The Fixer Read online

  ‘How did you find me?’ I ask, still shell-shocked. Still trying to focus on breathing and not give myself away by screaming right into her face, Edvard Munch-style.

  ‘I went to your old address,’ she smiles sleepily, ‘but the new tenants there had never heard of you. I got lucky, though – I ran into one of your old neighbours and she remembered forwarding you on a package a few months ago. She kept the address in case there was more post you might need. Wasn’t that just the luckiest thing? So here I am – after all this time!’

  I seem to have lost the power of speech. I think on my feet for a living and now all I can do is stand there, staring mutely down at her. Pretty, pretty, pretty, so pretty I want to punch her on her big, blonde, stupid head.

  ‘I’m so pleased to see you, Meg,’ she warbles on, getting teary the more she talks. ‘It’s just so good to be home! I never thought I could be as homesick as I was. I missed so much about home, my family and the twins and you . . . and, of course, I know you’re probably furious with me because I haven’t been in touch as much as I should, but you’ve no idea what it was like out in Kenya . . . the broadband was practically non-existent . . . Oh, and I’ve so much to tell you, Meg! You won’t believe what’s been going on since we last spoke . . . you’re the only one I can really talk to, I didn’t even want to tell my mam what’s really been going on . . .’

  She’s here. She’s at my home. No one comes into my home, my sanctuary. This is my very worst nightmare manifested.

  I can’t even think about what to do, I can’t seem to think straight at all.

  ‘I’m just so happy to see you, Meg,’ she says, in a shaky little voice that cracks with real feeling, as she rises to her feet and gives me a big, warm bear hug. ‘And I didn’t want to go to a hotel tonight – so I’ve come to stay with you. That’s OK, isn’t it? I mean, I so badly need to talk to you and you are my best friend.

  ‘Meg? Meg? Why has your face gone a funny colour?’

  TUESDAY

  Chapter Eight

  Meg

  Harriet Waters, that’s her name. Christ Almighty, right now I’m cursing the very day I first heard it. Two full years ago now, I think, tossing and thrashing about in the bed, while Miss Unwanted House Guest luxuriates on my brand-new cream sofa in the living room.

  ‘Wow, Meg, you really live here?’ Harriet had gushed, her tears forgotten, as soon as I’d reluctantly let her inside the apartment late last night. ‘How can you afford all this? It’s fabulous! Out of this world . . . Oh my actual God, check out that view!’

  Have you any idea how disastrous this is for me, I wanted to snap back at her, but, of course, politeness and professionalism prevailed, and I didn’t. Instead, I thrust a spare duvet at Harriet, made up a bed on the sofa for her and slammed my own bedroom door firmly behind me.

  Now? Really, did this have to be happening now? When I’m working myself to the bone and everything is going so swimmingly?

  Another two years, that’s what I’d given myself, before I could finally afford to cash in my chips, quit what I’m doing and start enjoying life for a change. Maybe even start building normal, ordinary, trusting relationships, with normal, ordinary people for a change. To be perfectly honest, I’ve been ducking and diving, manipulating and cajoling for so long now, I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to function as a normal human being in the world.

  And now this? This is not supposed to happen. Once I’m hired to get someone out of the picture, they’re pretty much supposed to feck off into the sunset forever. Not much to ask for, surely?

  Yet, here she is. On my sofa. In my apartment. Blissfully unaware that I’ve been paid an astonishingly hefty sum to make sure a situation exactly like this never, ever happens.

  For one sickening moment, I think of the client who hired me to take care of Harriet Waters in the first place. Or rather, the client’s family, because this lot are a bit like the Kennedys – there’s an awful lot of them and you’d be hard-pressed to say which of them was the most intimidating.

  What would they say if they knew she’d come back? I’m not a woman to be easily shaken, but they can be a terrifyingly scary bunch. Supposing, I think, as my stomach clenches and an icy-cold clutch of fear takes hold, that this got back to them?

  Because any halfwit could see at a glance how unwelcome and unwanted Harriet Waters was in these people’s lives. It may have sounded cruel, but Harriet was pretty much unmissed when I eventually did encourage her to step aside. Or, to be more precise, to accept a job offer overseas – good and distant enough that the family in question would never be troubled by her again.

  So why the feck couldn’t Harriet have just known where she wasn’t wanted and stayed well away? And, more importantly, how am I going to get rid of her a second time?

  *

  I pass a shitty, sleepless night, but whether I like it or not, I’ve got no choice but to abandon Harriet the following morning and get on with my day. It’s physically causing me chest pain to have to leave her alone in my flat, but then, what else am I supposed to do?

  I’ve a 7 a.m. rendezvous with my new ‘friend’ Nicole, the one I only began to work on yesterday morning. Nicole, who works for a huge social media company, who’s obsessed with clean living and who litters her own Twitter feed with hashtags like ‘#kindnessmatters’ and ‘#womenlookingoutforwomen’.

  Yet the same Nicole is also sneakily seeing a guy in work fifteen years her senior, with a wife and four dependent kids. So what about ‘kindness mattering’ and ‘women looking out for women’ now, I wonder?

  Hashtag hypocrite, more like.

  Course, all this is before I even get started on her married boyfriend, a forty-something estate agent with pockmarked skin and absolutely no neck at all, who’s shortly about to get a royal comeuppance I hope he’ll remember for a very, very long time to come. The how and wherefore, I’ll focus on later – that’s the fun part, thanks very much.

  Right now, I’ve got a job to get on with, so that’s exactly what I do. First task? To airbrush this Nicole one completely out of the picture. I’m actually pretty pleased with the progress I made at our first meeting yesterday – Nicole and I bonded over a shared love of dogs, even though I don’t actually own a dog. Even though I don’t particularly like dogs.

  That, however, is a mere minor detail. The critical factor is that I’ve managed to convince Nicole that we’ve got loads in common and could potentially be pals. But then, manipulating people into thinking what I want them to think is kind of my forte.

  As ever, I’ve done my homework inside out and up and down again. For starters, I know Nicole is an early riser. I also know that she’s a regular at a pre-work flow yoga class in town at 7 a.m. – you only have to look at her non-stop Twitter and Instagram feeds to see the proof of that.

  Looking forward to my new gym class at Crush Fitness tomorrow! #Lifegoals #yogabody #worthgettingoutofbedfor #cleanliving

  Honestly, I think, sighing at just how piss-easy this is. It’s like some people intentionally leave a virtual trail of breadcrumbs after them.

  So, come hell or high water, I’ve got to be there for this 7 a.m. class, even if I do have an unwanted house guest who I have to abandon in my apartment, completely unsupervised and snoring her head off on my sofa. Like a time bomb just waiting to explode.

  But whether I like it or not, this is a God-sent opportunity for a trust-building exercise with Nicole, and the early days, as I know well, are utterly critical in a delicate game like this. As far as Nicole is concerned, I have to simultaneously be everywhere and anywhere, and God knows, that takes consummate skill. Nicole has to be pleasantly surprised to see me again so soon, she has to enjoy the chats with me, and, most importantly of all, she has to slowly find herself growing to think of me as a friend. Besides, I think. Given the stress I’m under, a nice, soothing, early-morning yoga practice actually isn’t the worst idea in the world.

  I arrive just in time for the c
lass, take careful note of where Nicole is (right up the front, fully clad in Lululemon, in the throes of a downward dog) and position myself close by, rolling out my mat and joining in. Close, but not too close. It never does to arouse suspicion that you’re some kind of stalker at this early stage in the game.

  The class goes on. There’s nothing but the sound of deep breathing, along with a few grunts from a woman opposite, which gives me precious time to think.

  The breathing gets deeper. A guy opposite farts and looks mortified. Slowly, everyone begins to look more and more relaxed.

  ‘And now . . .’ intones the class instructor, sounding as ethereal as a woodland sprite, ‘let’s all go into our child’s pose, let’s take a moment to tune out the stresses of the morning and let’s allow our thoughts and cares to float away, like a fluffy pink cloud . . .’

  Fluffy pink cloud, my arse, I think, correctly holding the perfect pose as my stressed mind whirrs into overdrive.

  Harriet Waters.

  Jesus Christ, what the hell did I ever do to deserve Harriet Waters back in my life?

  Two years ago

  So how did it all start? Simply enough, as it happened.

  With a recommendation, actually – I can only guess from a satisfied client who was kind enough to spread good word of mouth.

  At the time, I’d been working as a humble legal secretary at Sloan Curtis, a highly regarded law firm that specialised in family law cases, separation agreements, divorces, that sort of thing. ‘Third party’ acrimonious cases. Messy and emotional cases.

  Right up my alley, in other words.

  And OK, so I may not have had a law degree like the rest of my colleagues; in fact, back then, my job was considered rock bottom in the pecking order and, boy oh boy, did my senior colleagues never let me forget it. But I was quick and smart and eager to learn. So I paid close attention during all those long, gruelling hours sitting in on conference meetings patiently taking notes, while soon-to-be-divorced spouses listed off every ‘irreconcilable difference’ they could possibly use against their ex.

  My heart actually cracked when I saw partners who’d invested everything into deeply committed marriages lose it all, when one or the other partner strayed. Believe it or not, back then I really did have a heart that could crack. But then this, you see, was very much my area of expertise. Oh, I knew all about married cheats who shat all over the lives of those they were supposed to love and look after, thanks very much. I knew first-hand the damage it caused. I could have written a fecking thesis on the subject.

  *

  So I handed over the Kleenex to our clients and doled out cups of coffee, listening carefully to what they were saying and, more importantly, to what they weren’t saying, which, naturally, was of far more interest.

  And the most astonishing thing of all? In all my time working at that firm, I never once came across a single deserted party who actually wanted to get divorced. Rather, I saw spouses who still loved their partners deeply, who’d been left devastated by their affairs and who couldn’t accept it was now all about to come to a crushing end in an office block, with a bunch of strangers in suits dangling Mont Blanc pens and saying, ‘Just sign here, here and here, please.’

  Yet the guilty parties, men mostly, all seemed to be waltzing away with it scot-free, I thought, simmering angrily at the back of the conference room. Which was hardly fair, now was it? What about a minor little thing called equality? Surely the very least these cheating feckers deserved was to be taught a lesson they’d never, ever forget?

  Then, out of the blue, I spotted a job opportunity.

  It all began in the ladies’ loos of Sloan Curtis, one rainy Thursday afternoon. I was rushing back to man the reception desk, but couldn’t fail to notice a client of the firm’s, a tall, well-groomed lady, desperately trying to compose herself as she patted concealer around her red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Bad meeting?’ I asked her politely.

  ‘The worst,’ came the sniffled response.

  I sighed deeply as she dried her hands. I knew the ins and outs of her case and didn’t want to patronise the woman with useless platitudes like, ‘it’ll get better’, or, ‘you’ll be fine’. Nor did I want to tell the truth, which was that this woman’s soon-to-be ex would probably go on to have a pretty great life with his new partner and be a far better dad to a second family than he ever was the first time around. All while those he’d left behind had to look on and suck it up and piece their lives back together again as best they could.

  At least, certainly if my own bitter experience was anything to go by.

  ‘It will all be over soon enough,’ was what I did say.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ this elegant, graceful lady replied through the tears. ‘No one does. You see, I had a great marriage, and all was well until she came along.’

  I nodded sympathetically, but the sad thing was, ever since I started working at the firm, I’d pretty much seen this so many times before I could practically write the script. Cheating spouse going through a midlife crisis meets a younger version of his wife and thinks he’ll dodge death by starting all over again with a newer, younger, shinier family. The cliché of it almost made me want to vomit.

  But that’s when this particular lady surprised me.

  ‘I get it,’ she confided, ‘my husband is an unscrupulous cheat and everyone says I’m so much better off without him. But what they don’t get is that I still love him. We have kids together – we have a home, mutual friends, we have a life. I’ve invested blood, sweat and tears into this marriage and now some twenty-four-year-old waltzes along and threatens it all? Everything I’ve devoted my life to? If someone could just make her disappear, help him to see what he’s already got, remind him of how happy we’ve been, it would be the answer to my prayers.’

  At that, my mind went to work. An idea began to germinate and once it took hold, it wouldn’t budge. Because maybe, just maybe, there was some way I could be of help here.

  Turned out the mistress was called Amy and she was around my own age too. Right there, that gave me a huge advantage. She and I were both young, we spoke the same language. So, what’s to stop me tracking this Amy down via social media? I thought, my mind beginning to race. Couldn’t I find out where she worked, ate, drank, lived, hung out, who her friends were and who her friends’ friends were, for good measure? Couldn’t I inveigle myself into her life and, in time, maybe become a pal? And using the gentle art of persuasion, couldn’t I then encourage my new-found friend to dump this married loser she was wasting her time on?

  And now that I’d thought of it, why not go a bit further? What about this client’s husband? This lying-arsed, two-faced, hypocritical git, whoever he was? Was it fair that he just walked free? If I say so myself, I’ve always enjoyed getting creative when punishing idiots like these, so couldn’t I teach him a thing or two about what happened to love cheats just like him?

  Given my background, I certainly had the motivation. In fact, I only wished someone had been there for me when my own dad shattered our little family and went cavorting off with someone new. Wouldn’t I have loved a karmic angel of retribution to have come along back then and taught my father a lesson he’d never forget?

  I could do it, I thought. I’d relish it. Without false modesty, I’d actually be pretty good at it.

  My client would get back the life she craved, the young girlfriend, whoever she was, would stop wasting her time on a married man, and who knows, I might just be able to earn a nice few quid extra on the side.

  Win-win.

  Unsurprisingly, my plan worked beautifully and my ‘career’ snowballed from there. Good word of mouth about me seemed to circle upwards and upwards, in the way that these things do. That’s until the happy day when my name was duly passed on to none other than Mr and Mrs Frederick de Courcey, figureheads of probably one of the wealthiest and certainly the most powerful families in the country.

  Think of the Rockefellers. Now think of th
e Windsors. Now the Gateses. Now combine all their lovely, lovely dosh and imagine it in the hands of one single family, and you’ll have some idea of the unimaginable levels of wealth and privilege the de Courceys operate at.

  To give you just a brief, potted history, the de Courcey fortune all began with the first Frederick de Courcey, just after the First World War, when, against all better advice, he invested his family inheritance into what was considered then the riskiest and most insane business model going. None other than aviation.

  Back in 1919, young Frederick de Courcey was royally mocked for believing that a single aeroplane had the power to fly the North Atlantic with an engine the approximate size of a hairdryer. But to everyone’s astonishment, not least the print media of the day, Frederick was actually proven correct.

  The Second World War subsequently saw him grow the business so that not just the military, but also the rich and powerful could fly from London to New York, non-stop. Of course, long-haul flights like that were only open to the moneyed elite of the day, not forgetting the fact that the whole palaver took over eighteen hours in total. But it certainly didn’t seem to put them off, and the money kept rolling in.

  The post-war period saw the family fortunes explode, and with the rise of cheaper commercial air travel in the 1960s, soon they were one of the richest families in the world. Then, when Frederick de Courcey the Second took over, he made sure that the family airline, now called Connair, was at the forefront of the whole low-cost, budget airlines movement. You know the deal: flights that you paid a fiver for, but that flew you to an airstrip in the middle of nowhere, often upwards from 100 miles from your final destination.

  The lower the airfares went, the more passengers queued around the block for them and, over subsequent decades, the company’s tentacles grew like buddleia, so there was barely a single airport on the globe where you didn’t get to see the shiny orange Connair logo screaming back at you.