Page 68 of The Actor and His Secret

‘What is it, Megan?’ It’s got to be related to the text from Geoff, the one I haven’t read yet, but I can’t bring myself to look at my phone as she turns hers towards me so I can see what she’s looking at.

‘They sent this to us because it involves Nikos, so that we could be aware.’ She gulps, and I study the screenshot in the email she’s showing me. It’s from the Daily Mail, and it’s a grainy photo of Nikos in Greece with his arm around a person - very obviously a man - whose head has been blurred out. ‘But they don’t know.’

They don’t know like Megan knows, because only Megan knows that I went to Greece. That I’m the one in the picture with Nikos.

That I’m the one who fucked this all up for him.

My mouth is as dry as the Sahara and there’s nothing I can say.

‘Oli,’ she says carefully, like she thinks I’m going to break. ‘I think maybe you should take some gardening leave, yeah? There’s no way that corporate is going to be alright with you having…been with Nikos, and until we’re sure that information isn’t going to come out, you should probably lay low.’

It’s smart, but my eyes sting. I’m hurt - Megan was comforting me, and here she is throwing me to the wolves.

‘I’ll come by your place after work, alright?’ She’s got her arm on my shoulder. I still have nothing to say. ‘I’ll bring takeaway and we’ll figure this out. I know some good crisis communications people if it comes to that.’

I nod like my friend-slash-boss didn’t basically boot me out of a job, then turn automatically and pull open her door.

This is all so fucked. Nikos is going to be so upset, and I’m not even there to comfort him.

It’s only when I’ve slipped out of Megan’s office and taken a shaky breath that I pull out my own phone.

There’s another text from that unknown number, the one Geoff used to tell me I needed to give him the watch. Except now it’s a longer, more detailed threat about going to the media with the nudes he’d emailed me if I don’t convince Nikos to pay him even more.

How fucking dare he.

Before I can stop myself and think rationally, I give in to the white-hot rage currently consuming me, from the leaks and Megan and gardening leave and having to let go of Nikos. I mash my finger into the call button, fully intending to give Geoff a piece of my mind. The spineless shit is done playing games, and I know that when I get fully angry at him, he’s going to cave and stop this. He’s going to leave me alone once I show him that I’m not an easy target, the kind he always liked to toy with.

I get up and start to stalk out the door so that the rest of the office doesn’t have to hear me laying into my ex about threatening me with more nude pictures, but I slam into the janitor. He’s standing in the aisle of the office, and his phone is ringing too. I hit the end call button reflexively, starting to apologise to the poor man - he’s got a bandage on his head too, and here I’ve just jostled him - but the minute I look into his face I freeze.

I’ve seen that face before. I thought it looked familiar because it was Nikos, just aged. Now, I realise that there was a second reason it’s been familiar.

He’s been emptying my bin for weeks and weeks, now.

The janitor’s eyes are narrowed, and before I can make more unfounded assumptions, I test my theory. I step away, apologising profusely, and surreptitiously hit the call button on my phone again.

The janitor’s phone rings. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

It all clicks into place. My missing keys, which vanished from my desk at work and reappeared there. The detailed knowledge of when Nikos and I would be together, and where. This man broke into my house. He stalked me.

It was never Geoff. It was Nikos’ father.

Oh, fuck.

26

NIKOS

I’m drunk - utterly fucked up.

Selina is so focused on the multitude of emails, wi-fi calls, and texts that she doesn’t care that I’m draining the airplane’s bar dry. I clutch the tumbler, hand shaking beneath the tautly wrapped bandage. I can only imagine what my father’s face looks like right now. My hand caught little of the shattered glass, but the damage is there and a sour reminder.

But the more I drink, the more I’m pleased with the scars. In fact, by my sixth whisky I’m almost sad that I have no other reminders of last night.

By the time I make it back to my seat, I can barely walk straight. I tumble into the lap of an expensive looking man, splashing the remains of my drink on his suit and computer. My drunk brain tells me I’ve just broken his computer, the anger across his face certainly proves it, but all I can do is laugh.

How can he care about something so trivial when my life is in pieces behind me?

‘I’m so sorry, sir!’ Selina sweeps in from seemingly nowhere. She’s laying square napkins over the spillage, attempting to mop up my mess.

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