Rhys looks uneasy, his eyes darting from Dee’s face, to the stick in her hand, to his own feet. ‘I came to see if you’d settled in okay.’
‘It’s all wonderful, thank you. You must be delighted with the place.’
‘Yes, I’m very—’ He breaks off, his face creased in confusion. ‘Look – have we met before?’
‘I think you’d better come in.’
Dee walks back into the lodge. She doesn’t wait to see if Rhys follows her, but she hears the click of the front door closing and the rubber soles of his deck shoes, squeaking on the tiled floor. She sits and extends the same invitation to Rhys. He stands for a moment, then reluctantly perches at the opposite end of the sofa.
Dee makes a final decision. What she knows about Rhys is very powerful indeed: the sort of information his wife – and indeed the police – would be very interested in. The sort of information she could use as collateral; perhaps in exchange for shares in The Shore, which she can see has the potential to be an excellent investment.
More than anything else, Dee wants Rhys to know that he hasn’t got away with it.
‘Number 36,’ she says, eventually.
Rhys stares at her, his face slowly paling beneath its sheen of perspiration.
‘I own it.’
‘But—’ Rhys looks as if he’s struggling to breathe. ‘But you’re—’ He stops, his gaze falling on Dee’s stick, on the crêped skin on the back of the hand holding it.
‘Old?’
Rhys flushes.
Dee had opened Number 36 in the early eighties, after a brief stint as a call girl. The industry had been almost entirely led by men, when it should surely be dominated by women? Moreover, the brothels in which so many of these women worked seemed to be dark and dingy places, making the whole affair – pun entirely intended – rather sordid.
Number 36 itself was a tall, thin townhouse in Soho, bought when it was still possible to snap up a bargain. Dee had renovated the ground floor and two bedrooms, and gone into business. Over the years, as Number 36 became more successful, she’d completed the work on the rest of the building. The result was a stylish, aspirational club, with roaring fires and cocktail cabinets, staffed by elegant, intelligent women working on an excellent commission rate.
‘God.’ Rhys croaks out the word. He’s sweating profusely, now, a streak of damp down each side of his face.
His membership had been revoked, of course, after the assault. Dee was out of town when it happened; the woman concerned in hospital by the time she’d rushed back.
‘You can press charges,’ Dee had said. Number 36 – and Dee’s involvement – was protected by a series of Russian-doll holding companies, and the welfare of her staff had always come first. But the woman had shaken her head.
‘I want to forget it ever happened.’
Afterwards, Dee had sat in her office for a long time. Incidents like this were rare, but they left her shaken and angry. She had enough information on enough high-profile men in London to bring down the government, scandalise churchgoers and collapse what was left of public confidence in the police, but, if those men were doing nothing wrong, why would she? As long as they were polite and respectful, as long as her staff were happy and in control . . . where was the harm?
‘What do you want?’ Rhys says. He’s thinking of the headlines, Dee knows: the tabloid exposé of his fall from grace.
‘I don’t want anything.’ Yet, she adds privately. Dee has expensive tastes, and isn’t above the occasional bit of blackmail.
‘Why are you here?’
Dee looks around, taking in the polished floor, the big windows, the view. ‘For this.’ Dee has always been able to separate business from pleasure, and she’s always had an eye for investment. The first row of lodges at The Shore will always attract a premium, and, if Dee ever chooses not to use the property herself, she knows she’ll get an excellent return. In the meantime, what’s not to like about a lakeside cabin?
‘If my wife ever finds out—’
‘Oh, there’s no one better at keeping secrets than Dee Huxley. Although . . .’ She keeps her gaze on him, enjoying seeing him squirm. ‘Now I’ve seen that lovely wife of yours and your two beautiful daughters, I’ll be keeping a close eye on you.’ She leans closer to him, lowering her voice even though no one’s here to listen. ‘And you’d better treat them better than you treated my staff, or I might forget how to keep a secret.’