Who Sings for Lu? (13 page)

She met Riley at the door with a more than promising smile. ‘I think I’m getting used to you,’ she said, ‘and yet I feel like an over-excited school kid.’

He felt similar, but didn’t admit it. Her Czech side the probable origins of such flawless skin and soft-glow complexion. Dark hair and striking blue eyes almost incongruous, if not for her well-defined eyebrows that brought it all into balance. ‘Lovely to see you too,’ he said. Wondering if his smile didn’t betray his nervousness. Sexual, he assumed.

They didn’t kiss until the door closed behind her. He felt almost sly the way he ran a hand tracing her contours, as if to check she was the exact same prime specimen as last time. He was a horse man through and through: any excess weight on a woman he found distasteful, as with signs of fattening in his thoroughbreds. Riley now opted for the Cristal champagne on ice, popped the cork, smiled, let the froth run over his fingers, knew Bella would lick the hand dry, forward little sweet thing she was.

And when she did just that, he called her hot, then added ‘little bitch’ because it seemed a compliment. Clearly she took it as one, licked her lips. Picked up the room service menu left on the coffee table, its heading Recipe For Love. The selection started with asparagus Caesar salad, a suggestive photograph of asparagus tips and the information it
was high in vitamin E, considered a sex stimulant.

She read out, ‘“Combine it with celery, which contains androsterone, a powerful male hormone, and the effect can be …”’

‘Explosive,’ he finished. ‘Isn’t that what it reads?’

‘Yes,’ said her teeth. ‘You’re going for asparagus Caesar?’

He nodded. That it was going seamlessly doubtless had to do with her own ease, how comfortable she was in her own skin, indeed with her sexual personality. In short, she was here to fuck.

She went down the list, no to warm Belgian waffles with pine nuts and chocolate. No to the ginger, strawberry and champagne shots. But yes to a toast she got in before him, to lust and more lust. He’d drink to that.

The oysters: ‘Guaranteed to put you in the mood for love?’ She put it as her own question, to him of course.

‘Not necessary,’ he said. ‘But I’ll have a dozen. I love seafood. Do you ever go to the Pyrmont fish market?’

‘Yes, but not often enough.’ They chatted prawns and what a blessed city Sydney was. Talk that didn’t mean anything, not a thing, except pending sex.

Ginseng root as an elixir of life to the Chinese was of interest, had he ever tried it? Could have been a sneak question, to see if he did this with all the girls. Or not.

‘I don’t have a very sweet tooth. And having it with —’ he took the menu card from her a moment — ‘a banana, orange, lime and coconut smoothie is not me at all.’ Handed the card back.

She passed on the gift box of Lindt Pralines du Confiseur, even though ‘“Scientists believe chocolate arouses feelings of love”,’ she read out, with more of a frown.

‘And the gingko nut brûlée?’ he asked. ‘Says it increases blood flow in the body.’ He left it at that.

The night had a dreamlike quality. One minute she was walking along the grassed strip between her music school and the Sir Stamford Hotel. Next, someone crying out in pain and Anna turned to see a woman stumble and fall to the ground opposite.

She’d not wanted to walk past the hotel entrance, her father being in town and she not happy he’d virtually ignored her, like last time. What was up with him lately?

First instinct was to help. But the woman was on her feet and stumbling into the park entrance and Anna was on the centre grass verge intending to cross to the other side, go down to Circular Quay station. And this was probably a junkie, or homeless, or a drunk. What could Anna do for such a person?

Yet she found herself back on the music school side of Macquarie Street, going to the woman’s assistance, though with a wariness and eye out for anything not right. And she did pull her mobile from her shoulder bag to text Maddy she’d be home soon and would love a drink. Put the phone back in her baggy shirt with its choice of several pockets.

As Anna approached, the woman moved away from her. If she hadn’t been crying Anna would have gone on her way, for despite a well-lit path it was mainly dark in there.

When she heard, ‘Oh, God!’, in tone of utter despair, Anna increased
her pace and entered a world that in daytime was a splendid green. Now it was black beyond the light-creamed grass beside the pathway.

The dream effect continued as Anna found herself deeper inside the park, with the thought that it was going on ten o’clock at night and should she be here?

If the figure hadn’t veered on to the grass area Anna would not have gone a step further. It wasn’t a clear night of stars, though in her peripheral vision the high buildings were a multitude of lower-set stars in themselves, closer and with square blocks of light in ordered rows.

Found herself glancing behind her, not for someone coming but to the biggest building, Chifley Towers, as if for reassurance she was in familiar — highly familiar — territory. The woman lay foetal position and she was sobbing.

Moving closer Anna thought she detected movement to her right; her body registered what the eyes thought they saw with a trembling so strong it sent waves of chill through her.

So she stopped.

Nothing. Just the forms of trees standing in the dark, barely even shapes, more a presence and partial blotting out of building lights. The pathway had pole lighting. She peered, ready to flee should that movement she thought she saw be confirmed.

Perhaps it was effect of the darkness in this treed space, folding in on anyone entering the park. A lone insect chirruped, surely out of season, vibrating at low pitch. But there was sound of a man and woman laughing in the near distance, ring of hard heels on concrete. Traffic going by. Normal. Just normal life in a city with a safe reputation at ten o’clock at night. And that poor distraught woman lying there
and why aren’t you going to her assistance, Anna?

Still the dreamlike effect went on.

She had been standing there with back to him for quite some time. Riley wondered if Bella had something on her mind; knew what was on his. Ole Blue Eyes was in a mood too, singing ‘One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)’. Asking the bartender to set up one more round of drinks and hear him out on a lost love. Riley had seen Sinatra on television live, a consummate performance of the lovelorn, abandoned bar patron.

The door bell heralded oysters
au natural
brought in on a trolley. A waiter lifted the lid off the silver serving dish with a flourish belying his poker face, revealed a perfect presentation of molluscs in the half shell on fine china plates.

‘To sir’s satisfaction?’ Riley was asked.

A $20 tip his answer. His usual genuine thank you and yes they look great. People said he was a very courteous person — meaning, probably, for a wealthy man. They should see him at work with his animals and his staff, who luckily knew he was more bark than bite.
Just never take me on
.

Bella remained at the balcony door. ‘I love stars, even when they’re not out,’ she said. He frowned. ‘Just thinking of them up there, painted on a black canvas. When we’re all on the move.’

‘What is?’

‘Everything in the universe. All heading for destruction, then I guess it starts over again.’

He shrugged, popped a raw oyster into his mouth. ‘The oysters are delicious.’

‘It’s kind of bullshit, isn’t it?’ she said from the same position.

‘What?’

‘The Rose and Romance package.’ At least she was closing the balcony door. ‘It’s more for people pretending there’s still some life left in their jaded marriage or tired love affair. Yes?’

‘Maybe.’ He downed another oyster, washed down with the superb champagne.

‘All a bit clichéd.’

‘Even the champagne? I ordered this separately.’

‘Especially the champagne. What’s it cost?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘But if it did?’

‘But it doesn’t.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘let’s say two hundred?’ He kept his eyes on neutral. ‘Three hundred even? And we won’t finish it. Will we?’

‘No, probably not.’ His look shifted somewhat, getting ready to harden. Couldn’t be bothered with this stuff, wanted no complications, no fuss.

‘Which is a bit of waste,’ she kept at it.

Another oyster briefly pleased his mouth. ‘There’s a bottle of seriously good red wine to come too.’

‘Is there just?’ She paused as if in a no-man’s-land between them. ‘Funny, I always thought I wanted to live the good life. Like this.’ She looked around her.

‘You don’t like it? I thought you would. Thought anyone would.’

‘You mean any woman?’

‘That too. I mean it’s hardly unpleasant.’

‘No, hardly that. But is it real?’ she said.

‘Jesus. What is real? Is anything?’

‘A few things.’ She seemed poised to cross the line. But stayed put.

‘I’ll give you an example of something that’s not,’ he said. ‘Winning horses are not real.’

‘You serious?’

‘What do we horse breeders add to the betterment of the world? To its food production, to the core services society needs? Nothing. Though naturally I adore it.’

‘Next example? Something that’s real this time. Give me something simple and meaningful,’ she said.

‘Being a parent.’ It just came out. ‘To a special daughter.’

‘You have other kids?’

‘One other. But one is, sorry to admit, my favourite.’

‘That’s not very fair. I only have the one child, a daughter of ten. Single mother syndrome. Father ran off with his best friend’s wife.’

‘Happens,’ Riley said. ‘Trouble with best friends and couples. You get to know each other too closely. It hurt, yeah?’

‘Of course. Then it stopped hurting and I wouldn’t take him back if he offered me millions.’

He got up and crossed into her domain to pop an oyster into her mouth. Told her, ‘We keep going like this, we’ll still be talking five hours later.’

She smiled thank you and took the offering. ‘Beautiful. I’ll have another.’ Meaning she was coming over to his side.

‘What about big things happening in life?’ he said. ‘You ever think about that happening to you?’

‘Used to when I was married and shared a dream with lover boy.
Now I know big things happen to a few. Small things are the lot of the vast majority, the ones like me. But I’m happy enough. And you?’ Too casual by half.

He just nodded.

‘Soon, can we check out the stars? I have a feeling the cloud cover is breaking,’ she said, and clinked her glass against his.

‘Is there a love star?’ he asked. ‘I mean that symbolises man and woman getting together?’

‘Not that I’ve heard of. But then,’ she flicked him a look, ‘stars are big and I’m an insignificant speck of dust — what would I know?’

‘On stars? A whole lot more than me. You look ravishing, did I tell you?’

‘Now you have.’

It was like being in a heaving sea at night, all her spatial sense out of kilter. Rushing over uneven ground, tripping, sprawled face first on the grass, leaping to her feet, rushing blindly on. Making herself stop.
Don’t panic,
Anna. When she already had.
Don’t panic. Get yourself together — or die!

Having to stop the heaving lungs from giving away her position.
Or die. Or die.
When all they wanted was for the mouth to open to drag air sweet air into them.
Or die.

Diving to the ground of her own accord and trying to let the ground absorb the sound of her gulping, desperate lungs, her panicked mind gone haywire. Eyes searching the night for her pursuers.

She could hear them, the running footsteps, stopping and starting, urgent male whispers. Up she got. Fingers found a stone wall. Eyes miraculously found a good portion of street, the buildings lit up. Brain went into instant sorting process: Chifley Towers. Intercontinental Hotel sign. Curved shape of Renzo Piano’s building.

Where were they now? What on earth happened? Numbness in the face turning to pain. She’d been struck — struck!

She turned away from the Macquarie Street lights to the dark, which started to grow shapes of trees and shrubs, beyond them the lights of east Sydney hills.

The voices? Gone. Gone? Silence. Surely not: had they really gone? On her knees she moved awkwardly and painfully towards a small tree growing, it seemed, out of the stone wall. She’d seek concealment in its squat shape, so even if they had a torch they’d not find her.
Please, don’t let them find me.

A contrast of not quite relief but a belief she might have a chance. As the foliage brushed against her, scratched her face, she felt a slight pain but no sense that it mattered, not one bit.

She looked up and found herself staring at the SIR STAMFORD sign. Knew that logo of a crowned knight pretty well — from walking across to meet her father and from leaving Sandy’s offices. The familiar right there and yet as far off as the moon.

Windows in a staggered picture of some room lights on and others not. Two people up on the top floor standing in the balcony doorway. Perhaps they would hear if she called out — screamed?

Struck by another human being for the first time in her life, she could feel blood coming out her nose. A little pain but it was more inside, the shock.

They’d got her canvas carry bag, with wallet and credit cards, driver’s licence, cash. Cell phone gone — no … hold on a sec — she had it on her! Didn’t she …? Yes, of course: sent Maddy a text then put the phone in her shirt pocket in case Mads texted back.

Profound relief to feel its shape, a lifeline.

No sooner did she have the cell phone out than she dropped it.
Oh my God. Please don’t be damaged. Don’t ring. Don’t be the cause of those men finding me.

Retrieving it, she saw its screen was blank. Fiddled around for the on button, hit it … waited a few moments, praying the fall hadn’t damaged it.

But then the active signal came on in a little burst of music and she almost fainted. Stared watery eyed into the night praying not to see human movement. Fingers worked frantically from muscle memory and the tiny light to set ring tone to vibrate.

Scanned the park, no other ordinary night strollers, nor figures in search of her. Why
her
? Who were they? What were they? Bag snatchers? Friends of the woman? A set-up?

Back up at the Macquarie Street buildings, the Chifley Tower dominated. That was a city right there, just metres separated them. There was Sandy Tulloch’s building, twenty-three storeys. Not so many minutes ago she’d been on the top floor taking in the lovely view of city lights. And there, the Sir Stamford, where her father would be staying the night.

Looking up at the couple on the top-floor balcony— something familiar about them. Then she knew why.
It’s my father.

My father with a woman leaning her head on his shoulder — a woman?

The daughter’s fingers found the keys to text him:
dad im in truble bad truble plse plse help.

Screaming was out of the question. He might not hear, it would declare her whereabouts to her attackers and anyway, she could hear running feet — or could she feel their vibrations in the ground?

Fingers firing out another message.
In botanic gardns rite in front of u men after me plse dnt ring jst cm dwn to park acros frm hotel dnt ring im hidg plse answr dad.

His head turned away. On hearing the text-received signal —
had
to be.
Please, Dad. Please, please,
please
. Your baby’s in trouble. Rai’s little best girl is going to die.
Fired off another text.
In trubl in trubl have fone on vibrate but cm down 2 front of hotel.

Habit drew Riley to just take a peek at his Blackberry. ‘Horses sleep at nights same as we do, don’t they?’

Turning back to her with a smile he said, ‘Yes. Though you can look out at a paddock quite late at night and still see their standing forms.’

‘But the humans in the business take a break from it, right?’

‘They do.’ He took her hand. Another damn text signal. And, by the time he led her indoors, yet another. Anna, no doubt. Claire more a caller type; in fact she rarely sent a text.

Astonishingly, yet another signal. What could possibly be so urgent? Could be one of the valuable mares had a major problem with her foaling. Thinking he might just take a look, at least to see who was sending them.

Oh, to hell with it. Claire would phone if problems at Galahrity. Damn phone buzzed once more —
Shut up. I’ve got other business to tend to.

In the bedroom, where red rose petals were sprinkled all over the bed, she giggled briefly, then started frowning. ‘It looks like blood in a way, does it to you?’

‘Blood? Nope. Looks like romance.’

‘Overdone romance.’

‘Didn’t think there could be such a thing. Not in the context.’

‘Such a blood-like colour, not sure I like it. Something obvious about it. Is the idea to make love with them beneath our bodies?’

Enough, he thought. ‘Beneath, beside, doubtless stuck to the generated perspiration, in our hair, all over the fucking room I should hope,’ he replied. Drop the bullshit now.

Except that was the word she used. ‘This really is bullshit, Riles.’

The music had run its course on the stereo. Stepping up to the bed, Riley grabbed the cover and yanked it on to the floor, top side down. ‘Making love on a bed cover is not nice anyway,’ he said like an announcement, a reclaiming of the high ground, the man’s territory, close to where the basic, primal action was about to take place.

‘Why sheets were invented,’ he said: ‘to make the cleaning up afterwards easy.’

At least she smiled her approval and now unbuttoned her top. Her eyes never leaving his as her garments fell off.

A bomb could go off now for all he cared. His phone text signal did.