All the Rage (11 page)

‘A toast,' Michael announced, clinking her raised glass, ‘to absent friends, absent wives, absent artists…and accidental lovers who don't give a fuck for anyone. 'He leaned forward and kissed her hard on the mouth.

Startled, Kara pulled away. He saw the confusion in her eyes. Damn. He had overstepped the mark in their relationship. To his relief, she seemed to sympathise with his embarrassment. Taking his hand, she whispered, ‘Marcus cares about me. He looks out for me. But who looks out for you? Be careful, Michael. Maybe there are things best not tampered with. Lauren is a survivor, whatever you think. Her world is unbalanced, and, frankly, you are tilting the wrong way. Leave it alone. Don't go there. ' She squeezed his arm reassuringly. ‘Please. '

Melancholy threatened to overwhelm him. ‘I'm falling down whichever way I turn. Where else is there to go? '

Kara stood to go, hesitated, and then returned his crestfallen gaze. ‘I'll call a taxi for you. Go home, Michael, and sleep off the drink. In the morning, you'll feel a whole lot better. ' She dialled into her mobile and booked a cab. Searching her pockets, she retrieved a piece of folded paper and passed him the information he had requested on Agatha Olivetti. She smiled, ‘And just for the record, someone is looking out for you. '

She stooped forward and kissed him on the lips, prolonging the sensation. She, too, was tipsy.

As he departed, seriously worse for wear, Kara giggled. It was a fun night, just what she needed. Gathering her handbag, she followed the sign to the ladies room, which was at the end of an infinite descent of steps into the bowels of the club. Her footsteps echoed eerily on the tiled floor.

Once inside, two girls rudely brushed past her, leaving her alone. She took a moment to adjust her lipstick in the basin mirror and put a comb through her hair. The lighting was unforgiving and accentuated the darkening bags under her eyes. She groaned. It was a losing battle, she conceded: the aging process was taking hold, girl.
Best start saving up for the cosmetic surgery and Botox injections. . .
an inevitable date with destiny, for sure. It made her laugh, this notion, although secretly, she wanted to cry. It was hard being a woman. She felt crushed.

Kara settled into one of the empty cubicles and locked the door. Suddenly, tiredness overtook her. The intoxicating mix of drinks kicked in, making her head spin. The heat made her perspire. From above, the heavy music thumped through the floor and rattled her brain.
Far too old for this,
she rebuked herself. Just then, the rhythmic beat grew louder as the outside door swung open and then closed. She was aware of someone else in the room, but their movement was furtive, as quiet as a church mouse. This spooked her. Then, just as suddenly, the music bashed out and diminished once again. She was alone…or was she?

I need to get back home, to my beautiful bed,
she thought.

Kara adjusted her dress, flushed the toilet and exited the cubicle. Turning to face the washbasin, her blood ran icy cold in an instant. She stood transfixed, rooted to the spot. She blinked. How was this possible? She blinked again, making sure the drink wasn't playing tricks on her.

What in Hell's name was this?

Scrawled across the mirror, the very mirror she had used only a few seconds ago was a single most God awful word written in red lipstick:

 

CUNT

 

Kara burst into tears. Recovering her wits, she grabbed her handbag and ran frantically for the exit. Her legs wobbled as she climbed the steps. She was breathless; it was if someone had punched all the air from her lungs. Upstairs, she glanced around at the sea of faces, all strangers.

Not all. One of them knew her. One of them was after her.

With her last reserves of strength, Kara searched out the manager and confronted him. Quick words were exchanged. At one point, Kara shoved him in annoyance and then hustled him downstairs, forcing him into the ladies room. The shock of seeing the message on the mirror once again made her gasp and sob uncontrollably.

He, on the other hand, was unaffected. ‘Seen it all before,' he said, resigned. ‘I have everything going on here, fights, swearing, sex, drugs. Sorry, love, but you get weirdos everywhere, and we're no exception. Probably just some tart who caught you ogling her boyfriend…'

Incensed, Kara spat, ‘Don't call me ‘love' for a start, and I didn't…' She then put her hand to her mouth, recalling the kiss she shared with Michael.

‘Like I said…' The manager muttered, clearly bored.

Kara stared at the offending scrawled word. It was a vile word, written by a vile person. And it was unmistakably directed at her.

Oh, how she wished she had gone home to Marcus earlier. Standing there, alone with this oaf, her legs turned to jelly. She was frightened witless.

Danger was out there. It was always out there.

 

***

 

Somehow, Michael slept, fitfully, awakening from dreams that seemed cursed. Beyond this, his perception of reality was off-kilter, as Kara had forcibly pointed out in the Blue Bar. Every hour, he rose from his bed and padded his apartment, restless, de-energised, his body sweating profusely. The intake of alcohol made him giddy, compounded by the thumping headache which refused to abate. He checked his watch. It was now 4am.

Retrieving a pencil from a drawer, he hastily scribbled down a list of priorities on a scrap of writing paper. Taking a few calculated moments to digest what he had written, Michael then listed the items in numerical order of importance. The first task was to revisit Laura's house whilst she was away in Ireland. It seemed a priority, but he couldn't grasp why. What was it that drew him in this direction?

Mercifully, utter exhaustion overcame him at last. The torment ceased and he slept deeply.

 

***

 

The next few days passed hurriedly and uneventfully. Michael busied himself with the editorial on his magazine and finalised the lead article to be penned by the Arts Minister.
All The Rage
had now firmly established itself as a leading voice on the London international art scene and had attracted many influential experts who contributed both important and light-hearted pieces to the popular appeal of the readership.

All appeared normal, and for a short respite, Michael found a rejoicing in his work which both shocked and surprised him. His passion for the arts had somewhat diminished recently. He was pleased with the desire to refocus on what he did best. He purposely avoided his wife's demand for an urgent meeting to settle “our differences” and spoke only once to Lauren, on the telephone, keeping his high spirited ‘Have a good time' as low key and detached as possible. She was still clearly miffed because of his previous contrary attitude to the trip, and played hard to get. Their conversation was short and sharp. He was just making sure she was still catching the aeroplane. He had a plan.

He checked the flights on the Friday, reaffirming there was no cancellation from Gatwick. All systems go.

The idea was to meet again after her return on the Monday to appraise the sale of the Porter collection. Kara agreed reluctantly to go in on the Saturday, which was normally his day to work.

This gave him the opportunity to drive down to Surrey and try a bit of trespassing.

Something in his brain was compelling him to go there. It was his starting point. On his initial journey to this house he had sensed a foreboding atmosphere; unexplainable, but it had hung heavy and claustrophobic like a lingering dense fog. It was not the house itself, although the rambling array of rooms and dark recesses was enough to suggest unease – no, it was something intangible: a sense of sad abandonment. He reasoned that Lauren was living in a suspended state, unable to move forward, waiting, and as a result she had neglected her home, the large and by now overgrown grounds, and her own spiritual well-being. This was a house that dwelt in the past.

The drive down was a simple exercise. He found comfort from being alone in the car. Old Hampton retained much rustic charm. Ambling through, he reminded himself of the promise to visit The Royal Oak. The invitation of a roaring log fire and a local pint was irresistible. If he was honest, though, another agenda kept interrupting his thought process: local gossip. It rarely lied.

On entering the premises, it was disappointing to discover a mock Tudor interior, punctuated by loud music and game machines. Normally, he would have left or retreated to a quiet corner but he deliberately sat on one of the red dralon-covered stools at the long bar. He was alone and soon attracted the attention of the woman cleaning down the oak and brass counter.

‘What can I get you, love? '

Michael guessed she was in her early fifties, and possibly one of the owners. If this was the case, it suited his motives perfectly.

He smiled generously. ‘A pint of Ruddles and a ploughman's lunch would be great, thank you. '

He watched aimlessly as she returned the smile and punched in his food order on the electronic keypad. Unhurriedly, she poured his beer.

‘Haven't seen you here before,' she asked. ‘On holiday? '

Michael caught her gaze. ‘Local business,' he replied. He wore jeans and boots and an old fashioned Harrington jacket. His attire was appropriate for his next line. ‘I'm a landscape gardener. I've come down to quote for a possible job in the village. You'll know the place if you live around here. '

She bought him the drink. ‘Local as you can get,' she said, pointing upward. ‘Dougie and I have run this place for a dozen years. We live upstairs. I run front of house. Dougie runs the kitchen. '

He held out his hand. ‘Terry Button. Gardener. No job too small.'

They shook hands warmly. ‘Sheila. All work and no play. That will be eight pounds fifty pence, please. '

He paid, enjoyed his lunch and ordered coffee. Later, he caught her attention again.

‘I'm looking for Laburnum Farm. Perhaps you could direct me, Sheila. '

After finishing with another customer, she sauntered over and cleared his plate away. ‘Not far,' she announced. ‘Carry on through the village, over the bridge, past the church. Look for a red mail box. Got a
big
job on there, if you ask me,' she added glibly.

‘Entire garden clearance,' Michael said. He pretended to read from a scrap of paper retrieved from his inside pocket. ‘Reline the pond. Reclaim the raised beds. A big job, as you say. The owners are Lauren O'Neill and…Julius Gray. ' He paused for effect, ‘You know them both, I assume? '

Sheila looked at him long and hard. ‘They used to be regulars, up until eight to ten years ago. He's long gone now. That's why the garden has fallen into disrepair. Too much work for her on her own. Besides, she's been ill off and on. All got too much for her, I'd say. The house is the same: far too big for one person to handle. It needs a man's strength to put things right. And I'm not simply referring to the grounds, if you get my meaning. '

‘That's where I come in. ' He shrugged. ‘Big job, big cost. '

She came closer. 'Should've sold the place long ago,' she whispered,' living with all those memories. Not good for the soul. '

‘Do you ever see her? '

‘Never. ' She corrected herself. ‘Well, occasionally, you get a glimpse of her in that old truck coming past. Lauren's become a bit of a recluse, living in the past. '

‘What was he like, this Julius? ' Michael asked. Immediately, he regretted his over confidence.

‘Why would you need to know that? ' she asked cagily.

He shifted uncomfortably on his stool. He drank from his coffee, moistening his dry lips. ‘No need to know at all, just being nosey. '

‘Landscape gardener, you say. Have you got a business card? '

He was beginning to feel cornered. ‘In the car, yes. '

Sheila was too quick for him, interrupting his poor attempts at covering his mistake. ‘Mister,' she said, spreading her hands along the bar, moving her face even closer to his, ‘we get all sorts of people come in here, some pretending to be something they ain't. That's their business. But usually I can see right through them. Now, as for you…What can I say? I haven't got the handle yet, but looking at your soft hands I'd say you haven't got the handle either. Never touched a spade, I'd guess. In fact, you ask questions just like all the others. '

‘Others? '

‘The police, insurance assessors, even solicitors. They keep sniffing around here. I'm beginning to feel real uneasy about you. I've told them over and over everything that I know. '

‘I'm not the police. '

‘Private detective, insurance investigator, news reporter: all the same to me. I tell them all exactly what they want to hear. '

Very slowly, she inched forward so that he could now feel her breath on his perspiring face. ‘Nobody just vanishes,' she confided. ‘Nobody just vanishes without trace. '

Michael needed no further encouragement to retreat from the pub as quickly as his legs would carry him. It wasn't dignified, but necessary. He had been rumbled.