Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dee’s Sunday
Dee smiled at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She was blessed with teeth that were straight and pearly. She was surprised to see, grinning back at her, a very attractive woman. Her glossy brunette crop was tousled to Vogue-like perfection, and thanks to Max Factor her complexion was flawless. She looked like a typical English rose. She moved her head from left to right, inspecting the newly applied make-up from every angle. How ironic that the mirror reflected such a glowing image. What it didn’t capture was a heart that felt like it was permanently bleeding, and an inner churning as if an acrobat had taken up residence in her stomach. Even her legs felt like they were trembling within the jeans she’d shimmied into.
She jiggled around and glanced critically at the lower half of her body. She’d lost seven pounds in almost as many days thanks to the Misery Diet. She was now fitting into her denims like the proverbial hand in a glove. The stretchy cloth moulded her bum to perfection. If only Josh could walk in right now. She felt sure he’d drop his suitcase in astonishment and say, “Babe, you look amazing. What the hell was I playing at taking off to Tenerife with the very average-looking Emma? I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, darling.” Or, even better: “Emma is a total dog. I discovered she’s a hypnotist. She clicked her fingers and told me that whenever I looked at her I’d see Selina Gomez. In reality, she looks like Speedy Gonzales. You must understand that what happened wasn’t my fault.” And Dee would say, “Of course. Emma duped you with mind games. You were a guinea pig for little more than a magic trick.” And then Josh would sweep Dee up into his arms, stride into the bedroom, throw her onto the bed, and do all sorts of thrilling things to her that he’d never done with Emma.
Dee watched the smile slide from the reflection in the mirror, and the mouth settle into a downward turn. Josh’s postcard was propped up on the table in the hallway. Boy would he get a shock when he came home and saw that. It would be the precursor for an overdue showdown from which there would be no going back. Dee’s mouth drooped even further.
She spent the next hour sitting at her laptop Googling private investigators. She was astonished how many there were. Nor could she quite believe their sales spiel.
Do you need a private dick to investigate what your husband’s dick is privately up to?
Good heavens, that was putting it baldly. She had a sudden vision of some cheating husband’s penis surrounded by a bald pubic area. She shook her head to clear the image. She must be awfully stressed to have her brain conjuring up such things. But then again, what sort of investigator would write something so prolific? She checked his reviews.
Did the job. Five stars.
That didn’t give much away. Dee sighed. The postcard proved Josh had cheated on her. She even knew the woman’s name. What she wanted now was surveillance – to know where Emma lived. Dee didn’t know what she’d do with such information. Pay her a visit? Beg her to leave Josh alone? Or slap her around the face? Dee didn’t fancy getting arrested for assault. She wondered if she could give the private investigator a bit extra and have him do it on her behalf? Her mind played out a possible scenario.
Dick: Are you Emma?
Emma: Who are you?
Dick: Never mind who I am. I have it on good authority you are a total slapper.
Emma: Eh?
Dick: Let me demonstrate.
Dee imagined the satisfying sound of Emma’s chops reverberating under a series of thwacks as revenge was exacted. Good heavens, not again. She rubbed her temples viciously and told her brain to pack it in.
On the other hand, perhaps she should simply give in to her dark fantasies. Why not take it one step further? What about hiring a hit man? Dee flinched. Why in God’s name was she even contemplating such murderous thoughts? This wasn’t her at all. Perhaps she was having some sort of breakdown. She felt a flash of anger at Josh for reducing her to playing mind games with herself. She carried on trawling through the list of investigators. Ah. What was this one? She scrolled back a bit.
Our sensitive private investigators provide a discreet and professional service.
That sounded more like it. More proficient. No smutty innuendo either. Dee read on.
A client called us because she believed her husband to be having an affair. The extra marital activity was taking place whilst our client was at work. Various options were discussed. It was decided to surveil the marital home when our client was out of the house and over a three-day period. On the first day, the husband stayed at home. On the second day, the husband left the marital home and our investigator followed him. He was trailed to an address five minutes away. It was a domestic residence and the door was opened by a female. At 2.25pm the husband left the residence. He was accompanied to the front door by the same female, this time spotted in see-through nightwear. We reported our findings to our client with supporting video evidence. The third day was cancelled because, although deeply distressed, our client was now sure of her husband’s indiscretions. In this instance, the charge for the private investigator was £625 plus VAT and mileage.
Dee totted the likely total figure up and realised it would virtually swallow the entirety of her wedding-that-never-was fund. She sighed. So be it. She wanted to know who Emma was. To meet her. Until she saw this love rival with her own eyes, Dee didn’t think she would rest. Even if Josh was honest and said, ‘Sorry, Dee, there’s absolutely no chance for either of us,’ Dee still wanted to meet this woman. It was something she simply had to do. And with that thought in mind, she picked up the phone.
It answered on the second ring. Dee hadn’t been expecting that. It was Sunday. She’d assumed it would be an answering machine.
‘Hunter-Brown Agency,’ said a man. His voice was no-nonsense, one of authority, with a deep baritone. ‘Harrison Hunter-Brown speaking.’
‘Hello,’ Dee croaked. She cleared her throat. ‘Hello,’ she said again.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Er, my partner is having an affair.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the voice, with just the right amount of sympathy. ‘And you would like us to help you?’
Dee gulped. ‘Yes. I hope you don’t think I’m weird but I want to know who she is, and where she lives, and what colour hair she has, and whether she’s pretty and,’ Dee paused, aware she was gabbling, ‘just…everything about her,’ she finished lamely. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll do with this information. There’s a part of me that wants to appeal to her better nature. If she has one,’ she added, in a small voice.
‘Understandable,’ said Harrison Hunter-Brown. ‘Most female customers are very inquisitive about who the other woman is.’
Dee found herself nodding in agreement at the other end of the phone. ‘Exactly. Can you help me?’
‘Of course. I’d like to meet you first, if that’s okay?’
‘Sure. When do you have availability?’
‘How about in an hour?’
‘Oh, as soon as that?’ Dee was taken aback.
‘I run a small agency, Miss..?’ his voice trailed off.
‘Do I have to give you my name?’
‘Everything here is confidential,’ Harrison Hunter-Brown assured. ‘Maybe, for now, you could give me your first name?’
‘It’s Dee,’ she said cautiously.
‘Okay then, Dee. How about you pop over to the office, and we’ll run through everything. If you like what you hear, we’ll work out a plan. How does that sound?’
‘Er, good, but…,’ Dee trailed off.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘I’m a bit worried about fees. How much will the initial meeting cost?’
‘Nothing. We only charge if you go ahead with surveillance.’
‘Really?’
‘Really!’ He sounded amused, and his manner filled Dee with a sense of calm and purpose. She didn’t know if private detectives took courses in people management, but she was already feeling confident in the person at the other end of the telephone.
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’m on my way.’
‘Do you have our address?’
‘Yes, it’s here on the website.’ She peered at the screen. Seal. Ah, yes. It was a village near Knole Park in Sevenoaks. Very nice. She gave a mental sniff. Where there was muck there was brass. Or, in this case, where there were fucks there was brass. She wondered how many men – or women – Harrison Hunter-Brown and his associates rumbled on a daily basis. Enough to pay the bills in a posh area.
‘I look forward to meeting you shortly, Dee.’
‘Likewise.’
Dee ended the call. She suddenly felt incredibly fired up. Minutes later she was in her car, listening to the sat-nav guide her towards the A2. She took the first slip-road to Wrotham, and then meandered for several miles through an increasingly rural landscape. Twenty minutes later she was in the village of Seal, bumping along a tree-lined private road. The sat-nav told her she’d reached her destination. Dee peered through the windscreen at a smart courtyard of houses. A hundred years ago they’d been barns and stables, but some clever builder had converted them into stylish mews homes.
She locked the car and walked over to some heavy wrought-iron gates with intercom box. Seconds later Dee was buzzed into the main square. It was beautifully landscaped with huge terracotta urns full of frothing winter pansies and colourful shrubs. A rustic door opened to Number 2 and a weeping female came out.
‘Thank you,’ she heard the woman say in a strangled voice. ‘Sorry about all the tears.’
‘Truly not a problem, and please take care,’ an unseen man replied.
Dee stepped aside to let the distressed woman exit – presumably a client who’d received bad news – and then Dee had her first proper look at Harrison Hunter-Brown. Her body chose that precise moment to double up, as if she’d been slugged in the solar plexus by a bag of cement.
‘Ooooh,’ she gasped.
‘Hey, are you all right?’ said Harrison, leaping forward. ‘Lean on me,’ he instructed. ‘You won’t be the first person over this threshold whose knees have given way.’ He gave a disarming smile as he reached out to guide Dee inside. To her embarrassment, his touch made her jerk violently, as if she’d been plugged into the National Grid and was lighting up the whole of Seal and possibly beyond.
‘You must be Dee?’
She squeaked unintelligibly and resorted to nodding by way of response. She had a feeling her pupils were dilating faster than a junkie on amphetamines. The man was so good looking it was positively obscene. Obscene because her brain was doing that weird thing again and playing out scenarios – this time X-rated. In a parallel universe Harrison Hunter-Brown had already whisked her over to that sumptuous looking client sofa, and was undressing her at the speed of light. His hypnotically deep and sexy voice was saying, ‘Dee, good heavens, I am sooo sorry, but I can’t help myself. Do you believe in love at first sight? I do, and right now I want you. In fact, I’ve never wanted anything so much in all my life. How do you like it?’
‘You decide,’ she said wantonly.
‘Most people like it with sugar,’ said Harrison.
Sex with sugar? Dee’s mind catapulted back to the present. ‘Pardon?’
‘How do you like your tea? My clients are usually in a state of shock when they visit, and sugar is helpful.’ Harrison smiled encouragingly, the effect of which nearly had Dee passing out. ‘You do look a bit shaken up.’
‘Y-yes,’ she nodded. ‘I am. A bit. Shaken.’
‘Come into the lounge. As you’ve probably gathered, my “office” is also my home. I like to be informal with clients and try and get them to relax.’ He indicated another squashy sofa, and Dee collapsed on it. ‘So, Dee. Sit back. Take some deep breaths and I’ll be back with the tea in a jiffy.’ He gave her a thousand-watt grin complete with twinkling eyes and dimpling cheeks, before heading off to the kitchen. She slumped back, emotionally wrecked. In two minutes Harrison Hunter-Brown had unleashed a deep yearning in Dee that Josh Coventry hadn’t achieved in two years. As Dee watched the private investigator’s exquisitely formed bottom disappear out of sight, her only coherent thought was being glad to have made an effort with her appearance today.