Thin Air (8 page)

Minutes later, she jumped when
the door opened and her husband came into the room. ‘Oh, Rhys, it’s
you!’

He smiled. ‘Who else?’

‘The phone went earlier,’ she
said. ‘Who was it?’

He took off his jumper. ‘Only
business. Nothing to worry about.’

He seemed more like himself now,
relaxed.

‘I hope that wind doesn’t take
the slates off the roof,’ she said, settling down again. She had
nothing to worry about. He’d said so.

‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’
he soothed.

‘I was a bit frightened.’

He laughed. ‘Poor baby.’

In bed, he held her close, and
she realised the wind had dropped. She could be so silly sometimes,
she thought.

Steve bounced into the pool
area; a short man, who made up for his lack of stature by his
fanatical fitness. Samantha climbed out of the pool. Now that Steve
had arrived, she didn’t feel like working out. She felt tired. It
was most unlike her.

‘Morning, Sam,’ Steve said,
flexing his muscles.

She smiled at him. ‘Hi.’ She
shrugged herself back into her robe. They would share a jug of
mineral water before getting down to work. ‘Can we keep it fairly
low impact today?’ she asked. ‘I’m not feeling too good.’

‘You work at your own pace,’
Steve answered, graciously.

She knew she’d find it hard to
keep up with him. Her nerves were still jangling from last night.
She tried to concentrate on Steve’s conversation about his triumphs
down at the gym, but her mind kept drifting back to the wind and
the darkness. If Steve sensed she was preoccupied, he didn’t reveal
it. They went into Samantha’s dance studio, and soon the music was
pounding, their bodies flexing, stretching, reaching. Samantha felt
as if someone she didn’t know was standing at the edge of the room
behind her, watching her perform. It wasn’t a person, exactly, but
something else, she couldn’t say what. It was as if some terrible
event was looming, something she had known would happen, but had
forgotten about. The last time she’d felt like this was just before
Rhys’s daughter, Lacey, had run off. She shuddered, hoping her
feelings would pass. She didn’t like anything interfering with her
routines.

After the work-out, when Steve
had left, she took a shower and dressed herself in her favourite
soft leather suit with the fringes, beads and diamond studs. She
only wore the palest shades of khaki and cream. In her
dressing-room, she re-fluffed her hair, and touched up the curling
finger-nails, which were a testament to the results of never having
to do her own washing-up. She felt a bit better now. The exercise
had helped.

In the kitchen, her
house-keeper, Mrs Moran, massaged cleaning fluid into the work
surfaces. ‘Morning, Betty,’ trilled Samantha. ‘Kettle on?’ Her
voice was high-pitched, still coloured by an East End twang.

The older woman smiled and
flicked a switch. ‘Mugs are laid out,’ she said. This was a morning
ritual between them.

Samantha sat down at the kitchen
table. Sighing, she reached for the daily papers - they only took
the ones that Rhys owned. She looked at the astrology columns in
each one. If only astrologers could talk a bit of sense. Half the
time she hadn’t a clue what they were on about. ‘What’s this
supposed to mean?’ she said to Mrs Moran, who was now busy fussing
with the tea-pot. ‘The easiest choices are sometimes the most
difficult to make.’ She frowned.

‘Rubbish,’ announced Mrs Moran,
then added, ‘perhaps it means getting some new curtains or
something.’

‘Yeah.’ Samantha tapped her
talons on the table-top. ‘Do you ever get funny days, Betty?’

‘Funny days?’ Mrs Moran frowned.
‘What d’you mean, love?’

‘Well, you know, when you feel a
bit out of sorts for no reason.’

‘Oh, we all get those days,
love.’

Samantha smiled, reassured, and
licked her fingers, before flicking through one of the papers. ‘Oh,
that’s all right, then. Must have got out of the wrong side of the
bed.’ She giggled, unaware of the rather searching glance Mrs Moran
directed at her behind her back.

‘Rhys’s up in London today,’
Samantha said. ‘Won’t be back for dinner.’ Restlessly, she got to
her feet and went to the kitchen window. The garden looked so
different now; the lawn was a brilliant patchwork of fallen leaves.
It looked beautiful. Pity that the gardener would soon sweep them
all up. Samantha sighed. She wished Rhys liked animals. Today was
just the right kind to go romping through the leaves with a
dog.

None of the local women were
very friendly - thought too much of themselves - so Samantha often
felt lonely, although she’d never admit this to herself. Betty
Moran was her only local friend. In the evenings, when Rhys wasn’t
home, she had the telly. She still had friends who had been in
modelling with her - Cherry and Lyndee in particular - but they
lived in London. Perhaps she could call Cherry and Lyndee today,
and if they weren’t busy, get them both up for the weekend. They’d
have cosy evenings curled up on the sofas in front of the fire in
the big lounge. They’d drink gin and tonics and reminisce,
listening to old CDs. Both of her friends were divorced and still
spent a lot of nights on the town. Sometimes, Samantha would go and
stay with them in the city, have a few nights clubbing. Rhys didn’t
mind. She’d never be unfaithful to him, anyway. Of his own
fidelity, she could never be sure, but didn’t think about that.
There seemed little point. She knew he’d never leave her. Yes,
she’d call the girls. Already, she was planning the weekend
menu.

Just as Samantha turned away
from the window, she saw movement in the corner of her eye. Someone
was walking towards the front door, and by the time she directed
full attention upon them, had already disappeared from her view -
the kitchen window was on the side of the house.

‘Oh, we’ve got a visitor,’ she
said to Betty. In the deepest corner of her heart, Samantha still
harboured the hope that one day the local women might relent,
accept her, and invite her to a coffee morning or something. She
tip-tapped out to the hall, waiting for the door-chimes, an
elaborate orchestra of bells, to ring. But no-one pulled the
wrought iron handle outside. Disconcerted, Samantha stood in the
hall-way, staring at the door. Should she open it before the
visitor rang? It might seem too eager. Eventually, curiosity
overcame her. Someone had walked up to the house, but apparently
they hadn’t intended to visit. What was going on? Slightly annoyed,
Samantha opened the door. She couldn’t see anybody. Perhaps some
cheeky local had been taking a short cut across her land, but it
seemed almost
too
cheeky to march in full sight along the
front of the house. Anyway, their security man, Terry, wouldn’t
have let that happen. His alertness to intruders bordered on a
sixth sense.

Samantha took a few steps beyond
the white-columned fascia. The wind was unfriendly, gathering up
the leaves in spiteful fingers. It seemed as if the air was alive
with flying colours. Shivering, Samantha went back into the house
and closed the door.

Walking back into the kitchen,
she said, ‘No-one at the door. I hope it wasn’t anybody up to no
good.’

‘Perhaps it was just the
leaves,’ said Mrs Moran.

‘A leaf person!’ shrieked
Samantha, laughing wildly. She didn’t know why; her remark hadn’t
been that funny.

The previous afternoon, Rhys Lorrance
had called Zeke Michaels to deliver a morsel of news. It did not
come blanketed in a sauce, but bare upon its plate. ‘Dex has been
seen, Zeke.’

This news had been greeted by a
short silence, followed by a nervous laugh, and the remark, ‘Again?
He’s always being
seen
, Rhys.’

Lorrance had sighed impatiently.
‘I’m talking about a genuine sighting. Would I trouble myself with
anything less?’

‘Well, no, of course not.’
Michaels had cleared his throat. ‘Where’s he been seen, and by
who?’

‘That doesn’t matter to you yet.
All you need to know is that the source is reliable.’

‘Right, right...’ Michaels
risked a question. ‘But was the sighting in this country?’

‘Yes. I would like you to
contact the Samuels woman. You must speak to her in person
tomorrow. Get her to the office as soon as you can after ten.’

Lorrance had refused to say
anything more on the subject, saying only that he would explain in
more detail when they met, face to face, in the morning.

Now, at half past nine, Rhys
Lorrance stood very still before Zeke Michaels’ desk. Michaels was
clearly disturbed. Lorrance had little patience with his
underling’s discomfort. Situations only became big problems if you
believed them to be so. ‘What time is the woman arriving?’ Lorrance
asked.

Michaels looked at his watch.
‘In about an hour, like you wanted. How do you want me to handle
it?’

Lorrance sniffed thoughtfully.
‘Well, I consider it likely Dex will have contacted her, but we
can’t be sure. I suggest you try to shock her into saying
something. Get a reaction. If he hasn’t been in touch with her yet,
he might well do so very soon.’

Michaels grimaced. ‘Why should
he? He just walked out of her life. She must have been part of his
problem.’

Lorrance laughed; a quiet,
disturbing sound. ‘Perhaps. But I’ve a hunch he’ll want her
services.’

‘I think she’s just going to
laugh in my face,’ Michaels said. ‘This won’t be the first time
someone’s told her they’ve seen him,
definitely
seen
him.’

Was there a note of belligerence
in Michaels’ voice? Lorrance fixed him with a meaningful stare.
Presently, Michaels’ eyes dropped and he picked up a pen from his
desk, fiddled with it.

‘Oh, come now, Zeke,’ Lorrance
said. ‘I’m sure you can concoct something to wind her up. Break her
defences. That’s not beyond you, is it?’

Michaels sighed petulantly.
‘Even if she has seen him, I can’t see her telling me about it. Why
should she? We were never exactly bosom buddies.’

‘Then assume she already
has
seen him. An outright accusation should provide an
unguarded response.’

‘She’s not that stupid.’

Lorrance sighed patiently.
‘Well, let us just say, we are casting bread upon the waters of
life. I am curious to discern what may return to us.’

Michaels stared at him with
round eyes for a moment or two. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘No.’ Lorrance rose to his feet
and sauntered towards a door opposite the entrance to the office.
‘I shall wait here in the bathroom, Zeke. I should be able to hear
everything clearly, don’t you think?’

Michaels shook his head. ‘This
is ridiculous. Hiding in bathrooms? You’d better be quiet. It’ll be
embarrassing if she susses you. Remember Jay Samuels is a nosy
little bitch.’

Lorrance ignored this advice.
‘Just speak to her. I’m not asking you to win her trust. Just hook
her.’

The summer seemed to have given
way to winter when Jay stepped out of her front door. A scimitar of
north wind cut down the street, stripping the trees of their
autumnal flounces. The air was full of twisting leaves.
Things
arrive on the wind, Jay thought, as she got into her
car. When the wind changes, they come. She could not remember where
she’d heard this particular bit of folklore, but again it reminded
her of her childhood. Perhaps all future events had their roots in
the past.

She wasn’t sure how she felt
about the impending meeting with Zeke Michaels. There was no doubt
the summons had kindled excitement inside her - curiosity even -
but she was also uneasy about it. It could be no coincidence it had
arrived so soon after the peculiar phone calls and the incident
with the magazine. Since she’d talked with Gina, there hadn’t been
any further strange phenomena. Perhaps it had all been self-induced
and her confession had somehow cleansed her of it.

The last time she had been to
the Sakrilege building, Dex had been at her side, a young prince of
the music business, commanding the simpering respect of courtiers,
who did all but bob curtseys as she and Dex had made their way to
the top floor. Few people here would recognise her now. She steeled
herself on the pavement outside, then breezed into reception. The
decor had changed. It was all chrome and leafage now. Jay
approached the first of the company gate-keepers behind the desk.
‘Hi, I have an appointment with Zeke Michaels.’

A surly teenager, a perfect
example of the starved, hollow-eyed look cultivated by the kind of
magazine Jay worked for, raised her eyes from a computer screen.
She wore a name tag that said ‘Tara’ and looked bored beyond
imagination. Jay wondered how often the girl practised the look at
home. ‘Name?’ said the girl rudely, tapping keys.

‘Jay Samuels.’

‘Take a seat.’ The girl flapped
a hand towards a group of sofas next to the glass wall that looked
out onto the street.

‘Thank you so much,’ said Jay,
flashing her sweetest smile. She sat down amid a jungle of
unnaturally green specimen plants.

Of course, he’d keep her
waiting. She wouldn’t let it bother her. The lovely Tara wouldn’t
offer coffee either. Her eye was drawn to the large framed
photograph on the wall near the reception desk. She’d never liked
that print. It showed a group of people standing on the lawn of a
large house, which was out of focus behind them. Michaels was
there, dwarfed by the imposing bulk of the company fat cat, Rhys
Lorrance. Dex was with them, along with a couple of other Sakrilege
celebrities and some PR people Jay vaguely knew. They all looked so
self-satisfied, apart from Dex, who seemed a bit sheepish. The
photo had been taken before Jay had known Dex, and had hung in this
office for as long as she could remember. She couldn’t help
sneering at the image, lifting her lip in contempt. It reminded her
of all she hated about the music business.