The Consequences (8 page)

CHAPTER 16

Saturday, 28th December

 

 

S
o how do you greet your ex-lover?

Especially when you're about to bring him life-altering news?

On her layover in Detroit, Stephanie checked into the on-site Westin, showered, ordered room service, watched a pay-per-view movie, and ordered a massage. She wanted to be rested and refreshed for her confrontation ahead. In the morning, she put on a cream silk blouse and accessorized with platinum hoop earrings and a simple twisted-rope necklace, also in platinum. She carefully made herself up, removing the dark bruises from beneath her eyes with concealer, adding a layer of the lipstick that plumped up her lips, and massaging revitalizing cream into the tiny lines that appeared at the corners of her eyes and between her eyebrows. Finally, she dropped in some eyedrops to brighten and refresh her eyes, but the whites were still threaded with tiny broken veins she could do nothing about. When she was finished, she stepped back and looked at herself in the mirror: not bad, not too bad at all.

That's how you meet your ex-lover.

Stephanie strode out through the arrival gates at Logan and scanned the crowd.

There was no sign of Robert.

Stephanie kept walking, moving away from the throng pushing out from the arrivals area. She stopped by a row of seats and fished out her cell and turned it on, all the time scanning the crowd, looking for Robert.

Her cell blipped, signifying it was active, and she quickly saw that she had one new voice mail. From Izzie.

“Not sure when you're getting back, but just wanted to leave a hello-and-welcome-home message. Hope you had a fab time. Love you.”

Stephanie smiled. Izzie could always be trusted to do the right thing. She was surprised she hadn't heard from Robert today.

Tugging her bag, she headed toward the taxi rank.

Maybe her phone call on Wednesday had frightened him. That had certainly been her intention. Maybe he now wanted nothing more to do with her. Funny, she'd thought he was a better man than that, but she'd been mistaken about him before; no reason why she shouldn't be mistaken about this too.

Stephanie stepped out into the crisp Boston air. The December sky was cloudless, the palest of blues, and the watery sunshine shed no heat. There were no taxis at the rank, and she had just resigned herself to a long wait when a taxi pulled in. She flung open the back door, slid her single suitcase onto the seat, and climbed in alongside it.

“Perfect timing.” She smiled.

“Your lucky day, lady. Where to?” the cab driver asked in a thick Southie accent.

She gave the driver the address and settled back in the seat. “Someone let me down,” she said.

Not for the first time either.

 

Even though she'd only been gone for a couple of days, Boston looked different. Fresher, brighter, cleaner. Living here, it was easy to forget how full of energy the city was. She remembered a recent article in the
Globe
about Boston residents being among the healthiest in the nation. The article came with a link to an online test that determined one's real age: It measured if one was physiologically older, younger, or the same as his or her chronological age. Stephanie had taken the test and had been three and a half years younger than her years. The report concluded with a list of the “youngest” American cities; Boston came out on top.

“Home with the family for a few days?” the driver asked. He was a pasty-faced man wearing a wool Red Sox cap.

“How can you tell?”

“One bag, which told me you weren't shopping. Then, I heard a Midwestern accent. But you gave the address like a local, so I knew you lived here.”

“Right on all counts,” she said.

“D'ya have fun?”

“I did,” she said, and was surprised to discover that she really meant it. “It was good to see the folks again, and my brothers and sisters.”

“Oh, I saw mine on Christmas Day. Once a year is enough for me. Got nothing in common now. As ya get older, ya create ya own family, and they're a lot easier to deal with than blood relatives.”

“That's true.” If she really were pregnant—and she needed to have it confirmed—who could she go to? She was surprised, and almost disappointed, when she realized just how few friends she had. Izzie Wilson certainly, but beyond that . . . ? There were colleagues of course, but they weren't friends. So if Robert had run scared from her, then she was going to have almost no one to rely on but herself. “Excuse me,” she said, and lifted her phone out of the bag. “I've just got to make this call.”

“Don't mind me.”

She hit the speed dial for Robert's cell. The phone rang and rang before it was diverted to his voice mail.

“You've reached Robert Walker, R&K Productions. Please leave a message, the time you called, and the best number to reach you. Have a good day.”

“It's me. I'm back in Boston. Maybe you didn't get my e-mail; maybe you did. Call me.” Stephanie hung up and then, on impulse, went into the menu settings on her phone and deactivated the “Send Own Number” facility. Then she phoned the same number again.

The phone rang four times before it was picked up, and Robert's voice, muffled, very soft, said, “Yes?”

“Why didn't you answer my previous call?” she snapped.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “The phone was in my inside pocket, and I had to pull my gloves off to unbutton my coat. By the time I got it, you'd gone. I was just putting it back in my pocket when you called again. Sorry.”

Stephanie didn't know whether to believe him or not. It was a plausible excuse, but Robert was a good liar: After all, he had fooled his wife for long enough. “Did you get my e-mail, telling you I was coming home?”

“No, no, I haven't checked my messages.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped. He was permanently wired to his iPhone.

“Honestly.” He sighed. “Things have been crazy. Look, I can't talk now. I'll call back later.”

“You'd better!” Stephanie wondered exactly where he was. He was whispering, mumbling, and she could hear some background noise, so she knew there were people around.

“I'll talk to you later. I've got to go. I'm at Jimmy Moran's removal.”

Stephanie frowned. “What? I can't hear you. What did you say?”

“I said I'm at Jimmy Moran's removal of remains. Jimmy's dead.” She could hear the catch in his voice. “He died on Christmas Day.”

CHAPTER 17

S
he'd been gone less than four days, but the apartment smelled stale and empty. She was surprised to find that it felt pleasantly warm, however, which suggested that she had left the heat on the timer. Dropping the suitcase in the living room, she stepped into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She pulled open the fridge and checked inside: As usual, it was almost empty, a half gallon of low-fat organic milk in the tray in the door, alongside an almost empty carton of orange juice and the bottle of champagne she'd planned to open with Robert when they'd something to celebrate. It had sat there for six months now. She lifted out the milk and sniffed cautiously; it smelled fine.

She returned to the living room, deliberately averting her eyes from Robert's Christmas presents, which were still sitting on the floor, and she checked the answering machine that sat on a tiny console table. She'd purposely not called in from Wisconsin to check her messages. The number “4” was illuminated in crude LED letters. How many were from Robert, she wondered as she hit the Play button.

“You have four new messages. New message. Message was left on Tuesday, 24th December.”

“Stephanie . . . Stephanie, are you there? It's me. I want to talk to you; I need to talk to you. . . . Please call me back. I'm in the car.”

“New message. Message was left on Tuesday, 24th December.”

“Stephanie? It's me. I . . . I just need to talk to you. About today. About us. About the future. I know you're angry, but please call me, let me know you're okay.”

“
New message.
Message was left on Wednesday, 25th December.” “Stephanie. I don't know what's happened. I don't know where you are. It's just after two a.m., and I'm leaving your house. There's no sign of you. I'm leaving this message in the hope that you return, hear it, and answer me. I'm hoping you're with your friend, Izzie. I think I remember you saying that she was supposed to be getting engaged tonight . . . no, last night. My God, I've just realized it's Christmas morning.”

“New message. Message was left today, Saturday, 28th December.”

“Stef, it's your mother. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely and to see how you were. Give me a call when you get home. It was lovely to see you, even if it was a short visit. The good news is that Joan's husband, Eddie, is coming up for New Year's Eve. She told me you gave her some good advice. So, you see why you should come home more often. Your father sends his love.”

“End of messages.”

The kettle whistled, and she returned to the kitchen to make tea. Well, in Robert's defense, he had made the effort, and he did seem to be genuinely concerned for her. She rooted through her range of teas, looking for something soothing. In the end she chose a caffeine-free Egyptian Licorice. She wasn't too fond of the taste, but she loved the smell. Cupping the teacup in both hands, breathing in the spicy aroma, she wandered out of the kitchen and into the living room and allowed herself to take in the room, which still bore all the evidence of her terrible encounter with Kathy and Robert. The Christmas presents Robert had brought lay in an unopened pile on the ground. The flowers had wilted in the heat, curled petals everywhere, and the helium balloon lay deflated over the back of the chair.

Stephanie sank into her usual chair and sipped the tea. She looked at the unopened presents he'd brought and felt not the slightest twinge of curiosity about their contents. She'd give them back to Robert the first opportunity she got.

She wondered if Robert's wife had noticed the gold-and-silver-wrapped presents piled behind the sofa when she'd stepped into the room on Tuesday. They were gifts Stephanie had bought for Robert, and now she wondered what she was going to do with them. She certainly wasn't going to give them to him; maybe she could return them.

She glanced at her watch, wondering what time the removal of remains would finish. Would Robert come directly to her, or would he have to drop his wife home first? And if the removal was today, did that mean the funeral would be held tomorrow or Monday?

And then a thought struck her: Would she have to go?

She detested Jimmy Moran, though she'd always moderated her real opinion when Robert was present, because she knew the two men were great friends. Jimmy Moran had built a completely undeserved reputation through a combination of extraordinary arrogance tempered with too little talent.

The last conversation she had with Robert about Jimmy had taken place a week before Christmas. Jimmy's wife, Angela, was finally throwing him out because she'd discovered that he'd had a child by his long-term and much younger mistress, Frances. Angela had put up with a lot from Jimmy over the years—his constant drinking, none-too-discreet affairs, financial difficulties—but that had been the final straw. She was divorcing Jimmy and looking for her share of everything. Stephanie recalled that Robert had been outraged by what he saw as Angela's vindictiveness. He'd been unable to understand Stephanie's support for Jimmy's wife. She'd been surprised, and just a little disappointed, with his reaction. Surely he accepted that Jimmy had treated his wife abominably, and that while he had a duty to his girlfriend and her child, he was also morally and legally obliged to provide for his wife? Stephanie sipped the sweet, aromatic tea, and she wondered how this boded for her own news.

A sudden thought struck her, and she put down her tea and picked up the phone. She dialed a number from memory as she carried her suitcase into the bedroom. The phone rang once before it was picked up, and a brusque, cultured, and very British voice said, “Flintoff.”

“Good afternoon, Charles. It's Stephanie . . . Stephanie Burroughs.”

“Stephanie, how wonderful to hear from you!” If her boss was surprised, it certainly didn't show in his voice.

“I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday,” she began. She tossed the suitcase on the bed and snapped open the locks. She'd hadn't used half of the clothes she'd packed. Except for Christmas Day when she'd dressed up, she'd worn the clothes she'd left in Wisconsin on her previous visits. She lifted the unworn little black dress and decided she needed to drop it off just up the street at Classic Cleaners before she could wear it again.

“You can call me at any time. That's why I entrusted you with my home number.” Charles Flintoff was the man who had discovered Stephanie, and he always treated her as a special protégée, but she knew her relationship with him had been damaged when he had discovered that not only was she having an affair with Robert—a contractor—but that she had awarded R&K Productions with three lucrative contracts. It would take her a long time to rebuild his trust in her.

“Thank you. I'm literally just back—I visited my parents for Christmas,” she explained, also letting him know that she had not spent Christmas with Robert, “and I've just found out that Jimmy Moran died on Christmas Day. I wasn't sure if you knew.”

There was a pause. Then Charles Flintoff cleared his throat. “No, I didn't. Thank you for telling me. Jimmy Moran—I got to know him when I first opened the Irish branch of the agency. We even worked together on a couple of campaigns, and of course I saw him all the time at various events, though I haven't used him in a long time. Poor Jimmy. So much talent and good, creative energy. Wasted. Do you know anything about the funeral arrangements?”

“The removal of the remains happened today, but I have no idea when the funeral will take place.”

“Probably not tomorrow.” She heard the sound of a page turning and guessed he was checking a calendar. “Monday or Tuesday.” He sighed. “I should go and represent the firm. The funeral will be well attended. Despite his faults, or perhaps because of them, Jimmy had a lot of friends. I'd imagine some of his enemies will turn up too—just to make sure the old reprobate is in the ground.” He paused. “If you have no other plans, perhaps you'd like to represent the firm with me?”

“Yes . . . yes, I would. Thank you.” She was surprised by the offer, pleased too.

“Call me when you have the details. Now, if you've just come back from visiting your family, you probably need some rest.”

“I'm going to do that now. Thank you.”

Charles Flintoff hung up, and Stephanie sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the phone, wondering what he would say when she told him that she was pregnant.

And that reminded her . . .

She needed to get to her doctor. Would anyone be open over the weekend? Probably not. Maybe Izzie could convince one of her OB friends over at Mass General to examine her. She was just about to call Izzie when the wan afternoon sunlight flashed across the windshield of a car as it approached across the courtyard and pulled up outside the building.

Stephanie darted into the living room, scooped up the dead flowers, gathered up the curled and brittle petals, carried them into the kitchen, and dumped them in the trash. Then she grinned; now, if that wasn't a symbolic gesture, then she didn't know what was. She wondered if he would use his key or . . .

The doorbell rang.