How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(28)

Hen skitters off back to her boyfriend as soon as we arrive at our table, apparently forgetting she’s been on a mission to get us there.

Charlie and I stand awkwardly looking on until I feel a hand on the small of my back. It makes me shudder. And not in the good way.

‘Well, look who’s decided to grace us with her presence after all.’

I don’t need to turn around to know that it’s James Pemberton’s hand on my back.

‘James!’ I say as he envelopes me in a one-armed hug, not wanting to spill his drink. ‘Great speech. And look how much money everyone is giving.’ Tor was right. Ignore the virtue signalling and remember what it’s all really for.

I’ve known James since I was a toddler but I still brace myself as he moves in for the requisite kiss on each cheek, his hands gripping my shoulders too tightly. ‘You know Charlie, of course? He works for The Refugee Charity?’

I didn’t expect James to be too bothered about Charlie. He’s only really interested in men as rich and important as himself, much younger women, or naive pop acts who can make him even more money. I have an image of him swimming around in a room of cash, like in a cartoon I watched as a kid.

But instead of dismissing Charlie and his off-the-peg suit, James lets out a bray of laughter – the exact same laugh as Ben’s. ‘Darling girl,’ he says. ‘Charlie doesn’t work for The Refugee Charity. He is The Refugee Charity. Owner, founder, CEO – whatever you want to call it. Did you really think he was some lowly underling?’

Turning to Charlie he adds: ‘Son, I warned you about those suits!’ He gives him a big clap on the back. ‘Well done,’ he says to him but winking at me. I shudder as he stumbles drunkenly away to talk to someone else.

Charlie and I turn to face each other.

‘So, you run the show?’ I say.

‘Well, I have a lot of help from my wonderful team, but yeah, it’s my baby.’

‘That’s amazing.’

‘My dad doesn’t think so, sadly. He’s basically cut me off because I didn’t follow in his footsteps and go into the family business of finance. He’s good friends with James. You know, with money being involved.’

‘Jesus, that’s horrible. I’m so sorry. You think he’d be proud of you doing something so wonderful.’

Charlie looks at his shoes.

‘What about your mum?’

He shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other.

‘My mum’s dead,’ he says eventually. ‘She died when I was thirteen.’

‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry.’

His eyes move back to my face. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry. Unless you killed her, of course.’ He gives me a sad smile.

‘My dad went missing when I was fifteen,’ I say. ‘No one knows what happened to him.’

‘The Mystery of the Missing Meat Mogul.’ Charlie uses the phrase the tabloids loved around the time my dad disappeared. ‘That must be hard?’

It’s my turn to stare at the ground. I don’t want to look him in the eye while I lie to him.

‘It’s the not knowing that’s the worst,’ I say. ‘If he’s dead or alive, you know?’

I feel Charlie’s hand on my arm and am momentarily mesmerised by the fact I don’t flinch or try to shrug him off.

‘I can’t even imagine how tough that must be for you. How do you cope?’

Stop talking about it, I think. Talking about it means I could slip up. Especially as I seem to have lubricated myself quite well with free booze.

‘Because I have to. What’s the alternative?’

‘Yeah, I get that.’

We stand in silence for a moment.

Charlie shuffles his feet and starts picking at a piece of lint on his jacket. ‘Listen, Kitty, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you tonight. I don’t suppose you’d like to do it again some time? Maybe somewhere a bit less … um …’ He looks around the garden at the rich and fabulous laughing and drinking and taking selfies next to the screen displaying the obscene amount of money that’s been donated. I bet the bloody party’s trending on Twitter. I don’t want to be here anymore.

‘Yes, somewhere much less would be great.’





21


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

When I get home later, I open my laptop and log into Instagram to have a look for Charlie on there. Before I get that far though, I spot the little icon telling me there’s a message waiting for me.

A picture has been forwarded. It’s of me and Charlie at the pop-up bar, laughing and seemingly unable to take our eyes off each other.

The message is short.

‘I’m always watching you Kitty.’

I slam the computer shut. What the fuck? The picture could only have been taken from someone inside the party. And not more than a few hours ago. This is getting seriously weird now and I don’t like it. I double-check all the locks on my door before I go to bed.

My sleep is broken with disturbing dreams about my dad and parties he used to throw at our old house when I was growing up. My parents were extremely social when my dad was around. Our house was always full of people. They threw lavish parties that impossibly glamorous people would turn up in droves for.