Topspin (21 page)

But now Monday was here and she still hadn’t decided what to do. Claire drifted into her bedroom and turned the shower on full blast, changing her mind every two seconds about the best course of action to take. If she went to the apartment, Rod would want sex. That was a given. And she’d let him have it if he promised to let her go afterward. But even if he did promise, how could she be sure he’d keep his word? And what if Paul was there as well? Her heart quickened at the thought, and she knew her reaction wasn’t entirely attributable to fear. In spite of her better judgment, the prospect excited her.

Stepping out of the shower, Claire rubbed her body vigorously with a fluffy towel. Why was it that her husband, who loved her to distraction, couldn’t properly satisfy her most basic needs? Perhaps, she mused, it was because he made love to her, treating her with gentleness and respect, while Rod and his predecessors simply fucked her as brutally as they could. Claire preferred their brand of raw physicality and wished she’d found a way long ago to explain that need to Joe. But it was too late now. He’d never understand and would most likely be repulsed by her proclivities.

Dressed for tennis, Claire climbed into her car and headed for Porchfield
,
still undecided what to do about Rod. The club was unusually crowded for a Monday morning, presumably because everyone wanted to talk about Ed’s abortive takeover attempt and see for themselves how he would conduct himself today.

Claire played three sets, all with different partners. For the last one, she and Angela easily beat Millie and Stella. Millie wasn’t on form, and Stella was uncharacteristically subdued. No one blamed her for her husband’s pretensions, aware that he could be thoroughly unpleasant to Stella and seldom cut her any slack. Claire vaguely registered that members were going out of their way to be pleasant to her, but Stella remained remote, responding to them as though she didn’t much care what people thought of her anymore. She looked pale, and her eyes were ringed with dark circles. When Angela asked her if she was all right she snapped at her, saying she had bad period pains and that she wished everyone would stop fussing over her.

At the end of their set, Claire suggested they sit the next one out and offered to buy Angela a coffee. It had occurred to her during the game that, now Angela had introduced Rod to the club, there was nothing to stop Claire asking her a bit more about him. It would be natural to display some curiosity, and if she could learn a little more about what made Rod tick then perhaps she’d be able to decide whether or not to meet him one last time. She was still oscillating hopelessly and time was running out.

Angela and Claire sat outside by the pool, sheltered from the sun by a brightly colored parasol advertising a leading beer.

“I can’t believe how hot it is,” Angela said, blowing out her cheeks and fanning her face with her towel.

The last thing Claire wanted to talk about was the weather. “It’s to do with global warming, if you believe all the stuff they spout on about on the telly,” she said. “Make the most of the sunshine now, because it’ll probably pour with rain for the rest of the year.”

“More than likely.” Angela took a sip of her coffee, stretching her long legs away from the table until they were in the direct line of the sun but keeping her face and the rest of her body beneath the parasol. “You’ll never guess who called me when I got home on Friday night,” she said, just as Claire opened her mouth to broach the subject of Rod.

“I give in, who rang you when you got home on Friday night?”

“Jack, that’s who,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She glanced toward the court where he was playing a fiercely competitive game of men’s doubles, her eyes lingering on his physique as he reached up to smash a winner with considerable force, revealing a good proportion of well-toned torso as his shirt rode up.

“Really?” Claire forced herself to feign polite interest. “That’s a turn-up for the books. What did he want?”

“That’s just it, nothing really. He just asked if I’d got home safely.”

“Well, that does seem strange. What else did he say?”

“Not a lot. We talked about Ed a bit, that’s all, but he did make a point of asking me if I was on my own. Don’t you see, Claire?” she asked impatiently when Claire didn’t immediately react. “I think you were right when you said that if I took an interest in someone else it would make him notice me.”

“What do you mean? Who else have you been taking an interest in?”

“No one, but Rod insisted on taking us home and I think it made Jack a bit jealous. Did you notice how distant he was with Rod? He barely spoke a word to him all night. Do you think he could really be jealous, Claire?”

Delighted that Angela had raised the subject of Rod herself, Claire took a moment to think of a suitably neutral response. “Well, your husband is a bit of a hunk, Angela, and maybe Jack’s nose is out of joint. He’s used to having you all to himself.”

“Yes.” Angela leant forward, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “That’s what I figured. Do you think I should make the next move? Invite him round to dinner, or something?”

“How would that go down with Rod?”

“None of his bloody business.” Angela’s expression hardened. “I didn’t ask him to come over here, and my social life has nothing to do with him.”

“Maybe not, but things are seldom that simple. You’ve got the twins to consider, and Sheba appears to be besotted with her father.”

“True, but if she thinks—”

“Besides, he seems to want you back, if the way he was bombarding you with attention the other night is anything to go by. Tell me to mind my own business if you like, Angie, but what’s the history between you two?”

“Trust me, Claire, you don’t want to know. Suffice it to say that Rod’s bad news and you don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

Well, that wasn’t telling Claire anything she didn’t already know. This was like trying to get blood from a stone. Angela obviously wanted to talk about Jack, not Rod, but Claire was desperate enough to have one last shot at it. “What does he do for a living?”

“Jack?” Angela asked, looking surprised.

“No, silly, your husband.”

“Oh, him.” She shrugged. “As little as possible.” When Claire raised a brow, indicating she expected more of an answer than that, Angela remained frustratingly evasive. “Rod has the ability to make money without working too hard at anything for very long.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“He calls himself a Marketing Consultant, which covers a whole multitude of sins.” She glanced at Jack’s court again. “Oh look, they’ve finished. Now, what do you think, Claire, should I invite him to dinner or leave the chasing to him?”

Some of the men joined them before Claire could respond. Predictably, the ensuing conversation centered upon Ed’s failed coup. She took little part in it, instead mulling over what little she’d learned from Angela, focusing more on the things she hadn’t said. Despondently she concluded that Rod was every bit as dangerous as she’d supposed, and that he’d expose their affair out of spite if Claire didn’t go to him that afternoon.

Angela got up to leave for work. The owners of the salon allowed her to work flexible hours that enabled her to fit some tennis in during the week. The Country Club didn’t stop to consider that some of its members might actually have to work for a living when scheduling tournaments and social tennis sessions on week days. Jack left as well. He appeared distracted and Claire managed a moment’s sympathy for Angela. She was taking an age to unlock her car, casting frequent glances over her shoulder, but Jack drove off without seeming to notice her transparent attempts to attract his attention.

Claire returned her mind to her own problems and knew she couldn’t risk going anywhere near the apartment. She didn’t trust Rod’s motives any more than she trusted her ability to resist temptation. On a whim she drove to Shanklin and indulged in a little retail therapy. She switched off her mobile, wishing she could turn her mind off as easily, and searched her favorite boutiques for something to cheer her up.

It was almost four o’clock when she got home. Retrieving a quantity of carrier bags from the back seat of her car, Claire took them into the house and dumped them on the hall table. She had no clear idea what she’d bought, how much she’d spent, or even what shops she’d visited, but was proud of herself for having done the right thing. Rod would have got the message loud and clear, and there was nothing he could do to force her hand.

It was then that she noticed an envelope on the hall floor, addressed to her in handwriting she didn’t recognize. Idly she picked it up, slit it open and pulled out a large photograph.

“What the…”

At first she didn’t realize what she was looking at. Two men in the throes of having sex with one woman. What did that have to do with her? Only gradually did the truth dawn, hitting her with the force of a malevolent tornado. She staggered to the chair in the hall, sweeping the carrier bags off the table in her haste to sit down before her legs gave way beneath her. She recognized the two male torsos in the picture, even though their faces were out of shot. Rod and Paul. The woman was looking directly at an overhead camera, her head thrown back, her expression one of torturous pleasure, eyes half closed as the men ravaged her body.

She turned the photograph over to see that a few lines had been scrawled on its back.

It’s up to you to make sure Angela keeps her appointment with me
, it said.
If she doesn’t, then the next photograph in this series, along with the cassette of your voice saying how unsatisfactorily he makes love to you, will be sent to your husband’s office
. It was signed not by Rod, but by Paul.

Pulling herself to her feet, mortified and appalled, Claire just made it to the hall cloakroom before falling to her knees in front of the toilet and retching again and again. She heaved until her stomach was empty and her throat red and raw from vomiting.

Chapter Ten

C
LAIRE
R
UBBED
V
IGOROUSLY
at the cloakroom floor. Long after she’d eradicated all traces of her vomit she still continued to scrub like a woman demented, working out her anger and agony in a frenzy of activity that ruined her manicure and left her fingers throbbing and swollen, red and raw. As soon as she’d stopped being ill she’d grabbed the photograph, torn it into tiny pieces, and tried to flush it down the loo. But it took ages to disappear. A gurgle of the half-empty cistern, a bruised palm, and soggy fragments of the picture resurfacing as though to taunt her every time she pounded the flush handle were all she had to show for her impatience.

Her brain shut down, unable to cope with the knowledge that she’d been deliberately duped for reasons which obviously had something to do with Angela. She poured more bleach into the toilet bowl and wielded the brush as though it was a lethal weapon, wishing she could obliterate the last few weeks of her life as easily. If she dwelt upon the way they’d set her up, training cameras on her as they persuaded her to participate in acts of ever-increasing depravity, she’d probably have a seizure. She’d willingly agreed to play their games, there was no escaping that, but what she hadn’t done was volunteer to be filmed in the act.

Eventually she gave up on her cleaning and slumped against the pristine tiles, panting with exhaustion, unable now to stop a torrent of possibilities crowding into her previously vacant mind. Sorting through them, it didn’t take long for a sense of self-preservation to surface and for Claire to consider ways to extricate herself from this mess. Paul was obviously behind this whole set up, which would explain the staged conversation they’d instigated while engaged in the act. She’d thought at the time that it turned them on as much as it did her, forcing her to talk about the inadequacies of her sex life with Joe, but knew now that they’d tricked her into repeating his name and hers in order to record her replies.

As her brain struggled to assess the possible reasons for Paul’s actions she was aware of her body coming out of its traumatized state and a slow, burning anger surging through it. She welcomed the sensation and the feeling of unnatural calm, able at last to focus on her quandary without the queasiness returning to her stomach. This whole business had something to do with Angela, and there was only one way to find out what that something was. She would have to confront her friend, somehow find the words to explain the nature of her indiscretion, and take a chance on Angela respecting her confidence. Shame at the prospect of having to make such a confession briefly nudged its way into the forefront of Claire’s mind, but she was too intent upon damage limitation to waste time dwelling upon the embarrassment it would cause her. Taken over by a frenetic energy and the need to get the humiliation over with, she swung into action.

Claire went to her room, threw her soiled clothing into the linen basket, and dressed in cut-off jeans and the first top that came to hand, her mind now in overdrive. If Paul and Rod had gone to so much trouble to set her up and had done so in order to manipulate Angela, then she must have secrets that she wouldn’t want in the public domain either. Perhaps that was why she was so reluctant to take Rod back.

Claire reached for her car keys, determined and composed. All that mattered was her survival. She was beyond worrying about tarnishing her image. She glanced at her watch. It was still only just after five. Less than an hour since her world had fallen apart. The dog was whining round her legs, anxious for his evening walk. With an apologetic shrug she let him out into the garden and absently watched as he hurtled off in hot pursuit of a couple of birds that were lazily pecking at the flower beds. They took off with a loud clatter of wings as the dog approached, landing on the garden wall and peering down at him with a marked lack of curiosity.