‘Will I have to take drugs?’ I asked worriedly.
‘No, we will put it into your cover story that you’ve had a very bad experience, nearly died, et cetera, and no longer touch the stuff.’
‘When and how do I start asking for information?’
‘Work your way in very slowly,’ Robin said. ‘This is a long-term assignment and so requires a huge element of deception. We don’t want the target to get suspicious. He is very intelligent, wary, and uncommonly aloof. Don’t appear too eager for information. In fact, don’t ask for any information. Let some chances to ask for information go by. Don’t even appear curious. Lull him into a place of complete trust before you sink the hooks in.’
He then warned me that constant fear of discovery and letting the side down, which was part and parcel of undercover work, could manifest itself as sexual arousal. ‘Watch for it and be prepared for it.’
That night he also introduced me to Anna.
Over the next two months she gave me pole-dancing lessons and taught me some really cool moves that looked good and professional, but didn’t take an athlete to perform.
A week before I was due to start my assignment I had my nails done and glamorous red highlights put into my hair. I looked into the mirror. There. My alter ego was ready to be unleashed.
On the day before I was due to meet Patrick, who would take me on my audition at Eden, I went to see my parents. We had dinner together at a restaurant. The hole that was Luke was bigger than ever. My father told me he was very proud of me.
‘When will you come to see us?’ my mother said, crying quietly.
‘I don’t know, but I will call.’ The reality was I wanted my new life to begin. I wanted to stop being Lily Strom and begin my new existence as Lily Hart.
I had become quite close to Robin and on that morning before I left to start my assignment he hugged me. His parting words were, ‘Never let your guard down. Remember, one false move can give you away.’
But what stayed in my mind and haunted me was what he had once told me when we were dining at a Chinese restaurant. He told me the loneliest place in the world was the place inhabited by the undercover police officer when they are deep inside the mind of a fictional person.
Take me down to the paradise city
Where the grass is green
And the girls are pretty
Take me home
(Oh won’t you please take me home?)
—Guns N’ Roses, Paradise City
EIGHT
Lily Hart
Have you ever been compelled to take a step that you know is a mistake but you simply can’t stop?
The return home from the Tate Modern is a blur. I walk through the streets of London blindly, telling myself over and over again that I did it for Luke. I try to remember him, but his image eludes me. All I see is Jake, shirtless on a horse, Jake looking at me. Jake standing blood-splattered in Melanie’s apartment. Jake with tears in his eyes. Jake holding me. Jake kissing me. Jake smiling. Jake laughing. Jake. Jake. Jake.
I stop walking and hold my head. It feels as if it is about to burst.
‘Are you all right?’ someone asks.
I look up. A man is looking at me. He seems concerned. ‘Yes,’ I say automatically. Nothing could be further from the truth.
‘OK,’ he says, and moves on.
Robin’s words flash into my mind.
At the end of the operation you will ditch all the physical trappings of your undercover alter ego, the hair, the clothes, the people you have befriended, and return to your own normal world.
A small, hesitant voice in my head asks, what about the people you fall in love with? I drum it out with the militant message they have brainwashed me with. First and foremost you are a police officer.
I have done the right thing.
I walk until my legs start to ache, then I stop and hail the first taxi I see. Inside it, I sit with my face turned toward the window, seeing nothing. The taxi drops me outside the house. I watch it drive away and stand at the bottom of the short flight of steps for an age. My legs are like lead. Eventually, my heart weeping, I climb the steps.
I open the front door and I know straight away: he is home. I walk down the corridor and open the living room door.
Seeing him is like jumping into an icy river. The guilt. God, the guilt. I know: I’m in too deep. I have broken the most important rule—I didn’t keep what I am doing and who I am separate. I have allowed myself to get psychologically mixed up.
He is sitting on the white leather sofa, but he must have been pacing the floor until he heard me at the front door, because there is that look of restlessness about him. A glass of Scotch sits on the table. He looks pale under his tan and his green eyes burn feverishly bright in his face.
I smile as I shatter inside. The heaviest tears never reach the eyes.
He doesn’t smile back. He seems very still. His eyes hold onto me so hard it almost hurts.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Where have you been?’ I see that his hands are clenched hard and he seems to be controlling himself.
‘I was shopping.’
His chest heaves and his eyes flick to the bag in my hand. ‘Why did you not answer your phone?’
‘I had it on silent.’
He nods gently, but seems somehow inconsolable. I feel the vibrations of his despondency in my blood as if it were my own.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would worry,’ I murmur.
He takes a deep breath. Again I see him making a Herculean effort to control himself. ‘You were attacked less than a week ago, Lily.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say again.
‘You look tired,’ he observes.
‘I am.’ I try to smile at him.
‘Come here.’
I go to him and climb into his lap. His hands come around me, the palms hot. I nuzzle him like a cat, my hand stroking his thick hair, straightening it. It is ruffled. He has been running his hands through it. He takes my shoes off and lets them drop with a thud on the floor. I sigh with pleasure when his big hands start massaging my foot.
‘I didn’t know where you were. If you had simply run away. I know so little about you.’ His voice is a deep, honeyed rumble. It has a song in it. I could listen to it all my life. But I won’t. I was fooling myself before.
‘I didn’t run away. I’m here.’
The hardness between his legs pushes into my hip. I look up into his eyes. There is only one word for what is in them: hunger. I have never seen such extreme desire, such ravenous craving. The air trembles with it. A voice inside my head cries, ‘What have you done? What have you done?’ I ignore it. My body loses its tiredness and responds to that yearning. My lips part, my nipples swell and pebble tightly, my sex opens like a night flower.
‘Would it be really horrible if we had sex right now?’ he murmurs.
‘Yes, that would be utterly, utterly horrible.’
He carries me to the bedroom and kicks the door open. The large chandelier is not lit. Instead only the narrow bronze lamps over the paintings on the walls are on, creating their own individual pools of yellow light, making the paint look thick and oily. I glance at the bed and my mouth opens with astonishment. I turn back to look at his face. ‘What the—?’
‘Indulge me,’ he says languidly and throws me on the bed covered thickly with money.
‘Oh,’ I gasp.
‘Get naked,’ he orders.
Giggling, I pull my top over my head and, lifting the upper half of my body slightly, unclasp my bra and pull it off. I raise my hips off the bed and shimmy out of my skirt. There are only my panties left.
‘Help me,’ I say.