Diamond (2 page)

‘I used to dream of living in this house,’ said Jenna softly.

‘You know it’s reputed to be … Sorry, sorry, I should think before I speak. Tell me to shut up.’ Lawrence looked so stricken that Jenna laughed.

‘Haunted? Of course I know that. Everyone does. But I don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Good. Besides, what did they used to say? “The only good Harville’s a dead Harville.” So you should be quite safe.’

‘Oh, come on. Those were bad times. You can’t have been more than a baby then.’

‘I was toddling, I think.’

So he was younger than her, but only a year or so.

‘Funny how our lives have been shaped by something that happened before we could possibly understand it,’ she said.

‘I think that’s the human condition,’ said Harville. ‘What can we do?’

‘Our best,’ said Jenna with a nod. ‘That’s what we can do.’

He closed his hand around the banister with a rueful little burst of something that was not quite laughter.

‘You made your fortune,’ he said. ‘And now, here we are. Who would have predicted this over our cradles, eh?’

Jenna bit her lip. ‘I’ll take care of this place,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

‘Thanks. Listen, here are the keys.’ He took them from his pocket and handed them over. ‘That one for the front door, that one for the kitchen door – well, I’ve labelled them anyway. I ought to get back to town.’

She followed his determined move towards the stairs, watching his pea-coated back and broad shoulders in descent.

‘If you’re passing,’ she said, once he was at the door. ‘Do call in.’

He turned, and gave her a long look.

‘I’d love to,’ he said, taking a mobile phone from his satchel. ‘Give me your number. I’ll call.’

Much later, after the van had delivered a rudimentary complement of furniture – all of it old and sturdy, from
reclamation yards – and Jenna had finished her dialled-in Thai takeaway and got the butane gas heater on in the front parlour, she got out her phone and looked at the number she had been given.

She was sitting on a mattress in her temporary encampment. Once the house was done up and sparkling, she would have her half of the furniture from the LA house shipped over. It wasn’t easy to picture it here, in this faded room, but she was sure its beauty and suitability would amaze her, when everything was in order.

Lawrence Harville, though. She lay back on the mattress and let out a long, loud laugh. Imagine what Deano would think if he heard about that. Everyone in Bledburn had hated the Harvilles, after they sold everyone out in the strike, but Deano most of all. He had even written a song about them. ‘Lord of Plenty’, track four on the
Bleeding Hearts
album. Jenna began to sing the chorus to herself:

‘Fine clothes, fine house

Fine words, fine wine

And it’s all paid for

By the men in the mine.’

It had been quite an anthem, at the time.

Yes, a few careless snaps of her with Harville in the sidebar of shame would be enough to get Deano launched into orbit. If he asked her out, she’d see that they went somewhere extremely and unavoidably public. To begin with.

She betted he was a charmer, a smoothie, a fast worker. She’d met enough of his type, over the years of glitz and glam. He’d be experienced, and probably decent in bed, even if he would have his hand up your skirt by the time the entrées were taken from the table.

Selfish, though. An egotist, probably. Just like Deano.

It was still worth the wind-up. If he called her, she would definitely show an interest.

And why wouldn’t he call her? She might be a bit older than him, might be taking a sabbatical from her high-profile, high-pressure career in music promotion, but she was at her physical peak.

She was toned, honed, perma-tanned, coiffed, Botoxed, groomed, plucked, buffed and styled within an inch of her life. She was
never
going to be featured in one of those magazine spreads with a photoshopped circle around some less-than-perfect feature. She only wore tracksuits at the gym and she was only seen without make-up in bed. Sometimes not even then.

True, it wasn’t going to be easy without her retinue of staff, all devoted to the greater glory of Jenna Myatt’s image, but there was no need to let things slide. This house was evidence enough of that.

Don’t you ever get tired of being perfect?

Deano’s voice cut into her thoughts, still heavy with the local accent that he had never made any attempt to lose – unlike Jenna, who had hired an elocution coach the day she left Bledburn. Indeed, in latter years, Jenna had grown to loathe Deano’s accent. It had become more an affectation than a genuine dialect, a shorthand way of showing that, however rich and famous and American he might look, he was still a Bleddy boy at root.

As if you didn’t run as fast and as far as you could, the minute you had the chance
.

She wanted to stop thinking, so she found Candy Crush on her phone and devoted her next half-hour to the cause of colourfully animated mindlessness.

Some kind of thud from above made her turn down the volume and sit up. What was it? The room had grown dark while she was playing, the moonlight not sufficient to cast much more than the palest wash on the uncarpeted floor.

She sat, almost too tense to breathe, for a good five minutes. No further noises were heard.

‘A bird’s nest on the roof,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Or, oh God, maybe rats in the attic. More than likely. Ugh.’

She got up to put on the light, opening the door to the hall in order to listen more carefully.

Again, nothing.

‘It’s nothing,’ she told herself.

All the same, she put her phone on charge, to make sure it was fully topped up, and decided against wasting the battery on games any more.

It was getting late, and she was tired.

She couldn’t have a hot bath or shower until the electrician came to fit a new boiler tomorrow. She would have to make do with cold water, baby wipes and body spray until then. And she had no mirror, except the tiny one in her compact! Why had she not thought to bring one?

Her makeshift bed felt cold, but at least it was dry. Tomorrow she would get some wood for the big fireplace; she’d have to buy it, since everything in the garden would be soaked and pulpy. She had practical matters to concentrate on. So much to do. No time to think, to mourn, to languish.

No time to dream …

But she did dream.

Footsteps overhead, creaking on the boards. A white
smoke, ectoplasmic in appearance, filling the room and hissing into her ears. How cold it felt, filling her lungs, choking her, pressing down on her chest. She tried to kick, to fight it off, but her limbs were weighed down and even her lips would not move to emit her silent scream.

After what seemed like hours of struggle, Jenna’s eyelids opened and she was able to move her trembling arms. She lay still for a while, catching her breath, waiting for reality to chase the horrible traces of her dream away. It took a while and it still lay lightly upon her when she sat up and looked around her, identifying the dark shapes in the room one by one.

It was all right. She was in bed, in Harville Hall, in the front parlour. Outside, a wind blew, sending cold blasts down the chimney at intervals. It was late – when she checked her phone, she saw that it was five past three.

Lawrence’s words about the place being haunted came back to her. She wondered what form the hauntings took.

But you don’t believe in ghosts
.

Easy enough to say so in the bright light of day, but now it was dark and late and lonely. She was far from home, she thought, and yet she wasn’t.

I have no home
.

It was a melancholy thought.

Don’t start crying, not now. You’ve been so strong
.

She thought about Deano, in bed with that girl right now, no doubt. Or was he? What was the time difference?

The calculation kept her level-headed, made her think that Deano was probably sitting down to eat, now, or in make-up for a personal appearance or interview of some kind. Or he might be in the pool. Or the gym.

He’d probably ditched her already.

How
, she asked herself, already kicking herself for going down this well-worn, emotionally flagellating path, could Deano have done it to her? How could he have cheated on her with that … OK, she was younger, but she was
fat
.

She got that he had cheated on her. He was rich, famous, magnetic, attractive – temptation did more than get in his way. It literally climbed into his bed, on more than one occasion. So that hadn’t shocked her as much as it might have done.

She got that he had cheated on her with a teenager. It was a rock star cliché. Boring, trite, predictable, unworthy of him, but … She could have forgiven it, in time.

But to cheat on her with a
fat
girl! It was an insult. It was beyond the pale.

You used to be the same size as her
, he’d said.

‘I was never that big!’ she protested, but actually she had been. A British size 12 when they met, three sizes bigger than she was now.

‘It’s not even big!’ Deano had said. ‘It’s a healthy size. Jesus, Jenna, you’re as bad as the rest of them.’

She didn’t know who ‘the rest of them’ were, but she wasn’t sticking around to take the blame for her own husband’s inability to keep his dick in his pants.

She ran her hand along her arm, checking for spare flesh. Nothing to pinch. Nothing but firm, taut, brown skin. Breasts, small but still high. Thighs supple and yoga-flexible.

If she was awake at this time of night, she might as well make use of it.

She stood by the window and began to warm up, jogging on the spot in bare feet.

Nothing stops me. I am unstoppable. One thing marks out the success from the failure, and that is how much they want success. Make it your hunger, make it your thirst, make it your lust, subvert all your appetites into this one drive
.

The mantras calmed and focused her.

She worked out until she was dizzy and her head pounded, then she fell back on the mattress and took a long drink from her flask.

Still only 4 a.m.

She was physically tired, but her brain ticked on. What would trick it back into sleep? What could she think about?

Lawrence Harville. She thought of that creamy-coffee voice telling her to do things. ‘Take off your clothes, Jenna.’

He would be sitting, legs astride a wooden chair, shirt undone, tie loose around his neck, looking louche and lecherous after perhaps a couple of brandies. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face a mask of sensuality and desire.

He would make her take off her cocktail dress, and underneath she would be wearing something daring. What would it be? Stockings and suspenders, and a tight bustier that lifted her breasts almost into her face. A tiny wisp of a thong. He would be able to see through the sheer lace triangle and, when she twirled for him, her bare bottom would be exposed, bisected by taut black elastic.

‘Come and stand in front of me,’ he’d say, and she’d pose, hands on hips, feet planted wide on the floor, trying to look insolently insouciant while his gaze raked her up and down and side to side.

Without warning, he would clamp a hand between her thighs, smacking down on her sex lips, holding them in an iron grip.

‘What’s this?’ he’d whisper.

‘None of your business,’ she’d say, defiant, pretending not to want it.

‘No? What if I pay for it?’

‘You couldn’t afford it.’

But he’d take a roll of banknotes from his inner jacket pocket and stuff them into the cups of her bustier.

‘Now?’

Her knees trembled at the thought of being bought, of being property to be used.

She nodded, looked down, instantly humbled.

‘OK,’ she whispered.

‘Money talks,’ he said, pushing stubby fingertips inside the gauzy thong to rub at her clit. ‘And money gets you wet, doesn’t it?’

She nodded, all her defiance knocked out of her by this accurate assessment of who and what she was.

‘What kind of woman gets wet when she thinks about money?’ he asked.

She knew the answer that was required of her.

‘A whore,’ she said.

He laughed, running his fingers steadily over her nub, to and fro. With his other hand he reached behind her and smacked her bum.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Get on your knees, whore.’

She obeyed, regretting the absence of his touch at her most intimate spot.

‘Earn your money,’ he said gloatingly, opening his trousers. ‘Get that mouth to work.’

She reached for his cock and warmed it between her palms, breathing down on its tip. It was big and firm, ready to do all kinds of things to her.

She took it in her mouth and he held her hair and told her over and over that she was a cocksucking whore who lived to suck cocks until he filled her mouth with bitterness and she swallowed it down.

But Jenna couldn’t come. The fantasy left her feeling desolate and empty and more than a little dirty. Was that what she was? Was it what she wanted?

Deano had said that money was her only true love. He had been wrong, of course he had. She loved music, she loved the cut and thrust of business life, she loved the moments of glory and the little luxuries of her daily existence. And she had loved Deano, once.

It did seem a long time ago now, though.

She stiffened.

Another noise – a muffled thud, two storeys up. It had to be coming from the attic or the roof. What was it?

Whatever it was, she didn’t want to go up there. Every frightening urban myth she had ever heard crowded into her brain. Psychopaths on roofs, in adjoining rooms, making phone calls from feet away.

She lay utterly still, barely breathing, her ears listening for something to break the rush of black sound around her. No creaks, no taps, no footsteps came.

That’s it, she thought. This was a terrible mistake. Tomorrow she would call the estate agent and put the place back on the market. Go to the London office. Forget about the sabbatical. Try and work through the humiliation of being left by her husband and biggest client until everyone was too intimidated and too polite to ever mention it again.