Page 52 of The House Guest

I stood by as she and Callum talked about weapons. ‘What do you want?’ Wanda said. ‘I like the Sig Sauer P226, or the Glock 17. Or maybe something small like this? A Taurus Judge? Very easily concealed. Or the Glock 36?’

In the end, Callum went for the Glock 17, plus a box of ammunition.

‘How about you?’ she asked me.

‘I’m good, thanks.’ I really didn’t want to start carrying a gun around. I had no idea how to use one and no time to learn.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

We went back up the stairs and Wanda said she would call her driver – part of her network of helpers, apparently – and ask him to drive us back to Brooklyn.

‘Can I use your bathroom while we wait?’ Callum said.

‘Uh-huh. Third door on the left.’

He walked down the hallway and opened a door.

‘No, third—’

A blur of black fur shot out of the room, straight past Callum, and came bounding towards me, a torrent of barks ringing out. I threw myself back against the wall as Wanda shouted, ‘Julius, no!’

The dog skidded to a halt in front of me. It was a Rottweiler. It bared its teeth and growled. I remembered Wanda saying it would kill anyone who went near her and pressed myself further against the wall, wishing I could sink into it.

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’m a friend. Friend.’

Julius took a step closer, lips drawn back, a trail of slobber hanging from his jaw. I turned to Wanda, expecting her to help, but she was smiling.

The dog sniffed me, then dropped to the ground and rolled on to his back.

‘He wants you to tickle his belly,’ she said, as Callum came back towards us, laughing.

‘Did I forget to tell you?’ Wanda said with a grin, as I crouched and stroked Julius’s tummy. ‘He’s a pussycat really.’

Chapter 22

It was Wednesday morning. Outside, the city was beginning to wake up, the sun rising on what would be another blisteringly hot day. Ruth, who had woken up at five and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep, sat in the bath and examined her bruises. They had faded to yellow and grey. Walking around was less painful and she had stopped limping.

She looked better. But inside, she felt as if she’d swallowed darkness.

Eighteen months ago, when she had begun shootingThe Immaculate, one of the older actors had taken her aside and given her a torrent of unsolicited advice, all delivered in the plummy, arrogant tones of someone who thought he had life all figured out and couldn’t wait to share his wisdom.

‘Be careful,’ he had said. ‘When you are handed the fruits of success, other people will hope you choke on them.’

She’d blinked at him.

‘I’m sure you’re a good person, Ruthie,’ he said. For some reason he had taken to calling her Ruthie. ‘And you can’t imagine what it feels like to be jealous. But I’ve been there. I’ve seen it many times. In this game, we’re all like rats in a fire, scrambling for the exit. Fighting, biting, clambering over each other.’ He loved his metaphors. ‘How do you think the rats who are caught in the fire feel about their former friends who have escaped into the fresh air?’

‘Do rats have friends?’

He smiled condescendingly. ‘Perhaps not. But actors don’t have friends either. Not really. Certainly not other actors, or anyone involved in the arts. We are all competing with each other, like it or not. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Ruthie.’

‘Or rat-eat-rat.’

‘Quite. Do you have a partner? A boyfriend?’

‘I do.’

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