Chapter 9 #2
The evening was extremely warm, and this way Kenny could run as I held my head up to meet the sun, instead of watching for cars.
I felt almost relieved as the heat coursed through my body.
Yes, sun, come fix all my problems. Soon – too soon – I was at the bottom, feeling very self-congratulatory for my feat – and determinedly looked at the pond as I walked past it, taking in its details.
See, no corpses there today. There were voices, from the pub’s beer garden several metres away, of happy families and couples enjoying a Friday night in the hottest summer of a generation.
Not a care in the world. For once, I wasn’t even jealous.
I don’t know why my mood was improving – maybe it felt good to be home?
Maybe it was that despite the crisis, everyone I knew and cared for had acted impeccably and with my best interests at heart.
Nigella had been an angel, Verity my stalwart, Ollie my …
unexpected protector, and my trusty steed, Kenny, still thought I was God’s gift.
We walked further, trailing around the village before coming home an hour later.
That night I slept like a baby. I knew I’d pay for it later, but right now it was a joy.
On Saturday, I got up and worked for a few hours, then I took Kenny running before the heat built too much.
I dozed in the garden in the afternoon, and before I knew what had happened to the day, it was time to go to Honningtons.
There was a missed call from Verity when I got out of the shower, but I didn’t have time to ring her back. She could wait until later.
My phone buzzed again as I made my way down the alley between the pub and the next house to the high street. Ollie’s name flashed. I declined the call. I wasn’t in the mood for any emotionally taxing conversations right now. Verity had called a second time, I noticed.
No, would deal with that later. I’d get through what was going to happen with Guy and then we could go into whatever else had cropped up.
I made my way to Nigella’s to find her standing on the doorstep with one of her neighbours.
“Arden, there you are! You remember Betty from the tea shop? She’s watching the boys for me tonight.
” She spoke up much louder as she addressed the woman.
“Which is so nice of her! Thank you, Betty. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. ”
She waved and made her way down the path and took my arm. “Deaf as a post, but the boys are terrified of her, so it’s a win in my books.”
“Is Matteo meeting us there then?” I asked, puzzled as to why they needed a babysitter.
Her hand on my arm tensed. “No, he’s back in Milan.”
“Wasn’t he—”
“Emergency. Couldn’t be helped.” She began to walk quicker. “Anyway, glad to see you back.”
My phone buzzed again. “Sorry, I’ll switch it off, I’m popular for some reason tonight.”
She laughed. “Come, the back path is this way, you can fill me in on your week as we walk.”
We skirted around the north side of the village and found ourselves in a line of trees that opened to a field.
We walked through these, then past some farm buildings before we doubled back on ourselves via another set of trees.
We hopped a stile and in front of us was the grounds of Honningtons.
The back of the house was to the right, and we made our way slowly to the impressive terraces that ran along its rear.
Ewa, Lady F’s housekeeper, greeted us. She was standing on the terrace holding a tray of elderflower pressé. “Cze??, Ewa.” I leaned forward to kiss her cheek.
She gave a smile. “You look well,” she said in English, conscious of Nigella. “You’re the last to arrive; they’re in the Red Room.”
We took our glasses and made our way in.
Nigella, knowing the house better, walked slightly ahead and led me to a different room from any I had been into on my several prior visits.
It was a smaller, brighter room at the back of the house.
There were open windows all along one side, which enabled a lovely breeze.
The room was covered in knick-knacks and chintzy tables.
Rose-pink and white swirling wallpaper covered the walls.
I suppose in certain lights you could call it red.
Everyone turned to look at us as we entered, and the expressions on their faces told me my good mood had been as misplaced as I expected it to be. Lady F wasn’t there, which surprised me. Perhaps her nephew’s genitals making it onto the internet was too tawdry for her to deal with.
“Oh, Arden,” said Rita Parkinson from where she sat on a sofa, twisting her hands together. “I’m so sorry.”
Riz came up to me before she could elaborate and held my shoulder in a firm grip, leading me forward. “The most important thing to do now is to not panic, if you want to sue them into oblivion, you’ve got to be calm and not say anything that could exacerbate it or be misconstrued.”
I looked around the room. As well as Riz, Simon stood in the corner, looking furious.
Beside Rita was her husband, John, giving me a sympathetic look.
Eleanor Hetherington and her parents sat across from them.
Surprisingly, Suzy Rabbit, the Lib Dem candidate and her campaign manager, Errol Mottley, were also there.
On the other side of the room was Odette and Tommy Hughes with Marina Holt – I was surprised she’d let Riz in the same room as me.
Standing beside her was Katrina Pettigrew.
“What’s happened?” I asked. Simon came over to me, and for the second time in a week, someone else’s phone blew up my life.
“I’m so sorry, Arden,” he said. His voice was choked.
He handed over the phone. On it was a news article.
THE TRUTH ABOUT ARDEN FORREST – The openly GAY author who changed his name to hide his FOREIGN past and CRIMINAL family.
I froze.
“When did … when did this …”
Simon spoke up after an awkward silence. “It went up online about an hour ago. It’ll be published tomorrow in the Sunday edition.”
Behind us, the door opened, and Guy came in. “Ah, good, everyone is here. Arden, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He stood there, handsome and smiling and wearing his hug-a-hoodie outfit he’d had on the other day, even though he’d dropped out of the race.
“I have to go,” I said and brushed past him, dropping Simon’s phone on the table by the door as I exited.
Behind me, followed a chorus of my name and the clatter of footsteps as people raced out of the room after me, but I can be quick when I want to be, and escaping through a part of the house I remembered from my last visit, I found my way to the tiny toilet at the back of the stairs, where I had once run into Miles Sweet.
I locked myself inside and leaned against the door, trying not to make a sound. Chest heaving, I fought to even my breath enough not to puke.
There were voices outside and heavy footsteps. Occasionally, my name would be called.
“He must’ve legged it back over the stile and through the village,” I heard Riz say from near the door.
“No, because Tommy and John would have caught up to him by now,” said Nigella. “He doesn’t know the route, and everyone always gets lost the first few times they use it.”
“So, he’s still here?” came Guy’s voice from further away. “He must be out in the gardens then. Keep looking!”
Footsteps departed, and I breathed again. There was the tiniest of knocks on the door.
“Arden,” came a familiar voice in a reassuring accent. “I know you’re in there. If you wanna make a break for it, let me know and I’ll distract them. But don’t go out the front. There are still reporters there.”
I didn’t say anything. Eventually, I heard Simon move away.
As his footsteps receded, I put the lid down and sat heavily on the toilet. I took my phone out. Missed call after missed call. I opened Google and searched my name. Up it came.
The smoke and mirrors man who has been trending on Twitter all week. Despite not being in the TruthGate photos, which have kicked off one of the biggest scandals in British political history, Forrest was front and centre in the case.
Forrest, 35, (“I’m thirty-two, you arseholes,” I said to no one.) was the ‘boyfriend’ of alleged murderer Tarquin Scott when Scott committed the heinous act, and is a close personal friend of Guy Frobisher.
The handsome multimillionaire was seen days before the photos were leaked at one of Frobisher’s campaign events, smiling and even hugging the prospective MP.
“I didn’t hug him,” I muttered. “But I’ll take handsome multimillionaire.”
FRACTURED FAMILY
Arden Forrest, or Arkadiusz ‘Arek’ Puszcza, as he was originally known before changing his name to the current Anglicised version, came to the UK from Poland when he was eight to escape the horrors of post-Soviet life.
He was born in the impoverished village of Skymr on the country’s eastern border with Belarus. His mother, Julia, brought her three children to England after leaving Forrest’s biological father, Tomek, who had several previous convictions for violence-related offences.
Old friends of Tomek’s in the village say he was involved with smuggling goods over the border from the former Soviet Union. “In those days it was the wild west, you could get anything across. Guns, cars, women,” they told this newspaper.
Attempts to reach Forrest for comment have been unsuccessful. His literary agent also refused to comment for this article, as did his publisher.
Forrest’s father disappeared not long after his wife left him. It is unclear where he is now. It is also unclear whether he is the father to Julia’s two eldest children, Jakub, and Gosia.
Julia took her children to the Lincolnshire village of Skirting, where she found a job picking strawberries. Within six months, she had remarried to the publican of the village pub, Gary Hearst. The marriage lasted two years before Julia packed up and left in the middle of the night.