Chapter Fifty-Three
Fifty-three
Four emails.
Each one short, precise, no-nonsense. The true owner of the Rolex was apparently far too prominent a business mogul to send correspondence himself and had instead tasked a personal assistant by the name of Caspar Newbolt with the job of contacting Martyn.
The message was clear: Return the watch by the date stated or the consequences would be dire.
The mogul in question was keen not to involve the authorities or the press, but it was made clear that he would do so if pushed.
Skye skimmed each email, eyes wide, chest constricted, then she forwarded them to her mum. With her own phone, she sent a follow-up text: Check your inbox.
Cassandra MacKinnon was not one to dally. Within three minutes, Skye had received a reply.
Part one of the plan complete. Funds transferred. Be there in 5.
Her breath slowed, steadied. She unlocked the cubicle door and crossed to the sink, washed her hands methodically, smiled back at her reflection in the mirror. A real smile. One of triumph.
Back at the table, Martyn was seated, a wad of blue-stained napkins pressed against his crotch. Victoria had pulled up a third chair, but Adam remained standing. He caught Skye’s eye, and she nodded, just once.
“Must visit the little boy’s room,” he said, sidling away as Skye returned to her chair.
“Give me that,” Martyn snarled, grabbing his phone from her hand.
Victoria’s mouth fell open, but she quickly shut it again.
“I dried it for you,” Skye told Martyn. “Seems to be working fine.”
He ignored her, his head down over the screen. Someone came out to clear the table, and Victoria insisted on ordering another round of drinks.
“It’s the least I can do after drenching you in cocktail,” she said.
Martyn grunted.
“Fine. I’ll have a whiskey—double.”
“Is that a good idea with the painkillers?” Skye began, only to be silenced with a thunderous glare. Victoria began to fidget, her fingers tapping against the tabletop, color rising in her cheeks.
When the waitress returned, so did Adam, his phone pressed to his ear, a studied expression on his face.
“That’s right, Mr. Newbolt. A courier has been arranged. The package will be with you by end of day.”
Martyn paused in the motion of raising his whiskey glass to his lips. It really was fascinating, Skye mused, how often a person’s complexion could change color. In the past half hour, Martyn had gone from pink to puce to near gray and was now close to being devoid of any discernible shade.
“What’s going on?” he hissed at Skye, as Adam ended the call.
Victoria raised her coffee cup to hide her smile.
“Why don’t you let me answer that one?” a voice said. Cassandra advanced toward the table, her large straw hat shading features that were laced with disgust. Behind her came Joy, a fiery vision in a jumpsuit patterned with red, yellow, and marigold-orange swirls.
“Good to see you, chook,” she said, crouching beside Skye’s chair and staring pointedly at Martyn. “This your great big twerp of an ex, is it?”
“We’re actually still married,” Martyn muttered.
“Sure,” Joy replied. “For now.”
Cassandra dragged a chair over from a neighboring table, the metal scraping across the stone slabs with a screech that set Skye’s teeth on edge. Surrounded on all sides, Martyn could only gape at each of the people circled around him.
“I think we should start with a thank-you,” Cassandra said coolly.
“To whom?” Martyn replied.
“Well, how about to Skye, for starters? It’s thanks to her that the watch you stole was sold to someone reputable who was prepared to return it to its rightful owner.
If she’d put the thing up on Vinted, we probably wouldn’t have been quite so fortunate.
Although by ‘we,’ what I actually mean is you.
You’re the only one standing to lose in this scenario. ”
“But she stole the watch from me,” he argued. “She was the one who—”
“No,” Cassandra corrected patiently. “My daughter was desperate. She needed to find the means by which to escape you and your abuse of her. She has an excuse—what’s yours, I wonder?”
Martyn pressed his lips into a thin line.
“Mr. Newbolt was surprisingly agreeable about the whole thing,” Adam put in. “So you probably owe him a thank-you—and me, for smoothing things over with him. While we’re at it,” he went on as Martyn began to fluff up like an angry parrot, “you can thank my wife, too.”
Victoria raised a hand.
“That’s me,” she said. “I always knew that drama class I took in college would come in handy one day, and tipping that drink over on you, that was just a nice bonus.”
Martyn rounded on Skye.
“You set me up,” he said.
“We set you up,” Cassandra interjected. “These are Skye’s neighbors. Her community.” She lingered deliberately on the word, daring him to mock her. Martyn said nothing. He picked up his glass and drained it, made as if to stand.
“Oh no you don’t.” Adam put his hand on Martyn’s shoulder. “We’re not done yet.”
“Get the fuck off me.” He shrugged hard, twisting out of the other man’s reach.
“Read the room, Martyn,” Cassandra drawled. “You’re not in charge here, and if I were you, I’d listen to what your wife has to say.”
Skye took a breath, made herself face him.
“You have to sell the house in Epsom,” she said. “My mum and Jonathan have paid for the Rolex to be returned, and I need the money I put into that property to pay them back.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then she’ll call the cops on you,” Joy put in gleefully. “Sounds to me as if you’ve been a bit of a naughty boy, haven’t you, Marty?”
“I won’t only report you,” Skye said. “I’ll speak to your parents, tell them what you’ve done to me and the story you made up.”
Martyn deflated a fraction, his chin dropping toward his chest.
“Fine,” he snapped. “You can have your paltry contribution back, but—”
“I want a divorce, too. No contest. Pay me what I put in, and you can have everything else.”
“You think I’d want to stay married to you?” he spat. “After this?”
“Skye isn’t the bad guy here,” Victoria said. “You should be ashamed of yourself. For God’s sake, go to therapy, sort your shit out. Women aren’t punching bags—you don’t get to push us around, not any of us.”
“Hear, hear!” Cassandra chimed.
Skye bit back the tears. They were all here for her. She had asked for help, and they had come without question. These people. Her people.
“I’ll sort out the paperwork,” her mother went on briskly. “All you have to do, Martyn, is sign. If it was up to me, of course, the police would already have been informed, but fortunately for you, my daughter inherited her father’s heart, not mine.”
“That might be true,” Joy said, “but I think we can all see where she got her strength from.”
Skye reached down and took her friend’s hand, squeezing it. Martyn rolled his eyes.
“Is that it?” he said tersely. “Can I go now, or are you going to torture me further? Tar and feathers? One hundred lashes in the village square?”
“Facetious idiot,” Adam snapped.
Martyn used his crutches to hoist himself up, letting the chair fall to the ground with a clatter. He shuffled out from behind the table and moved into the street, turning to scowl at them all one final time.
Skye stared at him. Her fear was gone. He was pathetic. A sad, lonely, spiteful man.
“This is your last chance to say it,” she called out.
Martyn turned.
“Say what?”
“Sorry.”
His shoulders rose as he drew in a long breath. Then he spoke, low and venomous.
“I am sorry,” he said. “Sorry that I ever met you.”