1
Adam Palmer. He thinks he is so superior, blessed with intellect and good looks. At the top of his game, living in a period English house, surrounded by his loving family. Money is no object for Adam Palmer. Perhaps I should rephrase that. Money allows him to buy whatever objects he desires. You only have to look at the ostentatious Bentley parked outside his front door to know that.
But Adam Palmer is just an animal, as we all are. A creature of habit. He may think he holds all the cards, but he doesn’t.
I do.
Because I know him as well as, if not better, than he knows himself.
This evening he arrived home from work. He grabbed a beer from the fridge. He had a screaming match with his wife. Nothing unusual there. It happens most nights. Then he disappeared into the bowels of the house, and now, ten minutes later, here he is, naked except for a pair of garish yellow-and-green tropical-print swimming trunks, striding towards his outdoor swimming pool. A large blue-and-white striped towel is draped over his left shoulder, a designer brand, no doubt. His Rolex watch is strapped to his wrist. It’s an Oyster Cosmograph Daytona made from platinum with a blue face. It costs nearly sixty grand. I know because I Googled it. He is fit for his forty-eight years. Broad shoulders, a well-toned stomach, a dark hairy chest and a confident gait. It’s his hair that gives away his age, receding at the temples and on the crown of his head, dark brown waves splattered with grey. I’m surprised he hasn’t got himself a hair transplant.
He drops his towel on a sun lounger and then lifts his arms up into the air, swinging them in large circles.
My heart is pumping now. The time has come.
He stretches his left leg and then his right leg, and now he takes five paces to the end of the pool. If he looks, he might see it. A tiny wire that runs across the grout line of the pale stones surrounding the turquoise pool. A thin wire that touches the base of the metal steps. Pace one, two, three… His eyes are fixed on the horizon, that sweeping vista of ancient woodland that surrounds the five-acre garden. He has stepped right over it and hasn’t noticed.
I let out my breath and for the first time register the burning pain in my legs. I’ve been crouching behind a bush for too long. And now, here he is. Ready to go. Climbing up onto the diving board at the deep end of the pool, flexing his muscles, and then, with his hands held together high above his head, he makes a little jump and dives neatly into the pool with a modest splash.
A grin edges at the corners of my mouth. I press the button on my phone. The remote control.
Done.
I’m ready to show myself, to execute the next step.
But there is silence.
Where the hell is he?
I expect gasps and spluttering.
I wait. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, a whole minute. I have a good view of the house and the pool. There is no one outside.
Adam Palmer hasn’t surfaced. It’s worked. Wonderfully well.
And then I have to control my laughter. It’s hilarious, really. He’s just sunk straight to the bottom. Now I need to get out of here without leaving any evidence behind. I scroll through my mental checklist.
I pull the wire. It’s five metres long and easy to pull back. I coil it up and put it in my rucksack. And now I tiptoe along the perimeter of the garden, darting behind large oak trees and rhododendron bushes, keeping in the dark shadows, holding my breath every time I accidentally step on a twig, until I reach the barbed wire fence that edges the public footpath. I crawl underneath it and then walk briskly along the wooded trail. People walk their dogs along here, but I’ve got that one covered. If I see anyone, I’ll call out for my imaginary Buster – an Irish wolfhound perhaps, or a Staffie.
But I don’t see a soul.
I’m safe.
Shame about Adam Palmer.
2
There was a summer storm last night. Torrential rain and heavy wind whistling through the hairline cracks in our old, creaking house and pummeling the thick, verdant branches of the English oaks and beeches in the garden. Perhaps it was a pathetic fallacy, a forewarning of what is to come today. But this morning, the sky is a clear pale blue, and everyone except me seems to have a spring in their step.
I turn the car into the industrial estate and drive slowly towards our car park. Most mornings, I’m on autopilot and I don’t look. Not properly look, anyway. I’m normally in a hurry, having dropped the kids at school and eager to get behind my desk to come up with some exciting marketing strategy or try out a new piece of crafting kit. But today I’m in no hurry, despite the fact our board meeting should have started five minutes ago. I glance up at our nondescript red-brick building with its white PVC windows and door and notice that the r in the company’s name has slipped. The result of the storm, no doubt. It reads Cacking Crafts rather than Cracking Crafts.
Bloody hell. It’s exactly how I feel. Shit.
I snigger.
I park my black Porsche Cayenne in my allocated space, in front of the sign that reads ‘Sales & Marketing Director’, wedged between Ajay’s dark red Mercedes on the left and Adam’s navy Bentley on the right. A row of ostentatious, ridiculously expensive cars that demonstrates to the world just how far we have come. Adam bought my Cayenne. I returned home one March day two years ago to find it and the Bentley parked at the front of the house. I wanted to send them both back. There was absolutely nothing wrong with my Skoda estate. Adam threw a hissy fit, and back then I was still trying to be the pacifist, so after he reassured me we could afford a fleet of the things, I accepted the car. It would be churlish to say I don’t enjoy driving it. I do.
I walk in through the front door, clutching my files, my stilettos clip-clopping on the vinyl floor, past the open-plan office towards the boardroom. Nicky pirouettes before me and I jump. She has flawless ebony skin and large white teeth that have a wide gap between them. She’s the organiser of my diary and she keeps me focused.
‘They’re waiting for you,’ she whispers. ‘Is everything ok?’
‘Other than the fact we’re now Cacking Crafts and not Cracking Crafts, it’s all hunky-dory!’ It’s not fair of me to be sarcastic with Nicky, but I can’t help it.
‘I know. Unfortunate. Rod will fix the sign this morning. Would you like a coffee? Everyone else has got one.’
‘I’m fine. Thanks, Nicky. Better get going.’
My lovely assistant nods and lets me go. I tug down my navy linen skirt and straighten my jacket, then open the door. I still can’t get used to wearing formal clothes. Another edict from Adam. I dress up for meetings, and the rest of the time I’m in jeans and hand-knitted jumpers.
‘Good morning and sorry I’m late,’ I say as I walk into the boardroom. I had hoped that Ajay might have shifted the chairs around, but no. We’re in our normal places, and Adam and I have to face each other across the table. It’s our monthly management meeting, where our eight most senior executives report on the previous month and share their outline plans for the forthcoming month.
‘Morning, Lydia,’ they reply in their varying pitches and accents. Adam doesn’t look up.
‘Right. As we’re all here, let’s get started on the agenda,’ Ajay says. ‘Number one: last month’s sales. Adam, can you talk us through the figures, please?’