The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 53

She nodded. “That’s right.”
“But I’m not bad cop. You are bad cop.”
“No, you’re confusing reality with fiction. In real life, I’m always the bad cop, and you’re always the good cop—which is why we switch roles when we’re playing our parts. The good cop is always pretending to be the good cop, and vice versa.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the knock sounded from the door again, firmer this time, followed by Patricia’s voice saying, “Ms. Catrel, I have your tea.”
Resigned to the oddness of this situation and anxious about its outcome, I angled my laptop toward the room as instructed and crossed to the entrance. After inhaling a steadying breath, I opened the door.
Patricia was standing in the doorway. Behind her was a cart with tea and lovely sandwiches and petit fours. And behind the cart, with two serious-looking hotel security guards on either side, was sour-faced Brona O’Shea.
I opened the door wider but stepped to block Patricia from entering. “Thank you, Patricia. I can bring the tea in. Ms. O’Shea and I would like some privacy.”
“See, Patty. I told you, you’re not needed.” This came from Brona. From the way she spoke to Patricia, I surmised the two women were more than acquainted.
Patricia’s gaze was laced with worry, and she shifted a half step forward so as to whisper, “Ms. Catrel, I am very discreet. Send security away if you must, but please reconsider. I’ve…had the distinction of acting as Ms. O’Shea’s liaison while she stayed with us in the past. I must advise you against—”
“She said leave, Patty. Now take your goons away, but leave the fancy tea. I’m parched.” Brona said this as she elbowed her way past the guards and to the suite entrance. She gave me a pinched look as she brushed past, lifting her chin in the air like I was beneath her notice. I did see that she had a manila envelope tucked under one arm. It was bulky, and I guessed it contained something more than papers.
I allowed her to enter and turned a calm smile to Patricia. “All will be well. I’ll call when we’re done with the tea service. Thank you.”
Patricia looked like she wanted to protest again but instead handed the tea cart over to me and then closed the door. I wheeled it into the sitting area.
But before I was quite finished relocating the tea, Brona said, “I like my tea with lemon, milk, and sugar.”
“How nice for you.”
Brona whipped her head toward where my laptop sat on the desk and the sound of Joan’s voice, laden with sarcasm and disdain. Brona turned her attention to me, then the laptop, and then to me. Her big blue eyes gave the impression they might pop from her head.
“What…what’s this? Are you recording me?”
“No,” I said softly.
“Maybe,” Joan teased at the same time. “Ms. O’Shea, allow me to introduce myself. I am Joan Davidson from Davidson and Croft, the firm responsible for Mr. Fitzpatrick’s public image and general well-being.”
Brona stepped closer to the desk and opened her mouth to speak, but Joan cut her off.
“No need for chitchat. Here is how we’re going to do this: you are going to tell me what you want, and I am going to do everything in my power to give it to you, assuming it’s within reason and assuming that whatever you’ve brought in that envelope is worth the price. Now, what do you want?”
“I don’t—I mean—I want—”
“Please, dear. Hurry up. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, and I won’t be made late.”
Brona lifted her chin, her eyes flashing fire. “Fine. I want money, a million euros—no! I want five million euros. And I want a recording contract with one of the big labels.”
Joan gave her a sideways look. “Ooookay—”
“And I want to record a song with Beyoncé.”
Joan smiled then suppressed it, clearing her throat. “Sure. That’s all very doable. Now, what am I buying?”
Brona curled her lip, gave me a smug, hateful glare, pulled the envelope from under her arm, and began to spread the contents on the nearest table. “It’s photos, see? And a tape of Ronan…and me…having sex.”
My stomach twisted uncomfortably as Brona used her pregnant pauses to show Joan and me several eight-by-ten photos and then a mini-DV tape.
It wasn’t precisely jealousy that I was feeling, more like an echo of jealousy that Ronan had ever been with someone else. It was irrational and silly. And yet it made some fierce, shadowy part of me roar with outrage. I wanted to burn the tape. I wanted to slash the photos. I wanted to claw her eyes out.
Instead, I gritted my teeth and returned my attention to Joan.
“Come closer to the monitor. I need to see the pictures.”
Brona did so happily, showing each of the pictures to Joan one at a time and pausing significantly between each.
Then I heard Joan say, “Meh.”
“‘Meh’? What do you mean, ‘meh’?” Brona huffed.
“I mean meh. So what? Who cares?”
I saw Brona’s back stiffen as she straightened with surprise. “He’s got a spreader bar on me! I’m gagged and tied up, and there’s a collar and leash, and—”
“Yes. My eyes work quite well. I can see all that. I just don’t see why these pictures would be worth five million euros to anyone, least of all Mr. Fitzpatrick. I assume the tape is more of the same?”
I tried to school my expression, but my heart was thundering in my chest. As nonchalantly as possible, I crossed to the couch and sat on its arm. A spreader bar? A leash? What the hell? Is that what he likes?
“But—but…uh….” Brona stuttered.
Joan’s voice lifted. “The fact of the matter, my dear, is that a sex tape and dirty photos like those will only help Mr. Fitzpatrick’s sex appeal and our overall campaign. You see, he’s in the dominant position. He’s holding your leash, not the other way around. Meanwhile, they’ll make you look weak and pathetic. They’ll kill any aspirations you might have of becoming a pop princess because parents don’t want their little girls to grow up to be submissives in dog collars. You see, you can sell those photos and that tape to some filthy tabloid, and they’ll fetch you about five hundred thousand euros; but that would be the end of your singing career, wouldn’t it?”
Brona turned slightly away, giving me her profile. I saw that her face had drained of color and her hands were balled into fists.
Joan tsked. “Poor dear. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. How about I give you two hundred thousand euros, and you give us the photos and the tape? But really, that’s my only offer.”
Brona’s bottom lip quivered, so she flattened her mouth into a stiff line. “What assurances do I have that you won’t just release it?”
“We have our plan. It’s been working quite well so far. I see no need to throw a sex tape into the mix. So, you have my word that we won’t make it public for…oh, let’s say two years. Tick tock, tick tock. I’ve got that meeting, and I really must dash.”
“Fine!” Brona shrieked, turning back to Joan and using the back of her hand to wipe away two tears. “Fine. When do I get my money?”
“Are there any other copies?”
“No. It’s all here. I’ve got media arseholes breaking into my apartment all the time looking for shite. They’ve taken my computer twice. So I kept this in a security deposit box. There are no other copies.”
“Well, good. Just leave those with Ms. Catrel, and she’ll have the money transferred into your account.”
“Today?”
“Actually, she can do it right now. Write your account number down, and have some tea. You’ll have the money in less than twenty minutes.”
Brona was losing steam; her shoulders slumped. Her gaze flickered to mine, and I saw her eyes were rimmed red with unhappiness and exhaustion. I almost felt sorry for her.
“Fine.” She pushed the envelope and pictures away from her, sending several photos to the floor.
“Good. Well!” Joan clapped her hands together, her smile very shark-like as she added, “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. O’Shea, but I really must be going.”
And without a goodbye or another word, Joan clicked off.
***
Brona didn’t stay more than a half hour, just long enough to confirm that the money had been transferred. Nor did we talk…at first. After I placed the call for the bank transfer, I poured myself tea. She sat quietly on the desk chair, holding her face in her hands, and not looking at me.
All her earlier pomp and venom was gone. She looked tired.
This was not the first time I’d had to pay someone off on short notice. The Starlet—Dara—had assaulted a woman and her children at a florist just two blocks from my apartment. I had to run down to the scene and negotiate a payout before the woman took the story to the press.
But this felt very different.
I hadn’t yet studied the photos. I’d only overheard the conversation between Joan and Brona. In my mind, I was imagining the worst-case scenario—Ronan hitting Brona with a whip or chain or riding crop while he held her down, her legs spread by a spreader bar, her mouth gagged so she couldn’t scream, a tight collar around her neck.