Shades Of Submission: Fifty By Fifty Part 64

But I've never been a one to leave something unspoken.

Me and Julie, we're like twins separated at birth. We tell it how it is, and we like people to treat us the same way.

Right now, this was about me, not him. It was about what I wanted, what I needed, what I desired. And if I was ever going to move on past this point I needed the truth. No more lingering, nagging doubts.

"So tell me," I said, standing in the doorway to the balcony, arms folded tightly across my chest. "What really happened to Sally Fielding? What did your family do?"

"I don't know what more I can tell you," he said. "The official investigation concluded that it was suicide."

"You said she'd been killed."

"I probably said a lot of things. In the circles I sometimes move in it's easy to a.s.sume the worst."

"You seemed pretty sure at the time."

"I can be wrong. It's been known occasionally."

Down on the Thames, a low-slung tourist cruise-boat pushed determinedly upstream, all lit up as if there was a party on-board.

I couldn't read Will's expression, couldn't decide if he was dodging my questions or if he genuinely didn't know what had happened.

"Sally was a damaged individual," he said. "I always did what I could for her."

"Is that what you'll say about me, one day? You always did what you could?"

He stepped forward, arms towards me then dropping to his sides when I didn't respond.

"I don't know if I can do this," I said. The tension between us was a tangible thing, pulling us together yet holding us apart. "I don't know if I can have a relations.h.i.+p with a man whose word I can't trust."

Every word, pulling us apart, while all the time I just wanted to be in his arms.

"You, your mysterious jet-setting James Bond life, your creepy family. I know some of the stories. Emma Judd and her father... Eleanor's biking boyfriend"

"You've been digging."

"I like to know what I'm dealing with, particularly when my primary source isn't very forthcoming."

"You think I'm the bad guy? You think I'm too dangerous?"

"That makes it sound glamorous," I told him. "And it just isn't, not when you have to deal with the reality. People around you have accidents. They die. And you just hide yourself behind onion-skin layers of defense, always deflecting. I never know where I stand..."

"Those layers," he said. "My onion skins. It's true. I find ways to protect myself, to stop myself from getting hurt because I'm always dealing with people who have an angle on me. I'm the guy with the big houses, the luxury apartment. I'm the posh, slightly b.u.mbling Englishman who mediates and negotiates on behalf of his government. I'm the guy who plays the field, has a bit of a laugh, because even when people get close to me they're always looking for that angle, always distrusting me. It's far easier to get by if you at least pretend that you don't care."

"Is that you?" I asked. "Or is it just another protective layer?"

"What can I say? What can I do?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

"I meant it."

He didn't have to explain. Those words, those three innocent words.

I love you.

"But I'm never going to be more than second best, am I? You, your family, your mysterious world"

"It's nothing to do with my family," he snapped. It was the briefest loss of control but that instant response in itself was confirmation.

Always trust that first reaction, and Will's first reaction was to leap to the defense of his beloved family. Maybe that should have been okay, maybe I was asking too much, but when you set the costs against the benefits it was never going to square up.

"I'm sorry," I said softly. "But you, your family... I'm never going to fit. I'm never going to be happy with unanswered questions, with having to trust a man whose professional life revolves around manipulating people's trust. I'm never going to feel safe surrounded by people who will intimidate and distort to achieve their ends. Where the death of someone who got in the way is seen as par for the course. I think I've only skimmed the surface of you and your family, but that's enough to know that I need better than that, and when your first impulse will always be to side with your family, I... Well, I don't know. But I'm sorry. I can't do this. I can't stand by and do nothing when innocent people are hurt."

All of that... I really think it would have been fine if I hadn't finished with that one final sentence.

I can't stand by and do nothing when innocent people are hurt.

He opened his mouth, he spread his arms again, he even took another step towards me but then stopped himself. He wasn't going to fight for me.

I could see that turning point, the moment when he stopped himself, when he drew back and retreated behind his protective layers. His face hardened, his stance stiffened. Like someone was twisting a dimmer switch.

A single, small nod, then he looked past me, and said, "Maninder. I think Ms Parsons needs a lift home."

And then he turned away from me.

Did I say dimmer switch? No, it was more clear-cut than that, more on-off.

Over.

Dismissed.

I turned and Maninder was waiting, a giant brick-wall of a man. White turban, black leather jacket, black t-s.h.i.+rt, black chinos. Looking past me. Anything but making eye contact with me as I walked away from Will, as I only slowly started to realize just how gutted I felt that a man who claimed to love me was willing to let me go like that.

It seemed to take an age for the elevator to reach the penthouse floor. Finally, with a soft hiss of air the door slid open. I stepped inside, noticing for the first time that its floor was carpeted. In its mirrored interior I saw Maninder watching me, before following, and beyond him, Will stood on his balcony surveying the city, an eagle in its eyrie, watching over its domain.

I don't really do relations.h.i.+ps. They never seem to work out.

He'd said that to me once, like some kind of self-fulfilling mantra, no chance for things to change: they just don't work out.

I almost went back to him, then. I felt the muscles in my arm tense, ready to reach out and stop the elevator door from sliding shut.

But hesitation was the deciding factor, the moment slipping away just as the elevator door slid closed, and with a slight lurch we started to descend.

Maninder was still studying me, more openly now. There was a sympathetic look on his face. I realized he must have witnessed that entire exchange. Of all people, he was probably closer to Will than anyone. How many times must he have seen his master pus.h.i.+ng people away like this?

As if to confirm this, he said to me, "He is a difficult man to know."

"That's his choice," I said, perhaps a little too harshly.

"Sometimes choices are foisted upon us."

A short silence, then he went on: "You should not disrespect Mr Bentinck-Stanley and his family. They are good people. Sometimes they may be a little over-zealous, but would you not prefer the zeal of the good over the greed and depravity of the corrupt?"

I shrugged. I didn't want to talk, and I didn't see why Maninder had chosen this moment to get all chatty. I much preferred his scary silent routine.

That was when he reached across and pressed one of the b.u.t.tons on the elevator's control panel and we came to a juddering halt, somewhere between floors.

I'd been standing sideways on to him, trying to make my body language show that I wasn't keen on engaging in conversation. I watched him in the mirror, that arm rising, hesitating for a moment, and then reaching for the b.u.t.ton.

As the elevator came to a halt I turned towards him, and suddenly I felt very small. I peered up into his face, but it was impa.s.sive, hard to read. All around, in my peripheral vision there were multiples of the two of us reflected over and over again in the elevator's mirrored walls, like some nightmare hall of mirrors that even as you dream you know you can't wait to wake from.

That hand, the one that had reached for the b.u.t.tons to halt the lift, swung back and took me by the chin, cupping my jaw between forefinger and thumb, gripping firmly but not hurting. Controlling. Locking my face in position as I peered up at him.

"What the f.u.c.k...?" I managed to say, before that grip tightened, pus.h.i.+ng my head sharply up and back so that my throat suddenly tightened and the words were cut off.

"They are good people," he said, resuming our little conversation as if it had barely been interrupted. "They should not be disrespected"

His grip eased, and then his hand fell away from my face.

"Okay," I said, fighting to make my voice somehow calming. "I know... Good people."

"It is disrespectful to start prying in order to find the dirt on them."

Yes, he'd heard everything...

"They do not intimidate. They do not hurt innocent people."

My parting words to Will: I can't stand by and do nothing when innocent people are hurt.

"Okay," I said. "I know. I was just upset, you know?"

"Mr Bentinck-Stanley is a good man, a gentle man." From his emphasis I knew that he meant that as two distinct words, a gentle man, not just a gentleman. "He is not a man who kills or hurts people. He travels the world doing the things his family have always done. He is a negotiator, a mediator. He is the glue that binds together. He frees hostages and prevents conflicts."

All these things... Why had Will been unable to tell me? Why did it take a bystander when it was all too late?

Maninder was describing the Will I had longed to believe in... the Will I had never quite trusted in.

"His work is important. His family are important."

I know. I know.

"They must not be threatened. They must be protected."

That hand, raised again, but this time its grip was marginally lower, around my throat. It was a controlled grip, tight enough to restrain, but not too tight, not yet.

"You will not have to stand by," he said. His voice was quiet, so soft I could barely make out his words. His dark eyes bore into me, as if he were studying an insect.

"You will do no more digging up of old stories. You will no longer threaten the Bentinck-Stanleys."

Was this just a threat? G.o.d, please let it just be a threat!

I tried to swallow, but his grip was too tight for that. I tried to breathe deeply, calmly, but could only gasp.

I should have known it was more than just a threat.

These people... They were efficient. They didn't leave loose ends like Sally Fielding, like me...

With his free hand, Maninder reached across and pressed a b.u.t.ton and the lift resumed its ponderous descent.

"I am going to take you away, just as Mr Bentinck-Stanley requested," he said, and for a moment I wondered if this was all planned, if Will had prepared his a.s.sistant for what to do if I proved troublesome.

No.

I knew that was not something he could do. And I wasn't too far gone in my panic to appreciate the irony that finally I trusted in him.

"But where he would give you the opportunity not to do any harm, I like to be more efficient. I take pride in my work."

"Your... work?"

"I protect the family."

The elevator stopped at the bas.e.m.e.nt car park.

We paused before emerging. Maninder held me with one arm twisted up behind my back, his other fist buried in my long hair, holding me tight against him. He smelt of citrus and spices. Will's scent. Did that mean he sycophantically mimicked his employer, or stole his cologne? And why was my mind racing with such thoughts when my arm was burning with pain from the way I was being held?

We shuffled forward, awkwardly. The car was parked two rows away, one sleek black Jaguar among an array of Jags, BMWs, Audis, a Porsche. More detail. More silly detailed thoughts, as if my mind was trying to distract itself from what was actually happening, which was Maninder half-marching, half-dragging me across to the car.

The lights flashed as we approached, Maninder somehow holding me one-handed while he zapped the car unlocked.

Pa.s.senger-side, he opened the door and bundled me in, and then he was leaning across me, doing something clever with the seatbelt, and somehow I was secured, my wrists trapped in loops, the belt holding me firm. I twisted, pushed forward, tried to yank my hands free, but nothing gave and then he was lowering himself into the driver's seat, engine gunning even as his door slammed shut.

"The car is sound-proofed," he said. "The windows mirrored from the outside. If you scream it is only your throat that will be damaged."

And then, twisting in his seat to see, he reversed out of the parking slot and headed for the exit ramp.

It was over. I couldn't squirm free of my restraints. I couldn't draw attention from pa.s.sersby. When we reached wherever we were heading, my only chance would come if I was able to break free of him, kick off my Jimmy Choos and out-run him in my bare feet.

Or talk him round.