The Things We Do to Our Friends(48)

It was in contrast to Tabitha, who had drawn back from paying for things and who put so much focus on creating revenue at every turn. Who wasn’t getting anything from her parents anymore.

Before much longer, however, it would become apparent to me that it was never just about the money for Tabitha. It was important to her, yes, but it wasn’t the sole reason. She had other requirements.





38


Eventually, I saw Tabitha in action. Glorious, awful action.

“An inbound lead!” she cooed, stroking the top of her laptop to reward it for delivering a lucrative find.

She announced it to us. “And she’s just lovely. I’ve only met her a few times, but we’re already so aligned on our vision for it.” Tabitha liked to use words like “aligned,” and often it served to obscure any kind of meaning.

Imogen laid out the details for us, as usual: a large Victorian villa in the suburbs of the city; a house far too big for a family of three; a wife, who’d given up her job as a professional dancer in London. They’d moved to Scotland years ago for his job, which didn’t sound especially aboveboard, but the details were vague; some kind of sketchy background in private security.

“He’s been cheating on her for years,” Tabitha said, scanning her notes. “She just wants proof.”

I didn’t understand why there wouldn’t be emails or text messages, but there wasn’t anything. He was talented at maintaining his privacy. Apparently.

“Our surveillance methods won’t work, because the house is really well protected from stuff like that because of his job. All sorts of things have been set up,” Tabitha mused. “That’s if we want to do it near the house. Which we do.”

She spoke like I knew what these methods were. I didn’t. So far, we’d managed to get proof in various ways, as far as I could tell. Friends I didn’t know about in places I didn’t understand.

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” I asked. I wasn’t sure why she was involving me.

“Nothing elaborate. I would ask Imogen, but I’d prefer you for this,” she said.

Oh, the buzz at being chosen, but I couldn’t help asking the question: “Why?”

She was coy. “I just would.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked carefully.

“Come and take a few pictures.”

“Of what?”

“Oh, just the usual.” She waved a hand in the air to bat away the question. “It will be in front of the house, so just some quick snaps.” She clicked a finger down on an imaginary air camera with a wink and leaned in closer to me. “If anything happens, I just feel that you’ll be able to move nice and fast, Clare.”

“Why would I need to move fast? I’ll just take some pictures, and then you’ll go inside, won’t you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, yes…just a precaution.” She nodded, her hand on mine. “Just make sure you get the pics straightaway with the flash on, so I know when you’re done.”

“He’ll see the flash, won’t he?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.”

I was confused. I knew from experience there was no point in pushing, though. I didn’t want to be excluded from the whole thing for the sake of curiosity.

I looked to Imogen, who’d been quiet during this erratic briefing. I think Imogen knew that it might not be as simple as Tabitha was making out, but she didn’t say a word. She just scrunched up her nose, as if to say, Don’t involve me, this one’s all on you.

“Imogen, you have something stuck in your teeth,” Tabitha said sweetly. Imogen turned bright red, rooting about with a nail into her gums.

“Hmmm, looks like there was nothing there at all,” Tabitha said coolly after a moment or two.

Then Imogen was dismissed, and nothing else seemed to be required from me. For the rest of afternoon, I sat there on the bed in Tabitha’s room. Watching her try on outfits.

She danced around in a tight leather skirt with her legs encased in ribbed woolen tights. She assessed herself in a heavy kilt, and then something huge made of orange chiffon that was almost certainly stolen as it emerged from a bin bag wrapped in tinfoil.

In the end, the outfit she settled on was all in black like a burglar, her hair fanned out on her back in a shock of yellow. A heavy gold watch looped around her skinny wrist.

I sat there in the room, cozy while the wind raged outside, wondering what Tabitha could possibly have planned and savoring the fact that it was something we’d be doing together.





39


It was a late, dark afternoon. The streetlights were just starting to flicker, and they lined the road like tiny fires. Leaves crunched beneath my feet and smoke hung in the air—it was a day or so after Bonfire Night. I remember noting that because the last dribble of fireworks had already started in the distance. They flared up into a halfhearted display over the boxy flats as I walked up the street. All of a sudden, the flats gave way to a blocky row of huge, blackened villas with thick privet hedges protecting them from the street and vast cars, like tanks ready for war, lining the sidewalks.

Most of the houses looked very smart, but some seemed like they’d been owned by old, hallowed Edinburgh money (the type of generational wealth that Tabitha was obsessed with, although she wasn’t always fussy—new money was also fine), and they’d been left over the years to grow shabby around the edges—a few loose tiles or paint flaking at the door frame.