Upwardly Mobile

Bettina sighed as she finally took her seat on the 5.15 pm Number Fourteen bus from Brixton to Mayfair. She popped a Xanax into her mouth, just to calm her nerves. She’d had to run for the bus and was out of breath. It wasn’t easy to run in Jimmy Choo shoes. Still, they were the perfect accessory to her outfit, and Bettina was meticulous about her appearance. 

She took a peep at her three-year-old Bichon Frisé, Chan-Chan, who was nestled in her large red Gucci handbag. Chan-Chan looked up at her and whimpered. Bettina adjusted his little red studded collar and attached dog tag that she’d had specially engraved with his name and address. Then she patted and straightened the red satin bow on the dog’s head. The bow matched Bettina’s sweater exactly. Not easy with reds, Bettina thought, and she was especially pleased with the result. “Shh...shhh my darling,” she whispered.

She sat back as the bus drove off. Thursdays were always something of a rush for Bettina. It was her half day off from her job as auditor to a local pharmaceuticals firm. It was her habit, on a Thursday afternoon, to go shopping at Tesco’s, clean her flat and make something for Monty. She had the first two timed to the minute, and knew that, if the queue in the supermarket wasn’t too long, the whole thing would take her exactly three hours and forty-five minutes. Numbers were Bettina’s thing, and she liked to be exact.

The cleaning, especially, had taken its time, for Bettina was fastidious about cleanliness, as she was about everything. It was the details, the details that really mattered. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well she would often say to herself, and you couldn’t be too careful about hygiene. Then, after all that, there had been just enough time to make the cake for Monty and get dressed to go out. Monty! Just the thought of him enraged her, but she hadn’t wanted to think about him right then; there was too much to do. She’d concentrated hard on choosing her outfit. Then she had placed her mobile on the living room dresser and left the flat.

Chan-Chan looked up at Bettina, his little brown eyes full of affection. When Bettina’s elderly neighbour Mrs. Soames had called and said she had taken ill and couldn’t have Chan-Chan, Bettina had panicked. What was she going to do? The House sat from 9.30 to 5.30 on Thursdays. Monty had a one-bedroom flat in Mayfair, so they always met there at six o’clock. Bettina would usually leave Chan-Chan with Mrs. Soames overnight and pick him up the next day. Mrs. Soames adored Chan-Chan, and Chan-Chan was happy with Mrs. Soames. It had always worked perfectly. Until today. Bettina didn’t like unexpected occurrences; they made her nervous, uneasy. And there was no way that she would leave Chan-Chan with someone she didn’t really know. She looked out of the window at the darkening world and wondered how Monty was going to react to Chan-Chan. This was not the night for distractions.

She’d met Monty Blakeston at a party in Notting Hill that she and her friend Chelsea had ended up at that summer. When Bettina saw him drinking a glass of wine on the steps of the house, she’d assumed that he was married. He was good-looking and middle-aged; how could he not be?  But he was separated, it turned out, waiting for a divorce. He was handsome and posh of course, which suited her fine. She was revolted by the young men at the King’s Head that Chelsea went after. They were like apes, all of them, loud-mouthed and uneducated, their whole life seemingly about swilling beer in a dingy pub, watching the football on telly. Yobs. She, Bettina, deserved better. She was young, attractive and well-dressed. She wore her dark hair short, which, she liked to think, suited her face perfectly. Her clothes came mainly from the High Street, but with the occasional designer accessory, earnestly saved for. Yes, she deserved better. Better than her mother had done. Better than Brixton. A 48-year-old cabinet minister, Secretary of State for Defence, no less, was perfect. 

The only downside had been that she and Monty couldn’t go out anywhere, for fear that somebody might see them. The divorce was tricky, he’d explained. “Best not to tell anyone about us for now- I mean anyone.” Looking back, that should have been a red flag, right there. But at the time Bettina had said that she understood; after all, Monty was a public figure. Everybody knew his face, and you couldn’t be too careful. It did get a bit difficult, not telling anyone, not even Chelsea. Still, it could have been worse. Bettina thought about the twenty-somethings she’d been out with on occasion, who couldn’t even have a proper conversation. At least Monty was cultured. He gave her expensive jewellry from Bond Street jewellers; he brought caviar and champagne from Fortnum and Mason for their evening trysts. Bettina had been quite satisfied with the arrangement.

Then, about a month ago, twenty-seven days ago to be exact, things had started to change. First, she’d found three blonde hairs on the nightstand. Then, when cleaning up a bit, she’d found a note that had fallen just under the bed. The note, on blue Basildon Bond writing paper, had been signed ‘Caroline’. His ex-wife’s name was Annabelle. Bettina knew immediately what it all meant. The memory of her father who had left them when she was a baby ‘for another woman’ as her mother had delicately put it, a memory which generally simmered under the surface, suddenly came up to a raging boil. But Bettina wasn’t the type to act rashly. She’d kept the note for later use and the fury in her hardened.

Bettina got off the bus and pulled on her red leather gloves against the November cold. She walked quickly down the street past the Dorchester Hotel, crossed the road and towards Grosvenor Square. She hadn’t confronted Monty. What was the point? He was a lying bastard, and that was all there was to it. But once when he’d gone out to pick up a bottle of red from the off-licence, he’d forgotten his phone. She’d looked through the addresses. She’d calmly taken a photo of a Caroline Bonneville’s address and phone number on her own mobile. She lived in Finchley. Bettina had googled her name and found out that she worked at the House too. A private secretary. What a bloody cliché.

Bettina had gone to Finchley one evening and stood in the park, just watching Caroline Bonneville’s house from across the street. Then she’d gone back, four times, watching, waiting for a glimpse of her. One evening she’d seen her arriving home, turning the key in the lock of the luxurious detached house. She was pretty, tall, slim, about Bettina’s age. Or perhaps even a year or two younger. Bitch! She hated both of them.

It was then that Bettina hatched her plan, the plan to change the course of her life.

“Hello. I tried to phone you.” Monty beamed as usual as he opened the door to her. 

“Oh? I forgot my mobile; can you believe it?” Bettina kissed him. “Anything special?” She walked through the door.

“Oh no, nothing important. I thought you might pick up a bottle of wine to go with dinner, but I’ll pop round and collect one later.” They never ate dinner before 8.30. It was one of the things she had liked about the whole arrangement. Eating dinner late was a sign of class.

Monty looked down and suddenly saw Chan-Chan’s head peering out of the red bag.

“Sorry, I had to bring Chan-Chan,” Bettina said lightly as she walked in. “But don’t worry, I brought his little blanket. He can just sit here.” She took Chan-Chan and the tartan blanket out of her bag and placed him on the floor near the door. Chan-Chan blinked.

“He doesn’t shed,” Bettina said hurriedly, seeing Monty looking at Chan-Chan. “I mean, he won’t leave hair on your floors. He’s perfect, aren’t you, my darling?” Chan-Chan blinked again as Bettina kissed his nose. She took a dog biscuit out of her bag and gave it to him. Chan-Chan snapped up and biscuit and started crunching. 

Bettina turned her attention back to Monty. “Oh, and I baked you a vanilla cake, your favourite,” she added. She took the cake out of her bag. “Let’s have tea.”

“It’s been a hellish day,’ Monty said as he walked over to the drink’s cabinet. “The opposition are up their old tricks. I think I’m beyond tea, to be honest. Something a little stronger for me, I think. Do you want to join me?” 

“Maybe later.”

Monty poured himself a double whisky from the cabinet, took a gulp, then went into the kitchen with the vanilla cake. “It looks delicious. Like some?” he called.

“No thanks. Keeping my girlish figure,” Bettina laughed. She sat down on the leather couch.

“Good thing too!” Monty called from the kitchen. There was a clatter as Monty opened a cupboard to find a plate.

He came back into the room, sat down on the couch beside her and started to eat the cake. “This looks excellent. I’m starving!” Monty took a big mouthful of the sponge cake and ate it hungrily.

“I’m happy you like it.” Bettina got up from the couch and moved towards the bathroom. “I’ll just go to the powder room,” she said, still smiling.

Bettina closed the bathroom door. She took her time in the bathroom, fixing her make-up so that she looked perfect, re-applying her red lipstick, flushing the toilet twice. She took exactly nine minutes. By the time she got back, Monty was slumped on the sofa, mouth gaping. The high dose of Xanax and Percocet mixed in with the vanilla had done its work. Both drugs depressed the central nervous system, and Monty couldn’t move. He was either dead, or he would be very soon. She looked at her work and had a feeling of quiet satisfaction. She did like a job well done.

Bettina calmly pulled on her gloves and took Caroline’s note out of her bag, placing it carefully on Monty’s nightstand. She wiped down all the surfaces she had touched with a soft cloth, which she then put in a plastic bag and placed carefully in her handbag. Then she grabbed Chan-Chan and his blanket, opened the door, and went down the stairs. She walked quickly towards the Dorchester, heels clicking. There was the Number Fourteen bus, just arriving, exactly as she knew it would be.

There were two or three people in front of her, waiting for the bus. It screeched to a stop and Bettina followed the others. Once on the bus, she breathed deeply, opened her bag and looked down at Chan-Chan. “Everything’s fine, my darling,” she said, petting the little dog. Chan-Chan looked up at her adoringly.

It was then that Bettina noticed that Chan-Chan’s dog tag, specially engraved with his name and address, was no longer attached to his collar.

In the twenty-three hours that went by before the police screeched to a halt outside her door, Bettina reflected on the unfortunate twist of fate that had led to her arrest for the murder of the M.P. Monty Blakeston.