Cold Heart (2 page)

Driving back to Rosie’s, she recalled her assurances about Tiger. It had proved impossible, to date, to house-train or instil any kind of normal dog behaviour into him. Rooney and Rosie had both tried, but he had become a liability during the pre-wedding arrangements. He would either attack anyone who came into the house, or disappear for days on end, and no matter how long they all cajoled him and fed him biscuits, he point-blank refused to wear a collar. Eventually, Lorraine had booked him into a kennel for extensive schooling with a former police-dog handler. If this failed it was unanimously decided that he would be joining his old master Nick Bartello – nobody had been able to train that son-of-a-bitch either.

When she got back to the apartment, Lorraine contacted the kennels. Tiger was progressing but they suggested an extra two weeks’ training. They did not elaborate and Lorraine was quite pleased – she needed time to furnish the new apartment. She decided not to take anything from Rosie’s place but to start from scratch and buy everything new. At the same time she had resolved to do something about her scar, the scar that reminded her of who she had been, of what she had been. She no longer needed to force herself to look at the ugliness it represented. She wanted to put her past behind her, once and for all.

Lorraine felt as if she was high – she could hardly sleep. The shopping trips to the Beverly Center to buy furnishings and fittings were like stepping back in time. She selected everything she thought she would need, from a bed, dining table and large white sofa to wineglasses, lamps, dishes and silverware, and arranged for it all to be delivered to the apartment. She wanted everything to be ready for her release from the clinic and she didn’t want to lift anything, carrying anything or move so much as a book.

The surgery was extensive. She had decided to have a full face-lift, which was done at the same time as the operations on her scar, which was deep and required skin grafts. She decided to remain at the clinic, pampering herself with beauty treatments, until the wounds had healed. She was still paying for Tiger’s ‘rehabilitation’ and the kennels were beginning to worry that he would become a permanent fixture, but Lorraine assured them that she fully intended to take him back.

When the surgeon, who had not allowed her to look at herself, finally held up a mirror to her face, she wanted to celebrate, to kiss and hug everyone close by.

‘You’re a very beautiful lady, Lorraine,’ the surgeon said softly, as she cocked her head from side to side, drinking in her smooth, scarless cheek, her perfect eyes, the taut skin beneath her chin. He leaned in close. ‘Mind you, I can’t take all the credit. You have a wonderful bone structure. I just did a little suction beneath your cheekbones, ironed out the laugh lines,’ he continued, pointing out what his magic knife had done, taking pride in his work. He asked the nurses their opinion, but Lorraine didn’t hear: she felt as if she was looking into her soul and it made her gasp.

‘Happy?’ the surgeon asked, lifting his funny bushy eyebrows.

‘I used to look like this,’ she whispered, wishing Rosie could be there to see the new Lorraine.

While in the clinic, Lorraine had worked out and eaten well and, on her release, she felt fitter than ever before. She gave her entire wardrobe to charity and hit the designer shops with a vengeance. She had never spent so much, so fast. She had always had good taste but now she went for quality, and for the first time in her life she never looked at the price tag. Next she bought a brandnew Cherokee truck and a second-hand Mercedes, the car she had always dreamed of owning. It was in perfect condition, with only twenty thousand on the clock, immaculate leather upholstery, CD player and telephone. As she flicked open the make-up mirror it lit up and she sat smiling at herself, her new beautiful self, as the salesman hovered.

‘Yep, this’ll do nicely.’

By mid-September, she had found a comfortable office in a small three-storey complex on West Pico Boulevard. Los Angeles had its rapidly changing fashions in office buildings, as it had in pizza toppings and nail extensions, and although the building had only been erected five years ago, the gleaming mirrored exterior was already considered behind the times. But as far as Lorraine was concerned this was an advantage, as it brought the rental more within the range she felt justified in paying. There was a smart lobby and a pleasant Filipino doorman, good security and – the biggest advantage – right across the street was Rancho Park with acres of grass for Tiger to run in. She thought about him, but kept putting off calling the kennels to say she would collect him.

The air-conditioned office, tastefully decorated and filled with plain ash furniture, also boasted an en suite bathroom and kitchen, plus a reception area furnished with sofas and coffee table. ‘Page Investigations’ was printed in letters of gold leaf on the main entrance door by the electronic, security-coded entryphone. The letter-headed paper, cards and office equipment were chosen with meticulous care. Only the old computer hardware from her last office was retained.

Ready to begin work, Lorraine deliberated over the wording for newspaper and magazine advertisements before committing to six-month runs. She then contacted three secretarial agencies, and asked that applicants should send their CVs before she interviewed them.

By October, appointments had been scheduled with the three applicants she felt were most suited to the job. Still running high on her own adrenalin, she didn’t see them all: midway through the first interview she decided to offer the job to Rob Decker, even though she had really wanted a woman.

Decker was about twenty-eight, tanned, blond and good-looking, had worked mostly for television executives, had even tried acting himself, and his account of his unsuccessful thespian attempts made her laugh. He had a top shorthand speed, understood computers, and had a deep, laid-back voice that harked back to his theatrical endeavours. He was fit, with a tight, muscular body, and was wearing an expensive fawn linen suit, pale blue shirt and suede shoes with no socks. He had a Cartier wristwatch but, thankfully, no other jewellery. He carried his CV and other details of his varied career – knowledge of weapons and shooting skills – in a soft leather briefcase, with his karate certificates and gun licence. With her history, Lorraine would have found it difficult to acquire a licence, but it wasn’t the fact that she would have a gun-toting secretary that impressed her – she just liked him.

Decker was relaxed but not too relaxed, respectful but not obsequious, and when she asked why he had applied for the job he shrugged, admitting without any embarrassment that it sounded better than working tables at a bar and that money was short. His last employer had refused to give him references which had made it difficult to get a decent job since. Lorraine was confused: she had references from his last employer in front of her on her pristine desk. Rob nodded towards the paper, and said he had typed it himself. When she asked why he had no references from his last employer, he told her that he had refused to go down on him and, equally candidly, that he was homosexual. Then he had laughed and added that she probably knew that already, and probably he had not got this job either.

‘Yes, you have.’ Lorraine surprised even herself. She hadn’t given it as much thought as she should have.

Decker’s handshake was strong and he assured her that he would not let her down.

‘I hope not, Rob. This is very important to me – I want the agency to succeed more than you will ever know. Maybe when you get to know me better you’ll find out why, but in the meantime, when can you start?’

‘Why not right now? We need some plants in here, and I have a contact in a nursery – I get the best, half-price.’

Lorraine arranged salary and office keys, discussed hours, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked if he liked dogs. He told her another anecdote, about when he had worked in a poodle parlour, and she said that Tiger was not exactly a poodle and needed firm handling. Just before Decker left he seemed suddenly vulnerable, and Lorraine liked him for that too. She knew Rob Decker would become a good friend.

The following morning, Lorraine looked over her office. As promised, Decker had bought two ficus trees in copper buckets, a mass of pink and white impatiens in a glazed terracotta planter, and a deep square plain glass vase, which he had filled with Casablanca lilies and placed on the little table in Reception. The whole place seemed to have come alive. He had left on her desk a note of the cost of each plant and a receipt, plus watering instructions. He had also bought coffee, tea, cookies and skimmed milk, and a new percolator, which he insisted was his own, so that not only was there a sweet fragrance from the blooms but a wonderful smell of fresh coffee.

There were no calls and no work on offer, so at lunchtime Decker and Lorraine went off to buy some exhibition posters and prints from the Metropolitan Museum of Art shop, as the office walls were bare. He also talked Lorraine into stopping off to pick up an elegant up lighter to put in Reception, a swing-arm graphite lamp, a violet glass ashtray for her desk, and – having divined her sweet tooth as though by magic – a jar of jelly beans. By three o’clock their new purchases were on display. The advertising had, as yet, failed to generate any work, but she was not disheartened, she knew things would take time, and during the afternoon they had been able to get to know each other better.

Lorraine never divulged everything about her background, but Decker knew she had been a cop, and knew she had had a drink problem. In fact, he was such a good listener she felt that she had told him more than she really should have, but he was equally forthcoming about his life and his partner, with whom he had lived for eight years – Adam Elliot, late forties, a writer for films, TV or washing-powder commercials, still hoping to crack the big time before he turned fifty.

They left the office at six. Not one phone call had come in: it was Thursday, 26 October. Decker had asked Lorraine if she would like to have dinner over the weekend at his place, but despite the offer of masala chicken and chocolate pie, she had declined. She felt that perhaps she should keep a little distance between them.

Friday was just as silent, telephone-wise and job-wise, and they had talked even more, had lunch together again and discussed how they should rethink the adverts. Decker suggested they use Adam to reword them in a way that might grab a potential client. Again Lorraine refused his offer of lunch or dinner over the weekend. The initial buzz of her getting her new life together began to dry up. She didn’t feel so confident any more and even her new face began to annoy her: she was so used to flicking her hair forward over her scar, but there was nothing to hide any more. She began to wonder if it had all been make-believe and that the old Lorraine still lurked ready to pull the new one down.

She wished she had accepted Decker’s invitation, as she was alone the entire weekend, going over her accounts, totting up her bank balance. She was still in good shape financially as well as physically, but she had spent a lot of money on pampering herself and seeing it in black and white made her a little scared at her foolishness. Maybe she should have taken her time, but it was too late now – the money was gone. She had just over two hundred thousand dollars in her account, a lot, but at the same time she knew that, realistically, she could not keep the office and Decker running without some finances coming in: the outgoings would drain her savings. Still, any new venture needed time. But despite her forced optimism, something was eating away at her. She awoke one night with a faint voice in her head, telling her over and over she didn’t deserve this new life. As if on cue, the phone rang. It was three o’clock in the morning.

‘Hello,’ Lorraine said suspiciously.

‘Hi, blossom, how’s things?’

‘Rosie?’

‘Yeah, guess where we are? No, I’ll tell you, Vienna! My God, Lorraine, it’s
unbelievable
!’

Lorraine lay back on the pillow as Rosie listed, at full volume, the restaurants and sightseeing tours. It was so nice to hear her voice, even if it was ear-splitting. She sounded so close, as if she was in the next room. ‘Eh! How’s life? You found a guy?’

‘Nope, not yet, but I’m looking.’

‘Well, you make sure you don’t get one that snores!’

Lorraine smiled as Rosie continued to fill her in on the trials of sleeping with Rooney, never once pausing for breath. ‘Hey, you there? Or I did I just bore you off the phone?’

‘No, Rosie, I’m still here, making notes in case I meet my Mr Right.’ She could feel Rosie’s smile. She gave her the new address and phone numbers, and she could hear Rosie repeat them to big, bulbous-nosed Bill Rooney. Then she put Rooney on the phone and he complained about the cost of the call and then said, so softly, in a voice she would never have expected from the old, hardened cop, ‘You know, Lorraine, I’ve got a lot to thank you for. Not just for making us a load of money, but if it wasn’t for you, I’d never have met the woman who’s made me happier than I ever thought possible.’

There was a long pause and Lorraine could hear his heavy breathing at the other end of the line.

‘I love her so much,’ he mumbled, and then repeated it, sounding almost in tears.

Rosie grabbed the phone, laughing. ‘He’s drunk – but he tells me that every day. Nice, huh? Hey, I better go. We’ll send you postcards, bring you presents and . . . Oh, yeah, can’t wait to see your new place.’

Lorraine said goodbye. It didn’t matter that Rosie had shown little or no interest in what was happening in her life because right now it didn’t feel too wonderful and she couldn’t see anyone in her future saying they loved her. Lorraine was lonely – deeply lonely.

The following morning she went to her local AA meeting, the only social life she had. She still couldn’t rid herself of the feeling of isolation: it didn’t make her want to drink, but it made her think, and face the fact that she had no friends. She started thinking about her ex-husband and his family. She had not seen her two daughters for a long, long time, and though they knew where she was, they had made no contact. She often thought about going to see them, but always talked herself out of it. She didn’t want to disrupt their lives any more than she knew she had already.