Flawless (55 page)

“So you want me to run with this?” said Aidan. “You’re sure?”

“Never surer,” said Brogan. “Just for fuck’s sake make sure you don’t leave my fingerprints. And if Diana hears a word of any of this…”

“She won’t,” said Aidan confidently. “You focus on getting well and back in that boardroom. Everything else you can leave to me.”

S
CARLETT STOOD IN
the front display window at Flawless, gazing out on a gorgeous, sunlit April day.

“Sweetie, I don’t mean to annoy,” said Perry, who was kneeling at her feet trying to artfully wrap another strand of fake moss around a papier-mâché tree trunk, “but do you think you could possibly, like, get back to work? I know you’re the boss and all, but I can’t get the Forest of Arden finished with you standing in my shady glade.”

With Scarlett in New York for the better part of a month and Jake distracted with Solomon Stones and his brother’s personal problems, Perry had enjoyed free rein at Flawless. Scarlett had been back for ten days now, but she was still mentally elsewhere and had been more than happy to leave the thorny subject of their spring storefront up to him. He’d decided to go to town with a
Midsummer Night’s Dream
theme, with diamond jewelry nestling in miniature lichened valleys, peered over by tiny porcelain faeries. If he did say so himself, it looked awesome. Or it would if Scarlett would only get out from under his feet and let him finish.

“Sorry,” she said, swinging a gazelle-like leg over his shoulders as she stepped over him back onto the shop floor. In a ribbed American Apparel tank top and skintight J brands, she looked
skinnier than ever, something Perry put down to heartbreak since her split with Jake. “It’s bookkeeping day today. I’ve been putting it off.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Perry. “Those figures make my head swim. But if you want cheering up, check out the last entry in the sales ledger.”

Scarlett walked over to the big, brown leather book in which she still handwrote every sale.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, delighted. “You sold the dagger necklace. And
both
of the diamond-and-ruby eternity rings.”

“Uh-huh.” Perry nodded airily, removing a silver tack from between his teeth and pressing it firmly into the papier-mâché bark. “Last night, right after you went home, to a little Asian dude. He only came up to my knees, and he couldn’t speak a word of English, but he took one look at the rings, whispered something to his lady friend, and started nodding and pointing like a maniac. They were in and out in five minutes, then they came back half an hour later and bought the necklace too. I’d love to say it was my brilliant salesmanship that clinched it, but all I did was nod when he pointed to the American Express sign and say, ‘That’ll do nicely, thank you,’ so I’m afraid the credit’s all yours.”

“Rubbish. You’re a star,” said Scarlett, blowing him a kiss. “Honestly, Perry, I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved my ass these last few weeks.”

“Yeah, well, you know,” he shrugged. “A pay raise is always an option, hint hint.”

Scarlett blushed. “Of course, of course. God, I’m sorry Perry, you’re well overdue for a pay review. I’ve really been off the ball lately, what with Nancy and Trade Fair and…things.”

“I know,” he said kindly. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetie, don’t worry.”

Scarlett sighed. That was it. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d have to sit down with Jake. Perry’s pay rise was only one of
a zillion pressing business matters she’d been avoiding dealing with since she’d got back, afraid of how she’d react when she saw him in person. It was over six weeks since the Oscars, and despite numerous cordial e-mails and texts, and even the odd stilted phone call, she still hadn’t laid eyes on him since that night.

“I think I might run out for coffee,” she said when, after a few minutes, she realized she’d been staring at the same page of figures on her PC screen without taking anything in. “D’you want something?”

“I’ll have a skinny blueberry muffin, if you’re going,” said Perry, standing back and admiring his now-finished handiwork. “And for God’s sake, get a full-fat one for yourself. If those ribs get any more visible the only guys who’ll want to date you will be paleontologists.”

Strolling down Rodeo a few moments later with the sun on her face and a warm, almost summery breeze in her hair, Scarlett made a conscious effort to count her blessings. She was healthy. It was a gorgeous day. No one in her family had just died; she had a bunch of great friends (albeit on the other side of the Atlantic) and her business, knock on wood, was still thriving. Having waited with bated breath for weeks after the NPR program aired, expecting Brogan to retaliate, she’d finally begun to relax. Other than the few defensive comments his spokespeople had made in the press, he’d been silent as the grave. Whether it was his cancer or the reconciliation with Diana that had done it, she didn’t know—like everyone else in the business, Scarlett had heard through the grapevine that Brogan’s wife had moved back in with him; poor Danny must be crushed—but something seemed to have muted Brogan’s thirst for revenge.

Walking into the coffee shop with a familiar feeling of guilt—she really ought to support small local businesses and not huge multinationals like Starbucks—she was pondering whether or not she could stomach an entire, human-head-size muffin when her phone rang.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Scarlett, it’s Che Che.” It had been weeks since she’d heard from Nancy’s ex. She’d started to wonder whether he’d ever get back in contact but decided not to chase him. If he wanted to stay involved with Trade Fair, he’d let her know eventually.

“How are you?” she said warmly. “I was hoping you might call.”

“I’m guessing from your tone that you haven’t heard,” he said. Only then did Scarlett realize how deathly serious his voice sounded. Something must be wrong.

“Heard what?” she said, trying not to sound panicked. “It isn’t Nancy, is it? Has something happened?”

Though still sharing a house up at Vado Drive, the girls’ conflicting work schedules meant that Scarlett and Nancy had barely seen one another all week.

“It’s not Nancy,” said Che Che bleakly. “It’s Andy Gordon. He’s been killed.”

For a horribly long moment, Scarlett was silent. She’d heard what he said, but she couldn’t seem to get her brain to register its meaning.

“He was found last night outside a block of apartments in Moscow,” said Che Che, filling the dead air himself. “Shot through the back of the neck. Executed, apparently.”

Scarlett felt the nausea rise up within her and put a hand over her mouth to stop herself from vomiting.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Can I help you?”

She’d reached the front of the line, and the pissy-looking barista was hassling her for an order. Looking at her blankly, Scarlett backed away, sinking down onto the nearest available chair.

“What was he doing in Moscow?” she heard herself croak. Her throat was suddenly dry as dust.

“I have no idea,” said Che Che. “It’s the lead story on BBC news right now. You should try and get to a TV; they may be reporting more.”

“Do they know who did it?” she whispered, still struggling to take it all in. A snapshot of Andy’s face beneath his shock of red hair, smiling his wry, “I’ve got a secret” smile flashed through her mind. He was only her age, for Christ’s sake. How could he be dead? “Do they have any leads at all?”

Che Che let out a cynical laugh. “Not officially, no. This is Russia. Shootings like this are a daily occurrence over there. But it doesn’t take Einstein to figure out who wanted him dead.”

Too stunned to speak, Scarlett stared straight ahead of her, willing this not to be true. Was Brogan really capable of such extreme retribution?

“Listen, I’m sorry,” said Che Che eventually. “I know you knew the guy personally. But you can’t blame yourself.”

“Can’t I?” Her words came out in a strangled sob. “Why on earth not? If I hadn’t pushed him to do the exposé—”

“You didn’t,” said Che Che firmly. “He was neck-deep in all this long before you came along. He’s been on O’Donnell’s hit list for years, and he knew the risks he was taking.”

“I don’t think he expected to die,” whispered Scarlett. “Do you?”

Che Che didn’t answer the question. Instead he tried to get her to focus on more practical considerations, such as protecting herself.

“I don’t mean to be melodramatic,” he said, “but you need to look seriously at your security, Scarlett.”

“What security?”

“Exactly. You and Nancy are a pair of sitting ducks up at that cottage on your own.”

“It’s our home,” said Scarlett, her old defiance surfacing through the layers of shock and fear. “Why should we leave?
Besides, where would you have us go? Didn’t you say Andy was shot on the street?”

“In broad daylight, yes,” said Che Che. “But that was Moscow. This is LA. You’d be a lot safer in a hotel.”

“I’m not living in a bloody hotel.” Scarlett’s response was immediate. “I can’t think of anything worse, and I know Nance will feel the same. No way.”

Che Che, who knew better than to argue, sighed heavily. “Then at least get some protection installed, will you? An alarm, a dog. And I don’t mean Boxford; I mean a serious guard dog. Armed security would be the best option.”

“OK,” said Scarlett after a long pause. “I’ll think about it.”

She could hear the genuine concern in his voice, for both her and Nancy, and was grateful for it, although fear for her own safety was the last thing on her mind right now. All she could think about was Andy and the tragedy of what had already happened, a tragedy for which, no matter what Che Che or anybody said, she couldn’t help but feel at least partly responsible.

Staggering out of Starbucks in a daze, she had no idea where to go. It seemed ridiculous to head back to work as if nothing had happened. Nor did she want to go home alone, knowing Nancy would be at work at the studio until probably past midnight. She should let Nancy know what had happened, of course, although that would mean driving over to Paramount—Nancy never answered the phone when she was writing—and she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to get behind the wheel. Turning a corner, it occurred to her that Jake’s apartment was only about six blocks away, an eminently walkable distance. He probably wouldn’t be in either. But at least it was somewhere to go, and in that moment what she needed most was a plan. One shouldn’t be alone at times like these. Jake might not be the ideal shoulder to cry on, but he was better than nothing.

“Ma, please. No. No, I don’t think he needs you to fly over. Ma, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

Still in the boxer shorts and gray Labatt’s T-shirt he’d worn to bed, Jake lay back on the leather couch in his living room with the phone pressed to his ear, rubbing his throbbing temples. He had a hundred and one business calls to make today, to clients (the few he had left), creditors (still plenty of those), and, if he could only work up the balls to do it, to Scarlett, to discuss the new order of diamonds for Flawless’s summer collection. But getting Minty off the phone was proving even more difficult than usual.

“I don’t know why you ask my advice about Dan if you’re not going to listen to it,” he said, exasperation oozing from every pore. “Yes, he’s down. No, he’s not suicidal. He needs some space…I don’t know, Ma, you’ll have to ask him. Of course he cares about the baby…Jesus Christ, woman, how would I know what he’s eating? He’s not wasting away, if that’s what you mean. No, in all honesty, I doubt your homemade chicken soup
is
what he needs. There are one or two Jewish delis in New York you know, Ma…”

The conversation continued in this vein for several more minutes until he finally snapped and, cutting Minty off midsentence, hung up the phone.

Christ. If they had an Olympic team for talking the hind legs off a donkey, his mother would be the coach. He knew she was worried about Danny—they all were—but her repeated threats to fly to New York and “take care of him” weren’t helping matters. Jake suspected her surge of maternal devotion was at least partly rooted in guilt. She hadn’t exactly made Diana feel welcome at Christmas and had certainly done her bit to add to the pressures they were under as a couple.