The Second Woman Read online

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t tell you this, but we always share things with each other, don’t we?’

  Does Gabriela notice, Madeleine wonders, the catch in her voice?

  ‘Besides, who are you going to tell, right? So you know how I told you we were closing in on some of the peripheral figures? Well, one of those is a Russian-owned company …’

  Madeleine pauses, giving her friend one last chance to intercept, to launch in with the truth – but the rocket has already taken off. They are both already flailing through space, the air thinning, and time to attach their oxygen tanks is running out.

  ‘But there are a few things we need to tie up first,’ Madeleine says, and Gabriela doesn’t even look up this time as she replies.

  ‘Right.’ The colour drains from her face, a single vein pulsing above her left eye.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask which company?’

  Madeleine doesn’t wait. ‘Oh, it’s one of those intentionally oblique ones – offers a breadth of legitimate services, specialising in energy supply, I believe. But like so many of these companies, they dabble in sidelines. After all, that’s where the money’s at, right? As well as bursts of philanthropy. In this case, a children’s orphanage, no less.’

  Madeleine watches as the fork slips from between Gabriela’s fingers and crashes against her plate. When Madeleine speaks again, she can barely suppress an acid note of scorn.

  ‘Gaby, is something wrong?’

  Artemis

  Greece, the Eighties

  She had dreaded the sex in the lead-up to the first time with Clive, unable to distil the prospect of the act from the image of the teenage boy’s face above hers, his rhythmic grunts drowning out her protestations. But when it finally happened, in the bed upstairs in Clive’s cottage, the moonlight spilling in through the cracks in the shutters, Artemis felt herself give into him in a way she would never have thought possible.

  It was more than relief that flooded her body as she lay silently in the bed next to him, listening to him catch his breath, the sweetness of the scent of their sweat overpowering her. There was something restorative about that time together, as if this level of intimacy could atone for all the years she had been alone.

  After that, she craved those moments together, as though with every thrust she was pushing the memory of Jorgos deeper inside herself until she could no longer feel it.

  The day Clive left the island after their initial month together, Artemis convinced herself she would never see him again. He’d had his way with her and now he was gone, and she was grateful that she’d ever had him, even if only for a brief moment.

  It was hard to tell if Athena was disappointed or secretly jubilant when Clive left. While Artemis’ best friend could hardly conceal the thrill she felt in Clive’s company, making a fool of herself with her constant vying for his attention, she must have felt some relief when he was gone again and equilibrium between her and Artemis was restored. It wasn’t that Athena was a bad friend, it was just that things had always been a certain way. The balance of power between them was delicate, if basic. To Athena, it didn’t matter that Artemis was the more beautiful of the two because as far as the boys on the island were concerned, she was untouchable. She had no power here and therefore she was no threat.

  If years of watching Artemis being taunted for the regular accidents in class, as well as for her father’s eccentric behaviour in the village, hadn’t been enough to put the boys off, then Jorgos’ recounting of what had happened between them that afternoon certainly had. Artemis could never be sure exactly what version of the day’s events he had told the other boys, but she recognised the shapes of their words perfectly when they saw her after that. Slut. Whore.

  Their taunts haunted her for years – until she met Clive. From then on, his wanting of her pushed out any sense of shame.

  The only boy who had been kind to her after what happened with Jorgos was Panos. Briefly, she had wondered whether he might like her in the way that boys her age liked other girls in her class. But of course it had been Athena he was interested in all along. Artemis had felt foolish for reading something into the occasional kind glances he had given her, for having thought, even for a moment, that they had meant anything more than pity.

  Over the years, Artemis had become accustomed to never being the one who was chosen. But then there was Clive and he did choose her – and the shift that came that first summer with him marked a fracturing in the foundations of her friendship with Athena that could never be fixed.

  The first time Clive showed up after that, lingering outside the bakery one afternoon out of the blue after months away and not a word, Artemis felt her skin tingle with fury and desire.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed at him, walking past and waiting for him to follow, leading into a sliver of alleyway between two buildings opposite the port, away from prying eyes.

  ‘What kind of welcome back is that?’ he asked, amused, turned on by the subterfuge. ‘Nice hat, by the way.’

  She pulled off the hairnet she wore to work, her cheeks hot with more than the hours she had spent in front of the oven.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming back.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘OK, well I didn’t believe you and you didn’t say when …’

  He looked baffled. ‘I have a house here. Anyway, even if I didn’t have, how could I not come back for you? You need to have more faith in me.’

  He looked at her and leaned in for a kiss, taking her face in his hands.

  ‘Fuck, I’ve missed you,’ he said and she kissed him back before pulling away.

  ‘I can’t, not here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Go up to the house, I’ll meet you there in a while.’

  She felt him watching her as she walked away, pressing her fingers against her lips, her pulse vibrating so that she could barely breathe.

  ‘How was London?’ she asked, once they were alone, her body turned towards his on the bed. Clive ran a finger down the line of her arm.

  ‘Lonely.’

  Artemis looked away from him, desperate to know but unwilling to ask if there had been anyone else between then and now.

  ‘How long are you staying for?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Depends,’ Clive replied. ‘I have a few meetings planned. I’ll have to see how those go.’

  He ran his finger down her chest towards her belly button. ‘Anyway, I’m here now, so let’s make the most of it …’

  Over the following months, Clive came back to the island intermittently. Every time he would hunt her down within hours of arriving. He missed her, he was not too proud to say it, and she missed him, too – she missed his confident reassurance, the way he looked at her like what she said actually mattered. She missed the way that when he was there, it was like being pulled out of her own mind and dragged into another world – a world inside which she could imagine she was someone else entirely.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Artemis asked one morning after she woke in Clive’s bed. She sat up, wrapped in his bedsheet, as he walked up the stairs towards her, dressed in his signature chinos and polo shirt. A shard of light from the window illuminated his face so that she could hardly make out his features. He smelt of freshly laundered washing, his hair slightly shorter since he’d returned to the island this summer.

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you … I’m going to meet someone in Skiathos. I’m catching the Dolphin across in half an hour.’

  ‘That’s OK, I should get up anyway.’ Artemis smiled, stretching her arms above her head. ‘My parents will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘I thought you told them you’d stayed at Athena’s,’ Clive said, leaning across from the bottom of the mattress to kiss her.

  ‘I did. But still …’

  Artemis was twenty-four years old; she was a grown-up. Contemporaries from school were already married with kids by now – even those who didn’t deserve such happiness. Jorgos’
face flashed in her mind. She didn’t know if he was married or not – only that he had moved away. That was all she needed to know. The sense of relief after all these years of terror – knowing that she could walk outside without having to scour the streets for him – was indescribable. Though the memories he had left behind were harder to shake.

  There was no reason to introduce Clive to her parents. To Markos, Clive – a foreigner – represented the very thing he believed, in his irrational mind, was responsible for the dead weight inside him. Her mother would simply either worry or have her hopes unnecessarily raised and then dashed. Either way, it would not end well. This was a short-term arrangement, and Artemis knew that was all it could ever be. She wasn’t so naive. Clive would be gone again soon, and what was to stop him returning the next time with a girlfriend or a wife on his arm?

  ‘Artemis?’ Clive’s eyes were fixed on her. ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘I was just thinking,’ she said, lifting off the sheet and walking over to meet him on the landing. ‘If you give me five minutes, I’ll walk part way with you.’

  ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he said, looking her up and down, and she smiled, despite herself.

  No, it could not last, but she would enjoy it while it did. She would be hurt when it was over, but that was already an inevitability; she might as well immerse herself in their time together while she had it. After all, she had no way of knowing what she was being drawn into, or how deep she would be dragged.

  Artemis and Clive split paths at the top of the track that led behind the baker’s, half an hour later.

  ‘So who’s this friend you’re meeting?’ Artemis asked as Clive leaned in to say goodbye.

  ‘His name’s Francisco,’ Clive replied. ‘He’s not actually a friend as such, more a business acquaintance … he’s an old university pal of my accountant, Jeff’s wife – which sounds far more convoluted than it is.’

  ‘Francisco? Is he Spanish?’

  ‘No. Francisco Nguema … He’s from Africa originally but studied in London and now he has a business based in Greece. Very cosmopolitan. He is the guy who recommended I try investing here, so I have a lot to thank him for … Are you around later?’

  Artemis shrugged, with a wry smile. ‘Might be.’

  ‘Come to the house,’ he said. ‘I’ll make dinner.’

  ‘Really?’ She cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Of course not, I can’t cook for love nor money, as you well know. But I do know how to purchase a takeaway, and the food at Nico’s is second to none.’

  ‘My mother would challenge you on that …’

  ‘Well, she’ll never know, will she? If you won’t introduce me to her.’

  He turned away and Artemis watched him move along the dirt path to the main road that swept down to the port. As he disappeared, she imagined him standing at the dock waiting for the passenger boat that would take him west back towards Skiathos, the horizon swallowing him whole.

  ‘How did the meeting go?’ Artemis asked that evening as they tucked into a spread of souvlaki and moussaka in the dusty olive grove behind the house, stretched out across a picnic blanket she had stolen from the bakery when her parents weren’t looking, along with a basket of pastries.

  ‘Good,’ Clive said, tearing at the bread with his teeth. He always ate like he hadn’t been fed in days, ravenously sinking his teeth into whatever was laid in front of him.

  ‘So what sort of business does this man have, in Greece?’

  ‘Francisco? Well, he runs it between here and Equatorial Guinea. Boats.’

  ‘Boats?’

  ‘Sexy, isn’t it? Tankers, mainly. The reason he is willing to meet me is that he wants me to use his vessels to move my goods – except at the moment we are hardly working at a scale where it would make logistical sense. According to Jeff, he has a few tricks up his sleeve and wants to invest. It will help us expand and ensure him some good business. Savvy chap by all accounts.’

  ‘Wow. How do you feel about that?’

  Clive looked pensive. ‘About expanding? Pretty positive, I think. He’s seems like a good guy, as much as one can tell. He’s a good businessman anyway. And that’s what matters.’

  Artemis hesitated. ‘And would that mean you would spend more time here?’

  Clive looked up at her, uncharacteristically coy. ‘I think it might.’

  He reached his hand to her face. ‘I like spending time with you. You’re lovely and you’re beautiful. What I can’t understand is why you don’t already have a boyfriend.’

  She felt her back stiffen. Moving herself into a different position on the blanket, she looked away from him. ‘Have you met any of the men my age here?’

  He laughed. ‘Actually, I met one today. He’s been working as a driver for Francisco – it’s how he knew about this island, apparently. So really this man is responsible for us ever meeting.’

  Artemis took a bite. ‘Really?’

  ‘Nice guy. I don’t suppose you know him – his name’s Jorgos Constantine.’

  Madeleine

  London, the day before Anna dies

  There are so many things Madeleine wants to ask, but there is no time. For now, above all, a single question needs answering.

  ‘Did you know?’

  One look at Gabriela’s face gives her the answer she needs.

  Madeleine closes her eyes, overcome with relief and contempt. It is almost worse, in a way, that her friend clearly had no idea who she was getting involved with. How could you not have known? Madeleine wants to ask. She wants to take Gabriela by the shoulders and shake her. How could you not have looked more deeply and discovered who he really was? And yet, even if she had dug, what would she have found? These people are sophisticated, they know how to cover their tracks. Besides, in order to find the truth you had to be willing to believe it.

  A woman who is willing to live a double life, to betray her children as well as her partner – could she be counted on to ask the right questions of herself, let alone of anyone else? Madeleine curses herself for such a misogynistic judgement, but it is true, and she, for one, is willing to look the truth in the eye, even if she hates what is staring back at her.

  ‘We met at a restaurant, the one Emsworth always took us to—’

  Madeleine pictures their old FCO boss, Guy Emsworth, at the Italian bistro on Crown Passage, his unofficial second office.

  ‘Madeline. I—’ Gabriela attempts to take her hand.

  Madeleine pulls her fingers away sharply. She doesn’t raise her voice, she doesn’t even look up, leaning into her bag and extracting a pad from which she tears a single sheet of paper. Without looking at Gabriela, she scrawls down an address.

  ‘I’m going to show you this and you need to memorise it – then I’m going to tear up the paper.’

  Gabriela nods.

  ‘You will drive as soon as possible to where I need you to go. You will tell Tom and the children to meet you there. Someone will meet you here.’ Madeleine indicates towards the name of the British ferry terminal scrawled on the paper she is holding up. ‘He will tell you what you need to do next. Have all your passports.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. I’ll call you with further information. You need to go straight home and gather your things.’

  Madeleine doesn’t want to commit with details just yet, not only because she can’t be certain Gabriela isn’t being bugged – much as she thinks that Gabriela isn’t in on it, she cannot wholly trust anything she says. How can she? But it’s also a matter of logistics – she has not yet decided who she can trust with this task. Too many lives are at stake.

  She had discussed it directly with Sean, not long after the big revelation. After admitting she and Gabriela had worked together – keeping the details brief – they had agreed that for the safety of the children, at the very least, this couldn’t be handled in-house. There had been too many leaks already; it was impossible to think Vasiliev didn’t have a man, or woman, on the inside pa
ssing information back to her.

  For all her anger towards Gabriela – and there is plenty of that – Madeleine is desperate to get this right. Whomever Madeleine chooses to be the one to usher Gabriela to safety has to be the right person, and Sean, to his credit, understands that Madeleine is the one to seek that person out. So she had been wrong about Sean, she had conceded as she made her way home from the office after his revelation, and yet that was hardly surprising. We are wrong about people all the time. People can surprise you, for better or for worse. That is one fact of which she can be sure.

  She has to act quickly. Once Popov is arrested, Vasiliev will be targeting Gabriela and her family, culling those who might speak out.

  ‘Have you memorised it?’ Madeleine asks, signalling towards the words on the paper she is holding up.

  Gabriela nods.

  Without another word, Madeleine stands. She hesitates for a second, blinking hard as she tears the paper into tiny pieces. As she turns away from the friend she will never see again in this lifetime, she closes her eyes and feels the burn behind them.

  Madeleine pauses for a moment, waiting for Gabriela to say something, but she says nothing. She doesn’t even say thank you.

  Madeleine clutches the door handle for the duration of the taxi ride from Daphne’s restaurant to her flat on Bulstrode Street. It is only when the car stops that she notices she is doing it. For a moment she simply sits, holding herself there in the sudden stillness of the vehicle, not ready to process what has just happened.

  ‘We stopping here or what?’ the driver asks, the sudden burst of noise over the speaker in the back of the cab puncturing the silence.

  ‘Yes,’ Madeleine says, steadying her voice, righting herself again, ready to take action. Reaching into her handbag, she notices the indentation of the door handle on the skin of her palm as she pulls a twenty-pound note from her purse.

  Her heels make a clattering sound as she steps out onto the pavement. Moving towards the front door, she blocks out the sound of afternoon life bustling on as ever along Marylebone Lane.

  Gabriela will be back at home by now, Madeleine calculates as she enters the townhouse. She’d had it divided into flats after her father had died – it was one thing living in the house she had grown up in, between stints abroad as part of her father’s diplomatic career, but quite another to do so with her childhood ghosts hanging around to bother her. There had been a time she had wanted to sell the whole thing, to start anew, but what would be the point? You didn’t get two chances to purchase a pad like this, right in the heart of Marylebone, certainly not with stamp duty and all the other taxes that would soon eat into any profit. So when it was suggested that she split it into two apartments and sell one off, she didn’t think twice. Just as she hadn’t thought twice at the time about handing over the keys to owners who would never use it. It was one thing having a moral high ground in the abstract, and another refusing a shit-ton of cash when you needed it. She is a hypocrite, she accepts that fact mournfully. We all are.