Page 74 of The Dead Ex

Intuitively, I sense that this is a man who knows what he wants. I just have to make sure he wants me.

As he delivers his speech – all about ‘responsibility’ and ‘caring for the public’s needs’ – I wonder if everyoneelse knows what kind of man he is. Mind you, blokes like this can get away with murder.

After he finishes, everyone clusters round him like bees, each vying for his attention. I try to get near, but it’s difficult. A waiter takes pity on me and offers to top up my champagne. I choose sparkling water instead, along with some kind of fish pastry thing, and try to make my way a bit nearer.

Eventually,I get to a spot where I am almost within touching distance. A man with ‘Press’ on his badge is interviewing him, but there’s a short gap in the conversation. If I don’t say something now, I might never get another opportunity.

‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Goudman, but I’m a photographic student and I emailed you recently about work experience. You didn’t reply.’

‘Really?’ says the journalist sharply.‘But David, you’ve just been telling me how important it is to help young people get onto the career track.’

David Goudman swivels round to me. A weird shiver goes down my spine. Now I am close, I can see that he looks different from the man on the podium. In fact, he appears almost ugly with those chiselled cheekbones and black eyebrows. Then he smiles at me. Suddenly he is the most attractiveman I have ever met! His eyes – which don’t appear to blink – suggest I am the only person in the room. That deep voice, with the hint of a south London accent, speaks just to me. This man oozes charm. I need to be careful. Not to mention clever.

Then he stops smiling. Just like that. As though someone has flicked a switch. ‘Itisimportant,’ he says briskly,taking in my velvet jacket. ‘ButI prefer to give a hand to those from challenging backgrounds.’

‘I know all about that,’ I retort. ‘My mum and dad believe in working your own way up. I live in a council flat and am doing a government-funded photographic course. Is that challenging enough for you?’

The journalist is scribbling furiously.

‘Email me again.’ David thrusts his right hand into his suit pocket. Nice cloth. Expensive-looking.Grey striped. Then he brings out a card, which he presses into my hand for a touch longer than necessary. ‘This is my personal address. I’ll be in touch. Promise.’

The journalist looks up from his pad. ‘You know what? This could make a good feature. A week in the life of a work-experience student at the Goudman Corporation.’ He turns to me. ‘Would you be up for that?’

‘Sure,’ I say excitedly.That means he’s got to give me a break now. And I can tell from David’s expression that he’s thinking the same.

‘Let me think about it,’ he says.

Bastard.

He makes me sweat for ten long days. Then, just as I’ve almost given up hope, the email falls into my inbox.

Yes! He’s granted me a week’s work experience, starting on Monday.

I am finally in.

25

Vicki

Tanya’s dead? It seems impossible. Yet here I am. In a prison cell, waiting for my solicitor to arrive, under arrest for murder. I was surprised she’d picked up my call. After all, it is a Sunday. Then again, she’d rung me before over a weekend. Clearly she’s a bit of a workaholic.

Goodness knows how long I’ve been here for. There’s no clock. The room is cramped – barely space for theblue plastic-covered mattress down one side. In the corner is a loo minus a seat. The previous occupants have left brown stains in the bowl. It’s airless. Overheating can sometimes bring on seizures. I feel sick. Disorientated. Dizzy. None of these are good signs.

‘My tablets,’ I blurt out when the door finally opens and Penny comes in. ‘They’re in my bag. I keep telling them, and they say they’llbring them down but they haven’t.’

Her face tightens. ‘Leave it to me.’

She bangs loudly on the door. I sink to the floor, head in hands, but I can hear the odd word. Human rights … nurse …

Finally, I find a plastic bottle of water in my hands. ‘How many?’ she asks.

My solicitor’s voice is gentle. Almost motherly, eventhough she can’t be that much older than me. Ten years maybe?

‘Three,’I say.

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m not trying to overdose myself,’ I snap.