at him on the outside and on the inside wishes that she was with the photo. She chastises herself for behaving in an unprofessional manner but feels that she knows this man so well. Knows his type. From his slicked-back, lacquered dark hair (hair that could take itself out to dinner), to his shiny gold cufflinks and black loafers, she wishes that he were just an image on a piece of paper. She shakes herself out of the gloom. After all, she has a job to do.
He sits down and motions to the waiter; his friend has been discarded. While he orders she brings some amusement back into her evening by playing the game that she and her boss call ‘Mr Potato Head’. She studies his features, picking out those she would keep and those she would change. She decides that the hair definitely needs revamping. She smiles at him as she imagines taking a pair of scissors to the heavily lacquered flick. The eyes need moving further apart, so he looks less suspicious, and the nose hair needs trimming. As he smiles at her, she decides that his teeth could do with some expensive cosmetic dentistry. The waiter pours two glasses of champagne, and Mr X picks his up in a toast. With a lot of work he might even be attractive, she decides.
Her earlier black mood forgotten, Grace picks up her glass and gives him her full attention as she prepares to do her job. As she sips at the champagne, he has a slightly suggestive smile plastered to his lips; the first real difference between reality and his photograph. She resists the urge to laugh. Why do they have to be so easy? she asks herself as she raises her glass in a second toast to the lying cheating bastard and the torturous, but well-paid evening ahead.
Two hours later she is in a taxi home. She calls Nicole, her boss from her mobile.
‘He’s a cheater,’ she says. It’s a triumph of sorts; a hollow victory.
‘Full details in the morning?’ It sounds like a question, but it is in fact a command.
‘Absolutely. ’Night.’
‘Night, honey.’
When Grace arrives home, the first thing she does is to take off her wire. She puts it carefully on the hall table, knowing she will replay the conversation in the morning. Then, remembering she is ‘blonde’, she removes her wig. Next she goes to check her fish. Her tropical fish tank sits in the centre of her living room on a custom-made shelf. Her cream sofa faces it. She has a small television but it is tucked into a corner. She rarely watches it. She prefers watching the fish to television; there is something that is both relaxing and mesmerising about them. She likes the feeling of company they give her, although that is not a fact she would openly admit. She is more attached to them than to anything else in her life. They mean more to her than anyone. She goes to the kitchen to get the fish food from the freezer, but pauses as she reaches the door of her small study. It is closed; she always keeps it closed because although she works from home, she does not always want to be reminded of it. She opens the door and sees her answer phone light blinking at her. She sits at her desk, in her black leather chair and presses play. She doodles on her pad as she listens to her boss’s voice barking at her. Nicole is perhaps the only female in Grace’s life, or the only female that almost resembles a friend. Nicole announces that there are six jobs lined up for Grace, and they need to discuss them the following day. Grace is pleased, naturally, but she is also angry. Is there no end to women whose husbands or partners are cheating on them? What is it with men? She tries not to be angry; cheating men are her bread and butter, or her champagne and foie gras. That is her contradiction. She enjoys her job, but wishes that it weren’t necessary. Occasionally she even likes the men she is paid to meet, although she knows she shouldn’t. Although she is totally devoted to her work, at the same time she longs to meet the man who turns her down because he is in love with someone else. Of course, she could never share these views with Nicole, because she would be flayed. Fired. Or both.
There is one personal message on her machine, from one of her two lovers, boyfriends, or whatever they should be called, but she decides not to call him back. He can wait. The fish cannot. She continues to the kitchen, gets the food and goes back to feed them.
She smiles as she lifts the hatch covering the tank and all the fish swim to the top. They know they are being fed. She puts the food in the net and places it in the water to defrost. She hates taunting them, and tells them so.
‘Not long now, be patient.’ She doesn’t think that fish understand patience, but she believes they enjoy anticipation. She hopes they do. When she finally drops the food into the tank, they go for the food in a frenzied fashion, as if they haven’t been fed for days. She loves watching them eat.
Grace holds her own beliefs about her fish. She believes that they are intelligent, that they remember, that they recognise her, and that they like it when she talks to them. She doesn’t care if that makes her certifiable, because she is happy with those beliefs.
Forty minutes later she realises she hasn’t moved from the sofa, so she bids her fish good night and goes to her bedroom.
She undresses and climbs under her duvet. She snuggles as far as she can into it for comfort. She knows that Nicole will see it as a job well done when she tells her about how easily Mr X fell for her charms, but, of course, Mrs X might feel differently. That is Nicole’s job, however. She deals mainly with clients and only occasionally do they ask to meet Grace, or speak to her. Nicole delivers the news, something Grace is grateful for, although she still feels responsible. Even though she has no idea who Mrs X is, she feels immense sympathy for her that night.
She replays the evening in her head as she prepares for sleep. He was arrogant as soon as he started speaking to her. He seemed to think he was irresistible but, as if to make sure of her interest, he was so open about how much money he earned it was almost comical. For Grace it was
déjà
vu
. So many men are made from the same mould. When she was a child, her mother used to make jellies in rabbit moulds. She would never make just one, but several because Grace came from a large family. The brightly coloured rabbits would wobble in a line on a shelf in the fridge. That is how she believes men like Mr X are made. Tragically.
He sported a wedding ring and she asked him about his wife. Ironically in her job, she always asks them about their relationships, mainly because the way they reply gives big clues to their characters. He, in answer, launched into the tired old story about how she didn’t understand him, how she did nothing but spend all his money, how she made his life hell. Grace was, of course, sympathetic. He ordered a second bottle of champagne. Then Grace teased him – a tactic that some, or perhaps most, men found irresistible. The file that Nicole had given her on him said that he was intelligent, but Grace found little evidence of that. He was too convinced of his own superiority to be intelligent. He was ruled by his libido. But that was another thing she often discovered. The man described by his wife was rarely the man she met. They had drunk only half of the second bottle of champagne when he made a move. Grace hadn’t even made it clear she was interested. She was about to give him a subtle sign that she was willing to take things further, but she didn’t need to. He propositioned her with, ‘I know a very nice hotel we can check in to.’ Again, highly original. She smiled, made her excuses, gave him a fake number and left. The tape had captured all the evidence she needed.
He was such a horrible man that she finds it impossible to identify any positive attributes. Why his wife even cares if he is unfaithful is beyond her. Actually, why his wife married him in the first place is beyond her. But then, Grace knows that love doesn’t work the way it should. No logic; that’s what Nicole tells her. But as she is immune to love, she cannot understand.
That is the last thought on her mind as she snuggles further under her duvet and, like a child, puts her thumb into her mouth.
Grace Regan is thirty-two, technically single, and has an unusual job. She describes herself as a detective, specialising in the field of infidelity. Others call her ‘the honey trap woman’, which she feels is a gross trivialisation. Her work is far more involved than people give her credit for. Although she is five foot nine, with long, slim legs, dark brown hair, huge hazel eyes and lips that always smile, she knows that her job involves more than her looks. Other people don’t. No matter how many times she explains, some people refuse to understand.
