Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin (21 page)

“So we share the quarter mill if one of us succeeds, do we?”

“Er, no. No, doesn’t work like that, whoever cracks the case gets the money. And obviously Infidelity Ltd gets fifteen per cent.”

“What? It used to be ten!”

“Fifteen’s the new rate. For all cases.”

“Since when?”

“Since now!”

I looked to Emma, perhaps hoping that she might back me up on this, since it affected her too. But she said nothing. Face calm, eyes hidden behind her shades. Inscrutable. She just sat there, touch-typing… what the hell was she writing?

Barry said “The company’s expanding. It needs to increase profits if it’s going to afford the overheads of increased numbers of staff. And I don’t even have an office to call my own any more!” he suddenly remembered. “The bastards have kicked us out for not paying the rent, told me to come in on Friday and pick up my stuff. Only had time to grab the computer and a few bits and bobs, half my paperwork’s ended up in the skip.”

I licked my lips. Sounded like Barry hadn’t had time to notice the missing business plan, or the mortally-wounded map on the wall, or the signs of the most ham-fisted break-in imaginable. I had known we were in trouble rent-wise, but not that much trouble. No wonder Barry was so desperate for all this money – his little company was virtually bankrupt! I should have been furious at him for mismanaging our finances, but right then I was so relieved at having got away with it, I said nothing.

“Anyway,” he went on, “nil desperado and all that. If we get this case then we’ll have enough to start again. Properly this time, like a proper business.”

Yes, a proper business. With twenty-four employees. Salary with a pension plan.

“I’m not happy about this, Barry,” I told him. “For starters, what about Rule One? And Rule Two as well for that matter.”

“What were they again?”

“God’s sake – you know the score, we only bust up relationships that are already dead anyway, which this one obviously isn’t, and we don’t work for a client we don’t know! This case throws all that right out the window.”

“Scott, for quarter of a million pounds we’ll work for Osama bin fucking Laden, all right? I couldn’t give two shits who the client is. Sweet Jesus, man, we can’t let your little Rules get in the way of this, it’s far too big for that! Get some bloody perspective!”

I glimpsed Emma shaking her head slightly. Like I’d said the dumbest thing in the world.

“Right then.” Barry started stuffing newspapers and notes into his briefcase. “I want daily updates from both of you on this, all right? Keep me in the loop, let me know what you’re doing at all times.”

“Barry, does the phrase ‘mission impossible’ ring any bells?”

“What?”

“How about ‘mission ridiculous’, then? Or maybe ‘mission insane’?”

“Scott – ”

“’Mission stupid fantasy no-hope-in-hell pipe dream?”

“Look, nobody said it’d be easy – ”

“Barry you twat!” I shouted. “Wake up! You’re talking about splitting up Megan and Declan! Meg and Dec! The most well-known couple in the country!”

“Jesus shush!” He waved his podgy hands like he could drag the sound waves out of the air. “Keep your voice down, will you!“

“Barry, those two are famous! They’re both internationally famous celebrities! They’ll be surrounded by security wherever they go. It’s not like we can arrange to bump into them while they’re pushing a trolley round Tesco. We won’t be able to get anywhere near them, let alone have half a chance at actually
seducing
them! It can’t be done!”

I ran my fingers through my hair, desperate to make him understand. “Barry, I know how badly you want this. I’d love two hundred and fifty grand as well, but we’re completely out of our league. Rich people is one thing, but A-list celebs are something else. There’s just no way, mate, I’m sorry. It’s completely impossible.”

There was a snap as Emma closed her laptop. With one smooth motion it was in her bag and she was up and moving.

“I’ll email a progress report first thing tomorrow,” she told Barry.

Then she was off. Barry and I both watched her stride through the park, blonde hair ruffled by the breeze, hips swaying, drawing heads as she went.

Barry had a smug grin across his chops. “Well,
somebody
doesn’t seem to think it’s impossible.”

Without another word, he picked up his briefcase and walked off too.

I sat alone on the bench, not feeling connected to anything. Stunned. Like I‘d just been mugged. Like some trapdoor had suddenly opened up beneath me. What just happened?

Barry’s just shafted me, I thought. That’s what happened.

I spent the rest of the day with Becky, trying to forget the whole thing.

Which was very easy, actually. We had a lot of laughs, that Sunday. Toast crumbs in bed. Conversations in the shower. Old photo albums. Spending half an hour saying goodbye, up against the wall by the front door.

But after I’d left her flat, it all came creeping back like a bogeyman from under the bed. Should have been thinking about the case. Should have paid more attention to Barry. Should have made notes – buy yourself a Blackberry tomorrow, Scott. What a waste of a day!

Oh sod off, I told myself. Today’s been great, don’t spoil it. You can’t take the case anyway, it breaks the Rules, so don’t worry about it.

Bet Emma’s already made a start. She’ll have put the day to good use. Probably halfway done by now.

So?
So?
So what?

I’m just saying. That’s all.

For most of Monday, I was up in the air. Just hanging there, like a dog fart. Walking in circles. Thinking in circles. Barry’s voice looped through my head for the entire day while I made my very own crop circle in the living room carpet, walking round and round.

It was crazy, it had to be a joke.
Meg and Dec?
Don’t make me laugh! They were way too big. They were media celebrities, bigger than anything, anyone, I’d ever done before. Wouldn’t know where to start. Did I even want to start?

Becky texted me twenty-six times. Just silly stuff, lots of xxx’s, lots of new nicknames following our weekend. I smiled with relief every time my mobile bleeped. Distractions. She asked if she should let the girls in the office know.

About what?

About us.

I got goosebumps over that. I’d never been an ‘us’ before. God, that girl was into me. And I was into her, I really was, but I just couldn’t relax and enjoy the feeling, with all the other things in my head.

I thought of Barry. I thought of Emma. I thought of Megan. I thought of Becky. I thought of myself. Like a plane in a holding pattern above the airport, I just circled the problems. Round and round. Head full of pissed-off passengers, muttering to themselves, just wanting to touch down and get out. I needed terra firma. I needed to know where I stood. But my landing gear wasn’t budging. And my compass was damaged. I just didn’t know which direction to take. Have I sucked the life out of that metaphor yet?

“You can’t take the case,” I said aloud to myself. “Rule One. That’s that.” I fired up the pinball machine, as if now free to play it.

“SE-CRET A-GENT!”

Blam blam blam blam! Dum-da-da-daahhhmmmmm!

I pulled back the plunger, but then just stood there, staring at the big target sight up there on the backglass. ‘Secret Agent’.

“Emma will go for it,” I muttered. Of course she would – no stupid Rules stopping her. Her target sight was already fixed on the prize, whereas I was fart-arsing around in my flat like an…

Say it. Say it! “Like an
amateur.”

And that did it. I switched the pinball machine off and sat down. Not sure why. But something about that word caused my mental landing gear to creak back into place. It wasn’t just about stopping Emma getting to the money, or proving to Barry that I could still cut it. It was about proving to myself who I was. I was more than just Becky’s new boyfriend, I was a relationship assassin, and it wasn’t like I’d done a great job of sticking to my Rules anyway what with me now going out with an ex-target, so what was the point of letting them get between me and the
biggest mission ever…

I felt myself approaching the runway at last. I was going to land this one.

Yes. The quarter of a million pound case. I’d land this bastard even if it killed me.

The minute my local newsagent opened next morning, I was there. Buying every single newspaper, women’s monthly, gossip rag, teenage pop magazine and TV listings guide he had. And a pint of milk. Told him he could close early.

By lunchtime, I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my living room, surrounded by Megan. Everywhere I looked, she smiled and laughed and posed back at me, covering almost every single inch of carpet. Articles ripped out of the tabloids, glossy magazine pages, programme reviews and features, and dozens of photographs. Some were ragged where I’d torn Declan or other celebrities out, so their faces didn’t distract me. I only wanted her.

I ate my lunch there, in the middle of my Megan-explosion. Scoffing a cold beef sandwich and just looking at her face, all around me. Soaking her up.

Spent the afternoon on Google. 48,401 results for Megan MacLeod. Fan websites, gossip websites, TV websites, charity websites, porn websites with her face pasted onto some other girl’s body. Saw a lot of those. All in the name of research, so that’s all right then.

Gradually, I built up a profile of my target.

Name: Megan MacLeod. Age: Twenty-four. Height: 5’3”. Weight: 88lbs. Hair: Red. Eyes: Green. Birthdate: 15th August. Starsign: Leo. Place of birth: Stornoway, Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides.

TV appearances: Emmerdale (ITV1, 2007) The Bill (ITV1, 2008) EastEnders (BBC1, 2008 – present) Comic Relief: Dropping The Soap (BBC1, 2008) The Highlands – Ancient To Modern [presenter] (BBC2, 2009) Shadows Of The Glen [narrator] (Channel 4, 2010) Blood Rush [currently in pre-production] (Channel 4, 2010)

Favourite food: Chicken Caesar salad and Bourneville chocolate.

Favourite drink: Any good red wine.

Favourite colour: Red. “Redheads rule!”

Favourite film: The Bodyguard. “Oh, I love that movie, I always cry so much!”

Favourite TV show: EastEnders. “Obviously! But I like the Discovery Channel as well, it’s fascinating stuff. Oh, and X Factor, of course!”

Person you admire most: “Jodie Foster - if I can have anywhere near the varied career she’s had, I’ll be over the moon. I’d love to be as well-respected as she is, I’d rather that than money any day.”

What animal would you come back as? “Everyone says dolphin, don’t they? Well I’ll say dolphin as well then, cos I’ll get to see all my mates again that way! That’s how important my friends are to me.”

Where would you want your honeymoon? “Wow, it’s a bit early to be thinking about that, but… somewhere with a beach, definitely, maybe Hawaii. I know Declan would love that, he’s a water baby, he’ll be off jet-skiing or something energetic while I sit on my bum and read Jackie Collins! I know, how common am I?”

…and it was all bollocks.

I flung my mouse away in disgust, kicked a bunch of magazines across the room. This wasn’t her! This wasn’t a real woman I could get to know, whose skin I could get under. This was PR. Meaningless fluff for the punters, designed to make her come across as down to earth and likeable. All the young female celebs had profiles like this. I’m just one of the girls really, I’m one of you lot, just about a thousand times richer that’s all, honest! It was cack. Where was the real Megan?

I had to get closer.

But when Tuesday evening rolled around, I had to abandon my work and go back to being John, spending a night in with Becky. So there we were, both lying on her sofa, me pressed against her back with an arm round her. I’d never done this before, slobbing out in front of the telly with somebody else. It was always just me and the TV. Weird, but I got used to it quickly. Somehow telly was more fun when there was someone else there.

When EastEnders started, Becky elbowed me to hush, but I could tell she didn’t mean it. We both just kept chatting and making comments – again, so different from the total silence in my flat whenever the TV was on.

“Slag!”
we chorused, as soon as Megan MacLeod came on screen.

It was only then that I shut up. Wished Becky would too. I stared at the screen, straining to hear everything Megan’s character, Danielle Ferguson, was saying. This wasn’t just telly any more. This was research.

I’d already picked up a little about Danielle from all the websites and tabloids. All the juiciest plotlines seemed to revolve around her. Oh here she goes, causing trouble again, coming over all sweet and lovely while yet another dodgy ex-boyfriend from her troubled past runs amok in Albert Square. Same old storyline. Same old Danielle. Couldn’t take my eyes off her.

The eyes in the back of Becky’s head (those invisible ones that every woman in a relationship grows silently beneath her hair) must have noticed. “I still reckon you’re lying. You must fancy her, every bloke I know does.”

High-pitched Michael Jackson voice: “I’m not like other guys.”

She laughed. “You’re full of shit, John.”

“No really, I’m not like other guys. I’m actually somebody else,” I felt like saying. But only for a second. I was far too comfy, lying there with her in my arms. Being John Holmes again felt good. Plus, I was busy studying Megan’s acting style. You can learn a lot about someone when you see them lie, and acting is one big lie, really.

How mental is this, I thought. Me pretending to be someone else while I observe my target as she pretends to be someone else.

“Laura still hates her, you know,” said Becky. “Dunno why, but she just can’t stand her. She got into a big catfight over her the other day.”

“Mm?” I was too busy watching the screen to really listen.

“Yeah, with Ben, this gay guy in the main office. He started sticking up for her, said Megan’s the new Kylie as far as the gay community’s concerned, they all adore her apparently. Put Laura right in her place, you should have heard him. ‘The minute you’re ten per cent as fabulous as her, you can put her down, but till that happy day, you’re just wrong and that’s that darling, deal with it’… it was hysterical!”