I Know Who You Are(37)

“Your agent probably just wants to have a chat, like his email says. I think you’re reading far too much into it,” says Jack, as I attempt to apply some makeup.

I don’t normally bother with the whole face-paint routine when I’m not working; I’m not good at that sort of thing. My fingers find the shape of a lipstick inside my bag. I try to steady them enough to put it on, then realize too late that the bright red lipstick isn’t mine. It’s hers. The woman who left it here when I wasn’t. Only my lower lip is red, and for a moment I’m so tired and confused I consider leaving it that way.

“It’s just one stupid article, everyone will have forgotten about it by tomorrow, and I’m sure your agent doesn’t care whether you are having an affair,” Jack adds.

I turn to face him. “But we’re not having an affair.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” He’s sitting on Ben’s side of the bed with his feet up. I don’t know why I feel so guilty when I haven’t done anything wrong.

“I still don’t understand how Jennifer Jones got those pictures.” I apply the color to my upper lip and look at my reflection. For a moment, it’s Alicia’s face that I see. The idea that she is having an affair with my husband, and that the two of them are trying to frame me, still seems ridiculous, but stranger things have happened. Maybe I was too quick to dismiss it. Ben is handsome and charming, witty and fun. At least that’s the version of himself he presents to the rest of the world. Nobody would believe who Ben is behind closed doors. Just the idea of the two of them together feeds the hate that has been growing inside me all these years. Alicia has been a bitch to me ever since school.

“How well do you know Alicia?”

“Not so well.” Jack laughs. “But I don’t think she’s been taking secret pictures of us on her iPhone and selling them to the press, if that’s what you mean.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that.” I think, however, I might have been. I try to think about it logically. “It was a closed set, only a member of the crew could have taken a photo of our sex scene. I suppose there are lots of people who could have taken a photo of us in the bar last night, but the picture in my dressing room?”

“Jennifer Jones was waiting in your dressing room for you on the morning you did the interview.”

“So?”

“So, she must have planted a small camera before you arrived.”

“Really? That sounds highly unlikely. She’s a showbiz journalist, not James Bond. Is that even legal?”

“I think you’ll find people will do almost anything for a story nowadays, regardless of whether it is ethical or true.”

We head downstairs, and I pause in the kitchen to drink some water. Going into town to see my agent with a hangover is not ideal, but I’m keen to get this, whatever it is, over. I catch sight of the bin in the corner of the room and remember what is inside it: the empty bottles of lighter gel that the police think I bought. I feel sick all over again.

“I’m just going to put the rubbish out, I think it’s starting to smell.”

Jack comes towards me. “I can do that for you—”

“No, really I’m fine. Why don’t you wait in the lounge, it will only take a minute.”

Jack is staring at something in his hand when I come back inside a short time later.

“Who’s this scary-looking chap?” He holds up the framed black-and-white photo of my husband as a child.

“Ben when he was a boy. It’s the only photo I could find of him.”

“Strange.”

“I know. I looked everywhere, there used to be lots—”

“No, I meant strange as in it looks nothing like him.”

I had forgotten that Jack and my husband met at a party a few months ago. Ben invited himself along in a fit of jealousy and paranoia, and I was furious. I found it flattering when we first got together, the way he wanted me all to himself. But as time went on, the flattery faded into an afterglow of resentment. I’ve made a bad habit out of loving people who put me down, hoping they’ll pull me up. They never do. I just fall further, harder, faster.

I remember seeing Jack and Ben talking together in the corner at the party that night, as though they were thick as thieves, and finding it strange. The memory unsettles me, as though I preferred the two of them being separate entities in my life, the fact that they’ve met somehow contaminating my future with my past. A mental note scratches itself onto my subconscious; like a sharpened pencil it leaves a mark, but will be easy to erase.

Jack puts the creepy picture back down, follows me out of the lounge and into the hallway. I open the front door, not expecting to find someone standing on the other side about to ring the bell.

“Well, well. Fancy finding the two of you together this morning,” says Detective Croft with a wide smile. Wakely stands by her side, and I can see two large police vans parked on the street behind them.

“I might head off.” Jack looks almost disappointed, as though he was expecting there to be someone else outside. “I’ll see you later.” I frown, not sure why he is saying that, especially in front of the detective. “At the wrap party,” he explains, seeing the confusion on my face. I had forgotten that was tonight.

“The wrap party! How exciting, what a thrilling life you superstars lead. Can we come in?” Croft is already stepping towards the door.