The Betrayed (8 page)

As Johnny lit a cigarette, a whistle blew, signalling the end of the recreation period. Johnny quickly got into line behind Transit Nick, knelt down, and re-tied the lace on his right shoe. On seeing the signal, a wailing voice came from the other end of the yard. ‘
What
did you fucking say?’ Within seconds, the two cons were at each others throats and, on cue, the screws quickly ran over to break up the fight.

Johnny took a last drag, and dropped the cigarette to the dusty ground, grinding it out with the heel of his shoe. Quick as a flash, he grabbed Transit Nick by the hair, forcing his head back, and whipped the glass knife across his throat. It was over in a matter of seconds.

Everyone around Nick withdrew, in an almost perfect circle, as he fell to his knees, his hands desperately grasping at his throat, as if his fingers could repair the damage. He tried to scream, but there were no words, just a garbled, bloody mumbling. His eyes bulged as the blood poured relentlessly from his veins. He looked around at the inmates surrounding him, his face contorted with fear and panic, before collapsing. By the time the screws had clocked that something serious had happened, and run back, Transit Nick was twitching on the bloody, damp ground. All the cons were already wearing their familiar ‘I didn’t see nothing’ expressions. They knew better than to grass on Johnny Mullins.

Within minutes, with the alarm blaring and whistles blowing, Transit Nick was carted off to the hospital. Johnny didn’t give a fuck if he had killed him or not.

Johnny’s head was a tangled mess of emotions and memories that morning of the visit. He had been gearing up for seeing Rosie, and wanted things to be
right
… he wanted it so much it hurt. He had woken up in a good mood, and had even caught himself humming as he washed and shaved. He splashed on a generous amount of Davidoff Cool Water, his favourite cologne, and turned to the photograph of Rosie hanging next to his bunk. He wanted to look his best.

He’d been thinking about what he was going to say to her all night. He just wanted to put things right between them, even if that meant swallowing his pride and apologising to her… after all, it doesn’t matter who says sorry as long as someone does. And today, he decided that he was going to be the one to do it. Every time he thought of Rosie his belly flipped over, and a warm feeling of anticipation swept over him.

When he first saw it, the visitor’s area in Maidstone Prison reminded Johnny of a school’s assembly hall… albeit one with five prison officers sitting behind a blue guard rail on the stage at the far end. At the other end of the hall is the control unit, manned by a solitary officer but guarded by eight others. Across the ceiling, along the blue, wrought-iron girders, the dome-like security cameras rotate periodically, winking their red lights, monitoring every move. There are about 40 tables, all numbered, each one surrounded by four chairs – three beige and one brown – all screwed to the floor.

When Johnny arrived in the hall and saw Rosie waiting there, his heart was pounding. Johnny looked her up and down as he made his way over to where she was sitting. She looked gorgeous, absolutely stunning.
Although that blouse is a bit low cut… and that make-up is a bit over the top
. Glancing around, he saw that he wasn’t the only one admiring her.
And is that that red nail varnish?
It was. That tarty red nail varnish, which she
knew
he didn’t like. If he’d told her once, he’d told her a thousand times: only tarts wear red nail varnish.

Once he had sat down, instead of saying what he wanted to say – how pleased he was to see her, how beautiful she looked – he started talking about her nails. The words came tumbling out. Almost immediately, Johnny wished he could take them back, but it was too late – Rosie was already in tears. He tried to pacify her, calm her down, but as he put his arm around her she angrily pulled away.

‘Johnny, look… I have something I have to tell you.’

‘What,’ Johnny asked, instinctively. But he already knew. There had been no letters for over a fortnight, and now she had to
something to tell him
.

Johnny could hardly remember the walk from the visiting hall to his cell. He was consumed and disorientated by disappointment… and anger. Angry with the screws, angry with the other cons, angry with the fucking walls that kept him pent up, angry with Rosie, and, perhaps most of all, angry with himself. He felt worthless. He loved Rosie, but it seemed that all he could do was push her away. Not that he ever really admitted that to himself – his male pride and arrogance wouldn’t allow him to be wrong. Johnny coped in the only way he knew how: blaming everybody but himself, and lashing out.

Once the initial shock and anger had burnt away, Johnny filled his days with thinking about what he could do or say to get Rosie back. Searing embers of resentment still glowed inside and his temper would flare up every time he called and got the answering machine. He was tearing through every phone card he could get his hands on, but when Rosie did actually pick up, her answer was always the same:

‘I don’t want it any more Johnny, I want to be respectable – I just want out.’

nine

R
osie was reading the contract that had been hand-delivered, completely engrossed in the figures swimming in front of her.

‘I’m going to Auntie Madge’s. We’re taking Dibble for a walk. Are you coming?’

Silence.

‘Mum! Do you wanna come and take Dibble for a
walk
?’

‘Sorry Rube… what was that?’ Rosie mumbled, still not taking much notice. She just couldn’t believe it. Was someone seriously going to pay her that much, for something she would willingly do for nothing? Annie had certainly earned her 17.5%, by the looks of things.

Trying to draw her mum’s attention Ruby asked: ‘I don’t think you enjoy taking Dibble for walks, do you? Not really your thing.’

‘Nah, you’re probably right,’ Rosie said, turning the page. She kept checking that it was, in fact,
her
name at the top of the contract.

‘Well, I’d better go. Aunt Madge will be waiting for me.’

‘Okay, you have a lovely time, the two of you,’ said Rosie, still not looking up, before adding, ‘I’ll get a pizza for tea.’

‘Don’t you ever listen to
anything
I say?’ said Ruby, carrying her school bag into the kitchen. ‘I told you, I’m staying at Auntie Madge’s. She’s made a shepherd’s pie. We’re watching
Strictly
and
X-Factor
.’

‘Sorry darling,’ said Rosie, sliding the contract off the table and onto a chair, ‘Mummy wasn’t listening.’

Just then, the phone started to ring. Ruby moved towards the door.

‘Don’t I get a kiss?’ Rosie called after her.

Spinning on her heels, Ruby returned and planted a peck on her cheek. Before she could zoom off again, Rosie had grabbed her in a giant bear hug.

‘Okay, off you go’ she said, turning to the phone.

Not needing any encouragement, Ruby grabbed her bag and ran out, slamming the door behind her.

Rosie reached for the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Rosie, it’s Andrew Brook-Fields.’

Rosie felt her heart leap, partly because she had expected it to be Auntie Madge calling to see where Ruby had got to, but mostly because Andrew’s voice had such a smooth, rich and sophisticated tone that it was impossible to resist.

Casting a quick glance out of the front door and seeing that Ruby had already skipped up the road, she felt free to inject equal warmth into her own voice.

‘Hi, how are you, Andrew?’

‘I’m fine, I hope it’s okay to call you… out of the blue. I wanted to catch you before your schedule got too full to squeeze in a lunch. Tuesday or Thursday any good?’

‘That will be lovely,’ said Rosie. ‘I think it may have to be Tuesday, because I’m pencilled in for a costume fitting on the Thursday.’

‘Then Tuesday it is. I’ll be at my office in the morning, in Soho… but if it’s not convenient to come into town, I’d be happy to –’

‘I’m meeting the publicist in Covent Garden at three-thirty, so that should work out well,’ she interjected.

‘Ah! Well, that’s very good timing, then. I was hoping to have a chat with you before they got their hands on you. So shall we say one o’clock at Joe Allen’s? I’ll text you my mobile number, just in case anything crops up. So… I’ll see you then.’

‘Yes, see you Tuesday.’

‘By the way, congratulations. We’re thrilled to have you on board.’

‘Thank you’ she said softly. ‘I’m thrilled too.’

Rosie found it so energizing to be in the heart of the West End again, and it showed – she had a wide, beaming smile stretching from ear to ear. She felt alive and carefree as she strolled confidently through the bustling, cluttered streets of Soho. Everything, from the noise of the traffic to the vibrant mix of people rushing around, was like an electric charge shooting straight through her veins. At long last she didn’t feel like some dolly bird who only turned heads because of her long legs. She was a creditable, recognised actress – or, at least, she would be very soon.

Rosie wasn’t even nervous about her lunch meeting. On any other day, even the thought of going to see Andrew Brook-Fields would have made her quake. He was, after all, a real big cheese, known to virtually everyone who worked in the media. Thanks to a string of successful dramas, made by Straw/Gold Productions – his own company, with offices in London and Bristol – his name was one of the most highly respected in the business. Knowing that Andrew trusted Rosie with such an important role in his next project was so exhilarating that she couldn’t help but feel good.

Joe Allen’s is a fashionable restaurant just off Covent Garden, in the heart of theatre land. Rosie found the discreet entrance and looked at her watch – three minutes early. After straightening her clothes she made her way down the cool stairway to the trendy basement, with its exposed brickwork, plastered with show posters, photos, and programmes. She was greeted by the Maître d’.

‘Good Afternoon,’ he said. ‘Table for…?’

‘No, actually. I’m joining someone, ’Rosie replied, as she handed the cloakroom assistant her coat. ‘I’m not sure if they’re here yet.’

‘Ah, I see. What name is the booking under? ‘

Swelling with pride, Rosie replied, ‘Andrew Brook-Fields.’

‘Mr Brook-Fields is already at his table,’ the maître d’ announced.

The restaurant was buzzing. A delicious, pungent smell of roasted garlic hung in the air, mingling with a burble of mostly male voices. Rosie followed the maître d’, negotiating her way along a path littered with briefcases and laptops. They passed the long bar, which was crowded with journalists, actors, and smartly dressed businessmen with their associates on extended business lunches, sipping Bloody Marys in the soft, hazy lighting. As they approached the table, Andrew Brook-Fields put the menu down and rose to his feet. Rosie’s cheeks flushed pink as her eyes locked with his – they were penetrating, ridiculously brown, and probing her every move.

‘Hi!’ he said, leaning forward and kissing Rosie on both cheeks.

‘Hi.’

‘I think you have just made me the envy of every man in the room!’

Rosie suspected that, in fact, the opposite was true. Walking towards the table, she noticed that a female diner was occasionally glancing over at Andrew. Not that she could blame her – Andrew Brook-Fields was certainly handsome, with his greying, almost silver, hair. He was well dressed, too; his brown silk shirt was a perfect match to complement his eyes. Rosie wondered if that was a coincidence.
Probably not
.

Andrew pulled out Rosie’s chair, flashing her a smile as she sat down. When he smiled, his white teeth looked even more dazzling against his tan, which was so rich that he could almost pass as Mediterranean. He had an unmistakable air of confidence about him, which immediately made Rosie feel relaxed and safe. Being as successful as he was, Rosie thought, he had nothing to prove and, so, no need to waste his time caring about trends or images, or what anybody else might think.

After they had settled in their seats, the maître d’ went to seat a middle-aged man who had entered the restaurant shortly after Rosie. Andrew shot her a mischievous look.

‘Why don’t we start with a glass of champagne, to toast your success?’ he suggested. ‘Unless, perhaps, you’d rather keep a clear head for your meeting?’

‘I doubt one glass will do much harm,’ she replied, coyly. ‘Besides, I suspect that I have you to thank for my turn in fortunes.’

After signalling the waiter, Andrew ordered two glasses of the best champagne on the wine list.

‘So, how surprised were you to get Eliza Dolittle?’

‘On a scale of one to ten…’ said Rosie, her eyes widening, ‘I think it would zoom off into space. Honestly, I had no idea I was being considered for the lead when I auditioned.’ Her eyes narrowed playfully. ‘Did you?’

Seeming almost pleased by the challenge, Andrew said, ‘Not initially, but when I saw the tapes from your first audition, it occurred to me that we should, at least, bear you in mind.’ Andrew took a sip of champagne before continuing. ‘After watching the screen test, the decision was unanimous. As I’m sure you know, beautiful women don’t always photograph well. You’re a real find.’