Playing Dead (19 page)

‘Hello, do come . . .’ Her voice – her best
posh
voice, the one she always used on the clients – died on her in an instant.

She felt all the blood drain from her head and plummet down into her elegant patent-leather court shoes as she saw who was standing there.

‘Holy
shit
,’ she said instead, forgetting to sound posh in the extremity of her shock.

There was a ghost standing on her doorstep.

Chapter 37

Dolly Farrell put the phone down and wondered what the fuck was going on. It was a warm evening and she was up in the office over Annie’s, one of the three clubs that Annie Carter had put her in charge of before shooting off to America to discover love’s young – well, maybe not so young – dream.

She could see the lure of that lifestyle. Endless amounts of money, couture clothes, a swanky home in the Hamptons, exclusive Caribbean hideaways, olive and orange and lemon groves in the Med, racehorse studs in England and sunlit vineyards in France, all peppered around the world like a string of precious jewels that could be picked up and put down at a moment’s notice. Even if the guy had been plug-ugly, Dolly might have considered going for it.

Or maybe not.

Personally, she was now wondering if Annie had dropped her wits along with her underpants. All right, Constantine was gorgeous. She’d been pretty smitten herself when she’d met him at the club opening – the silver fox. That aura of power, the dazzling white hair, those snazzy silver-grey suits, that fit tanned body of his and those blue, blue eyes . . . oh yes, she could have gone for that, she could
understand
that. But he was also trouble with a capital T. Mafia. Dangerous.

But then – Annie had always pushed the boundaries. Ever since Dolly had first met her, when Annie had been in disgrace for snatching her sister’s man and Dolly had been a working girl at Aunt Celia’s place in Limehouse; ever since
then
, it had been clear that Annie would never, ever play by anyone else’s rules. Try to confine Annie Carter, and she’d kick the door down and boot your arse right up between your armpits.

Dolly loved being manager here at Annie’s flagship London club; she loved directing the staff, seeing that everything ran smoothly, swanking around town in the long black Jag with Tony – once Annie’s driver, and before that Max Carter’s – at the wheel. Dolly sat at her desk with the boom-boom-boom of the sound system thrumming up through the floorboards and knew that she had come a long, long way. From tart to Madam to nightclub manager, acquiring a little gloss, a
soupçon
of polish, along the way. Oh, she could still curse and drink and smoke along with the best of them when she was off-duty, but Annie had taught her a long, long time ago that in the work environment you had to behave in a certain way to make people respect you.

She’d learned her lessons. Been bumped up the ladder to success. Left tarting behind and embraced the life of the boss lady – as had her mate Ellie, who was now running the Limehouse knocking-shop, ruling the roost there as Madam. She was pleased for Ellie and they had remained great mates, meeting up for a voddy and tonic and a laugh whenever they could find the time.

Now, Dolly sat there and stared at the phone. Ellie had just called her, gabbling at top speed. She’d
thought
Ellie had phoned to suggest a meet, but no; Ellie had been in a right state, nearly gibbering like a lunatic with the need to impart her news. And impart it she had, after Dolly had told her several times to calm down, what the hell was the matter?

Ellie had told her the most incredible thing.

Now Dolly let out a heavy breath and leaned back in her chair.

‘Fucking
hell
,’ she murmured.

She felt like someone had punched her in the gut, knocking all the wind out of her.

Jesus.
Such
news. Unbelievable news.

With a trembling hand she reached out and picked up the phone, listened to the dial tone and wondered how you were supposed to break news like this. She gulped and thought she didn’t know
how
she was going to do it. But she knew she had to. She opened the top drawer and pulled out her notebook with all her telephone contact numbers inside. Went through all the business of phoning the operator and finally getting a connection to the New York penthouse. She was roughly working out the time zones as she did so. They were five hours behind England. She checked her watch. Nearly nine o’clock here, so about four there; Annie should be home. Dolly almost hoped she
wasn’t.

How was she going to say this?

Dolly was sweating, her thoughts tumbling over themselves. She really, really didn’t want to do this, but friendship dictated that she must, and as quickly as possible.

The phone rang.

Endlessly, it rang.

‘I’m sorry, would you like me to keep trying?’ asked the operator.

‘No. Don’t bother. No wait. In half an hour, can you try it again?’

So she tried again half an hour later, then half an hour after that, and so on until with relief she accepted that she wasn’t going to get an answer. Well, she’d done her best. She went to bed shortly after midnight. She couldn’t raise Annie, although she had tried.

A cowardly part of her was glad; and she went to bed in her cosy flat over Annie’s nightclub feeling relieved that she’d put off the evil moment for now and wouldn’t have to think about it again until tomorrow. As she drifted off to sleep she thought of Ellie’s frantic call again, and she wondered: how
did
you tell someone that their first husband, the one they believed to be dead, was in fact alive?

How did you tell your best mate in all the world that Max Carter was right here, in London, and that he now knew what she had done – cleared off to America with another man and married him (and didn’t that mean Annie was a bigamist? Dolly thought it did).

What she
also
thought was that Max Carter wouldn’t take very kindly to his wife – even if she
did
believe him to be dead – scarcely waiting for his supposed body to rot before fucking off with another man.

She didn’t know how she was going to break any of this to Annie.

She turned over, thumped the pillow.

Fuck it.

Like Scarlett O’Hara, she was going to think about it tomorrow.

Chapter 38

Annie had breakfast in the dining room with Layla, Gerda and Nico and then she went into Constantine’s study at the front of the house and gratefully closed the door.

Gerda was taking Layla over to the park to feed the ducks; Nico was taking a walk. Apart from two staff, she was alone in the house. The effort to be cheerful for Layla was exhausting her now. She didn’t want to be cheerful; she wanted to lie down and die.

She couldn’t even sleep any more. Lying in the big bed upstairs last night she had tossed and turned, unable to rest. She had always slept soundly until last year’s disaster, but now she had lost the knack of it. She kept
seeing
him. Waking in the night to dimness, she could see his outline across the room, standing beside the window. She would scramble out of bed, half asleep, half awake . . . but then he would vanish.

And then, in dawn’s first light, he had been there again when her eyes flickered open. Sitting across the room in the Louis Quinze chair. Constantine, watching her with those laser-blue eyes. She could see the dim light forming a halo of silver on his hair, could see how tanned he was, how healthy. She could see the diamond ring winking on his finger as he breathed. He was
there.

But now she knew how this went. Now she didn’t hurry from the bed to embrace him. Now she just waited . . . and it happened. His skin, his hair, the bright diamond ring; everything faded to black with a grim inevitability. A charred corpse was there now, not Constantine, not any more. And Annie had to bite down hard on her knuckle to stop herself from screaming. She didn’t want to frighten Layla. She didn’t want Nico thinking she was losing her mind.

But she was. Wasn’t she?

Thank God, the next time she looked – the next time she
dared –
the chair was empty. And now . . . now she sat in Constantine’s study, at Constantine’s desk, and wondered – seriously – if she was going mad.

She looked around the study with its rows of books, the bankers’ lamps, the big tan Chesterfield sofas and costly rugs, the elaborate marble fireplace. Here was where she had first met Constantine, on the day of Cara’s wedding to Rocco. Here was where he had helped her find Layla, and here was where he had told her he wanted her for the very first time.

Now it was nothing but an empty room. She let out a sigh and became aware that her eyes were wet. Angrily, she wiped at them with her fist. She
never
cried. She was tough.

Dig deep and stand alone.

That was the credo she had always lived by.

But now . . . now she just wanted it all to be over for her. She didn’t want to go on, she was too weary, too beaten.

She could hear voices out in the hall; Gerda’s, raised and shrill.

A bolt of anxiety shot up through her midriff. She stood up and hurried over to the door.

Please
, she thought,
no more . . .

Not more trouble. She couldn’t take it. Not now.

She hurried across the big hallway with its black-and-white chequered tiles and huge dazzling chandeliers. Crime didn’t pay? You only had to look around this place to know that was
bullshit.

The front door was open. Nico was standing there, alongside Gerda and Layla and Rosa the Spanish maid. Gerda was waving her arms around and the maid seemed to be remonstrating with her. Nico was listening attentively as Annie crossed the hall and joined them. With a brief glance at her, he went outside and they could see him going out onto the roadway, looking left and right.

‘Mommy . . .’ Layla was reaching out for Annie.

Annie grabbed her hand and pulled her in close. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked quickly.

‘There was someone following us in the park,’ said Gerda. ‘A man.’

Christ.
‘Did you get a good look at him?’

Gerda shook her head. ‘Only that he was tall. And dark. Everywhere we went,
he
went too. So I came back right away. We ran . . . didn’t we, Layla? And then when we left the park he followed us right up to the end of the square.’

Gerda looked frantic. Annie could see that she had been really, really scared. And Gerda normally wasn’t the type to panic. But who would be following Layla and her nanny in the park? All right, Gerda was a beautiful Nordic blonde – men were attracted to her.

‘There’s no one out there now,’ said Nico, coming back in and closing the door.

Annie looked at him. Maybe just some oddball. Maybe not.

‘Next time Gerda takes Layla out, you go with them, okay?’

‘Sure thing.’

The Spanish maid was taking Layla off to the kitchen; she had cake there, she said . . .

Annie stood there in the hall and looked at Gerda and Nico.

‘Maybe just a false alarm,’ she said.

‘Maybe,’ said Nico.

‘Maybe,’ said Gerda, but her nervy, faltering smile said otherwise.

Chapter 39

‘Oh, holy shit –
there
you are.’

Dolly opened the main club door wide and sagged against it with relief. Annie Carter-Barolli stood there, blinking in the morning light on the doorstep, and Dolly thought she looked about as rough as a bear’s behind. Annie was dressed all in black, her hair looked uncombed, her cheeks sunken, her eyes hollow and shadowed with pain.

Looks like she hasn’t slept in a week
, thought Dolly.
Or maybe a year.

Annie frowned. ‘What?’ she asked vaguely, pushing past Dolly into the club.

‘I’ve been trying to
reach
you,’ said Dolly, closing the door and hurrying after Annie up the stairs to the flat.

Annie gazed around the cosy little living room, which had once been where she lived but was now very much Dolly’s abode. There were lots of fluffy touches in the room now that shouted
Dolly
, lots of pale blues and pinks; it was a blonde’s room now, not a brunette’s.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ said Dolly, bustling around, switching on the electric fire.

Annie sat down. Or rather, she seemed to collapse onto the sofa like a sack of shit, Dolly noticed. There was none of Annie’s usual elegance in the movement. She looked as though she’d had the stuffing knocked out of her.

‘What do you mean, you’ve been trying to reach me? What for? Something up with the club?’ asked Annie, but Dolly didn’t think she looked particularly interested. If Dolly had said the place was about to collapse around their ears, she didn’t think she was going to get a reaction.

Annie was still looking distractedly around the room. She felt as if her life was on some weird, ever-spinning loop. She was here again, back home in London, but it felt alien to her. She was here with Dolly, her closest friend – but she had never felt so alone as she did right now.

She passed a weary hand over her brow. Dolly sat down on the sofa. Annie stared at her friend. From rough brass to Madam to nightclub manager, Dolly certainly had progressed. Now she looked every inch the successful businesswoman in her strawberry-pink Chanel rip-off skirt suit, her poodle-perm nicely tinted to a gentle shade of ash-blonde, her make-up and nails faultless, her pale tan leather court shoes buffed to a high shine.

‘Fuck it, look at the state of you,’ tutted Dolly, her blue eyes anxious as they swept over Annie. Jesus, she was so skinny! ‘Why didn’t you
tell
me you were coming over? I’ve been trying to reach you because I’ve had some news. I was phoning you all day yesterday and the night before, couldn’t get an answer.’

Annie let out a weary sigh. ‘I was on my way back here,’ she said.