Thin Air (7 page)

‘I know I’m creating all this
myself,’ she told Gina, her hands cold around her coffee cup, ‘but
I just want to talk about it. I want it to go away.’

‘It’s a reaction,’ Gina said.
‘Dex’s disappearance destroyed you, Jay. It’s going to take time
for you to get over it completely, and that documentary was just a
trigger.’

‘But what about the
magazine?’

Gina frowned, clearly trying to
think of a rational explanation quickly, so that her pause would
not seem significant. ‘Gus was probably right. You had an old copy
of it lying around, and it just got mixed up with some other
papers, or something. If it was any other magazine, you wouldn’t
have thought twice about it.’

‘But that’s just it - it wasn’t
any other magazine.’

Gina put her head on one side.
‘OK, let’s get this out in the open. Are you worried that Dex is
dead and has come back to haunt you?’

Jay shook her head vehemently.
‘No! No! Of course not. But...’ She raised her eyes uncertainly,
‘... I do wonder whether these things are not some kind of message.
I don’t mean from Dex or anything, but...’ She related the
conversation she’d had with Jez after the interview.

Gina listened without
expression. ‘So, who do you think is sending you these
messages?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you think Anton snuck into
your flat to plant the magazine, then plagued you with crank
calls?’

‘It seems unlikely. Sometimes, I
think that life itself gives us messages. I’m not talking about
supernatural things, but just... I don’t know. Pointers. Signals.
Hunches.’

‘I don’t think you should follow
Jez’s story up,’ Gina said, lighting a cigarette. She closed her
lighter with an emphatic snap. ‘It won’t do you any good.’

Jay sometimes felt uncomfortable
with the proprietorial air Gina had with her, as if she was
incapable of running her own life. At one time, she’d needed
guidance, but now it just seemed patronising. ‘You don’t need to
tell me that. I’m not a kid, Gina. All I wanted was to tell you
about it.’

Gina softened. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,
honey. I’m not getting at you. I just worry, that’s all.’

Perhaps she is right to
,
Jay thought. She felt unsafe, and scanned the lunch-time crowds, as
if by checking and re-checking, she could preserve herself somehow.
She took a long gulp of coffee. ‘Anyway, enough about my weird
paranoias. Tell me more about ‘Visa Vixen’. When’s it being
published?’

Gina’s face lit up. ‘In about
eight month’s time. I can’t wait. We must have
big
party for
it.’

‘Yeah! I hope you’ve got a good
sexy cover photo.’

‘You bet.’ Gina reached out and
squeezed Jay’s arm. ‘It’s partly down to you, you know.’

Jay laughed. ‘Me? How?’

‘You encouraged me,’ Gina said,
‘when even Dan thought I was wasting my time. I really appreciate
that, you know.’

‘Look, I’m your friend,’ Jay
said. ‘That’s all there is to it. Let’s order a bottle of wine and
toast your success.’

Later, Jay went home to the
silent apartment. The living room was suspended in the glow of the
afternoon light, a gush of gold falling between the drapes at the
long window in the living-room. Jay took off her jacket and draped
it over the back of a chair. She looked around herself, rubbing her
hands together, resisting the impulse to call out.
This is my
home. I am safe here.
Shivering, she went through into the
kitchen and filled the kettle with water. There was a strange smell
in there, like burning bread. Dex was always burning toast. He’d
put slices under the grill and then forget about them. Sometimes,
Jay had been woken up at night by the shrill of the fire alarm and
greasy smoke pouring from the kitchen. Dex would be holed up in his
work-room, the door firmly closed, his ears shuttered by
head-phones. She could never be angry with him, though. He just
wasn’t capable of looking after himself very well. Perhaps, if he’d
lived alone, he would have burned himself to death one day.

Jay shuddered and dismissed
these thoughts from her mind. Instead, she stared out of the
window. She did not feel haunted, or even frightened. It was as if
something huge and formless was rolling towards her across the sky;
an event, a revelation. Something would happen soon.

Gus came home later in the
afternoon, before the light had faded completely. There was no sign
of ill temper. He kissed Jay affectionately and then began to talk
with enthusiasm about a new job that had come up. He would be
leaving soon. Jay smiled and encouraged him, suppressing the
sudden, disorienting dive of her heart. She’d be alone in the flat
for over a week.

Gus put his arms around her.
‘Sorry about the other day.’

She did her best not to stiffen.
‘That’s OK. It was stupid.’

‘Yeah, maybe. I try not to
react, Jay, but I do. If I could take a big eraser and wipe out
your past, I would. It’s just me.’

She laughed feebly, wishing he’d
let her go. ‘Don’t be daft. We’re fine.’ She could hear the tone in
her voice, which meant only that she was trying to convince
herself.

The phone call came at
five-thirty. Gus sighed and picked it up, mumbling something like,
‘What the hell do they want now? Are they that helpless?’ But the
call was not for him. Jay could tell this before he spoke, because
his body tensed. His voice became clipped. ‘Right, yeah, she’s
here. Who’s calling?’ When he turned to hand her the phone, his
face was pinched up like an oyster shell.

She took the instrument from
him, announced, ‘Hi, this is Jay.’

‘Oh, hi there, Jay. Zeke
Michaels here.’

Her stomach clenched. Somewhere,
there were bells ringing or the sound of hooves. ‘Zeke. What can I
do for you?’

‘Could you drop by the office
tomorrow?’

‘Why?’

He laughed nervously. ‘Oh, I
just want a chat that’s all. Nothing heavy.’

‘Zeke, we don’t
chat
.
What’s this about?’

‘I’d like you to come down and
we can talk, that’s all.’

Jay didn’t want to mention Dex’s
name. If she asked ‘Is this about Dex?’, Gus would throw a dark
mood around himself like a winter coat. ‘OK,’ she said.
‘Ten-thirty?’

‘Yeah. Brilliant.’

She put down the phone, staring
at it thoughtfully for a few moments. Was this it? Was this what
all the weird feelings were leading to?

‘What did he want?’ Gus asked,
in a voice preparing itself to shout, if necessary.

Jay shrugged. ‘I don’t know.
Must be something to do with the tapes I gave him, or something.’
She forced a smile. ‘Who knows, we might be getting some
money!’

‘I don’t want money from any of
those wankers.’

‘No,’ Jay murmured dryly. ‘Of
course you don’t.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ His
voice had risen, as had his colour. For a moment, looking at him,
Jay wondered how she’d ever ended up living with him. Then, she was
chastising herself. Their relationship was good. Dex was the only
sore point, and surely that was bearable? Most women had to put up
with far worse.
But why should we put up with anything? Dex, for
all his faults...
With supreme effort, she strangled this
thought before it could fully express itself.

‘Let’s not make a fight of
this,’ she said lightly, still smiling. ‘I’ll go and see Michaels,
and then it’ll be over.’

‘He could have written,’ Gus
grumbled. ‘Make him write, Jay. Don’t jump when he snaps his
fingers.’

‘I’m not likely to do that,’ Jay
said. ‘I’m just curious.’

‘Is that what it is? Sure you’re
not hoping for news?’

Don’t blush! she warned herself,
blushing. ‘Gus, there’s no need for that. Please don’t get yourself
in a state.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Jay!

She put her hands to her face
and rubbed it slowly, up and down. Just the sound of it was
soothing. ‘Please don’t be like this, Gus.’ She couldn’t stop
rubbing. She couldn’t stand the sound of his voice, the small,
petulant boy that whined through the deeper tones. All the
accusations were there in his voice - unfounded, unfounded - but
finding their way deep into her heart.

Samantha
Lorrance walked brightly through the rooms of her house, on the way
to her morning swim and work-out. Her high-heeled mules tapped
across the panelled floors, becoming hushed as they padded across
the thick Turkish rugs. Every morning, she felt driven to patrol
her territory, her eyes alert for smudges on the gleaming woodwork
and faint traces of disarray among the sofa cushions. It was not an
obsession with tidiness, but a need to allay certain insecurities,
which she could neither name nor fathom. She didn’t really know
what she was looking for.

Samantha was thirty-five, but
seemed to have been perfectly preserved at the age of twenty-six.
Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing a
daintily-featured face that some had said would run to fat and
jowls, but which hadn’t. She looked after herself. Eight years
before, Rhys Lorrance had snatched Samantha from the tail-end of a
down-market modelling career. Her work had mainly involved
displaying her breasts and buttocks for the camera, so that men on
building sites could ogle her charms as they munched their
breakfasts. Lorrance had met her at a newspaper party; she’d been a
regular model for a Three Swords tabloid, in which Lorrance had
invested some of his wealth. She knew he liked her simple nature -
she prided herself on it. She might not be brainy, but she knew she
was kind, level-headed and capable in a practical sense. She’d also
known her modelling career wouldn’t last forever, and had been
pleased and relieved when Lorrance had asked her to marry him. She
was astute enough to realise he didn’t really love her. Theirs was
a marriage of convenience, but it worked fine. She played hostess
and glamour girl when he needed it; he gave her all the material
things she wanted. She’d tried to be a surrogate mother to her
husband’s daughter, Lacey, whose own mother had died when she was
very young, but the girl had always been a distant, aloof creature.
Samantha had been disappointed by this relationship; they could
have been friends. But when Lacey was nineteen, she’d run away.
She’d always had peculiar friends, who’d liked to protest about
things and sit in trees. Strange how so many of them had come from
privileged backgrounds like Lacey’s. The girl had visited her the
day before she disappeared, but Samantha hadn’t liked what she’d
had to say. She’d wanted no part in the hostilities that clearly
existed between Lacey and her father. Samantha didn’t worry about
Lacey now. Like all uncomfortable thoughts and ideas, the girl had
been brushed under a carpet in Samantha’s mind.

In the pool area, a heated
conservatory, carpeted in soft green, she took off her thick
towelling robe amid the lush palms and threw it on to a recliner.
Beneath the robe, her trim body was sheathed in a silvery swimming
costume. Before sliding into the water, she tied up her hair in a
band. The pool was comfortably warm, like a mother’s arms. For a
few moments, she floated on her back, probing the thoughts that
were troubling her.

Rhys hadn’t been himself for the
past few days. He was never nasty with her, but sometimes, he just
went quiet, as if something was on his mind. He’d never tell her
what, though. She knew he must sometimes be under a lot of
pressure, and that the operation of big business took its toll, but
she also realised his work provided the beautiful house she lived
in, the expensive clothes and cosmetics, and because of this she
had to put up with his silent moods. It didn’t happen often enough
to cause her great concern, and usually she just breezed through
these cloudy phases, confident of the clear skies ahead.

Samantha sighed, and swam a few
leisurely lengths, her sleek, toned limbs cleaving the water.
Steve, her personal trainer, would arrive in about half an hour. A
strenuous work-out would take her mind off her anxieties, the rush
of blood and adrenaline through her body would banish any hint of
the vague depression, which had hung about her for the last few
days. On several occasions, she had walked past her husband’s study
to hear him talking on the phone in a heated yet muted manner.
Something serious must be happening. He’d sounded angry, even
distraught. In her company, he’d been distant and distracted. At
dinner two nights ago, she’d carefully asked him if everything was
all right. He’d just bared his teeth at her in an unconvincing grin
and assured her, ‘of course, honey. Just busy.’ That must be it.
Yet tension hung in the air like washing steaming in a small hot
room. It made the house seem smaller. In bed, Rhys had muttered
softly in his sleep. Samantha had lain awake beside him, praying
that he wasn’t in trouble financially. Her lips had worked
soundlessly in the dark. And last night: it had been horrible. She
had gone to bed earlier than Rhys, and as she’d begun to drift off
to sleep, the phone had started to ring downstairs. She lay there,
motionless, listening to it, holding her breath. It was so late.
Late phone calls always meant trouble, didn’t they? ‘Answer it,
Rhys,’ she whispered. ‘Please answer it.’ It rang and rang, the
sound increasing in volume, as if the phone was coming up the
stairs. Samantha sat up in bed, called, ‘Rhys!’ Then the ringing
stopped, and she lay back down, her heart beating fast. She waited
for him to come upstairs and tell her whatever news had come, but
the house was silent. She couldn’t sleep. Should she get up? It was
so cold. He’d come to her soon.

Later, she’d been awoken
abruptly by the clamour of a high wind. It attacked the house like
a predatory animal, in short bursts of furious power. Rhys had not
come to bed. Beside her the flat duvet was endless and icy. Her
mouth was dry, filled with a sour taste. The wind dropped for a few
moments, then hurled itself at the house again with renewed force.
She heard the front door rattle downstairs. It was as if something
was trying to get in. She groped for the switch to her bed-side
lamp, reassured when a warm honey-coloured light chased the shadows
from the room. She was behaving like a child. It was just bad
weather. Sitting there, she could not move.