by Orla Bailey
We’re taken to a small office. It stands to reason they don’t want a scene at the front desk which might be the final card I play, if I have to. A fast learner, I focus on the fact that I’m the customer, especially one that occupied a very expensive suite. That fact alone makes her take me more seriously. I don’t reveal what happened to me there and leave Jack’s name entirely out of it, of course. He’s too well known. Me, on the other hand. I’m nobody.
“The room was booked in my name, but I didn’t book it,” I repeat for the third time.
“It was a gift, you say?”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps your benefactor doesn’t wish you to know then.”
That’s abundantly clear. “However, I would like to offer appropriate thanks for such generosity.”
I kick Libby under the desk when she snorts.
“With dinner, in your delightful restaurant,” she chokes out. “For two.”
Now that was a stroke of genius and I instantly forgive her for being a chump.
“Would you be making the booking for that now, Miss Caid?”
And that’s why you are Duty Manager, I think.
“If I can find out who I’m to invite, most certainly.” I flash a confident smile. It’s the only thing of value I have to flash. I get an awful image of Jack pocketing the pink diamond he thought I’d carelessly discarded on the floor of the suite where I entertained my lover.
The pink diamond I was so certain was really meant for Amanda. Now I’m not so sure. I see Jack in my mind’s eye kneeling before me at Lassec, proposing. I treated it like a joke at the time because I was so hurt. But what if he’d meant it for real? Oh God, I’ve made such a mess of things. Things I have to make right again.
The Manager holds my gaze for a second. She turns to her computer and calls up the account.
“It says here, it was booked by Tabitha Caid. You say that’s you but you didn’t book the room yourself?” She purses her lips.
“That’s correct. I made no such booking.” Of course, it would be too simple to have found Amanda’s thumb print all over it. One thing I can’t accuse her of is being stupid. Her plan was well executed.
The Manager looks at me sympathetically as if my search ends here.
I try a hunch. “Champagne was brought up to the room.” Libby gives me an encouraging glance.
The Manager checks the account again. “There’s no record of an order for Champagne from the hotel. You say it was delivered?”
“Yes, to the door.” I start trembling again enough for Libby to notice and take my hand in hers. Her quiet, steady presence is a comfort.
“It must have come from an outside retailer.” She notices the expression on my face. “It’s not unusual. Guests get deliveries of all sorts of things made straight to their hotel suite.”
“Directly to the rooms?” I’m wondering if the guy went to reception first and someone may have seen him.
“Sometimes. If they already have the room number.”
If Amanda booked it, she knew. She would get her hired muscle to be as discreet as possible. That would mean no visit to reception to announce his call.
“Anything else listed on the account?”
“There was a gentleman’s black dinner suit pressed by housekeeping and an order of coffee for two, late last night.”
“Both of those were mine.” My heart sinks.
“The bill has been settled in full.”
The bill. “The sundries were paid for last night when I checked out.” By Mr Blackstock. “But who paid for the suite itself?”
She presses a few keys. “It was paid for in advance.”
“By whom?”
She hesitates and looks at me as if I’m a little confused. “By Tabitha Caid. You did say you were Tabitha Caid?” She sounds a little uncertain as to whether she’s being lied to or not.
“Would you like to see my ID?” My tone is indignant.
Discretion wins. “That won’t be necessary, Madam.”
“If the person that paid pretended to be me, how did they pay for the suite?” A bank cheque or credit card could be traced.
She searches again. “It appears to have been a cash transaction.”
I lean forward in my chair, becoming quite the sleuth. “Isn’t that rather unusual?”
“Not as unusual as you might think, Madam.” The Manager looks a little embarrassed.
Libby and I stare at each other.
“Cheating spouses? Tax evasion?” Libby suggests.
“I wouldn’t know,” the Manager says vaguely.
“Okay, so that proves nothing in itself, except someone had to have come in and handed over the cash. They’ll be on your security cameras, I imagine.”
The Manager furrows her brow at me. She must have long ago stopped believing I would go to such lengths to thank a mystery benefactor.
But I don’t want to lose her co-operation. “I’ll level with you, Mrs Taylor,” I say, reading her name badge. “You’re clearly too intelligent to buy any nonsense. I was set up by a woman who’s trying to get her hands on my fiancé. He thinks I met another man here last night. I simply want evidence to show him, it wasn’t arranged by me.”
She looks from me to Libby and back again. When I burst into honest tears, simply from mentioning the horrible situation I’m in, she immediately lets down her guarded attitude.
“I see, Miss Caid.” She opens a drawer and takes out a box of tissues.
Libby nods in their direction. “I’m buying shares,” she quips as I grab a handful, sniff and dab my eyes.
“There’s no complaint against the hotel then?” Mrs Taylor is concerned about any come-back on her or the business.
“None at all, Mrs Taylor,” I sniff. “I simply want to get to the bottom of it. I want my fiancé to see this woman for who she really is and to believe I didn’t lie to him.”
Mrs Taylor looks at the account again. “The cash was couriered. That is a little more unusual so it was remembered and noted.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have the name of the courier company there, would you?” Hope leaps. Finally, I might be getting somewhere. Amanda has definitely gone to some lengths to cover her tracks. But she underestimates me, if she thinks I won’t retrace her mean little steps.
She picks up a pen, scribbles a name on a sticky note, tears it off the pad and hands it across the desk. “I wish you luck in finding out what you want to know, Miss Caid.”
“Thank you. You’ve been most discrete and helpful.” I stand and hold my hand out to hers.
She shakes it. “I don’t suppose you’ll be needing any dinner reservations now?” Mrs Taylor shows me to the door.
“Oh, I don’t know.” I fantasise about presenting Jack with the facts over a dinner I’ve tricked Amanda into attending, at the scene of her own crime. “Do you serve humble pie?”
Mrs Taylor and Libby can’t help but laugh as we’re shown back to the lobby. We shake hands again.
“Good luck, Miss Caid.”
Libby and I grin at each other as we emerge into the morning sunlight.
“Do you think the courier firm will be open on Sunday?” Libby asks.
“Worth a try. I expect so. We use courier services all the time. Many are twenty-four seven operations.” Our eyes fly to each other.
“Advance must use courier services too.” Libby states what we’re both thinking. Could it be possible Amanda’s used one of their regular companies?
I have an idea. “Let’s not go there now. It might be even more difficult getting them to open up than it was the hotel. At least there, I was a customer of sorts.”
“I get you.”
I carry on explaining regardless, more to get things straight in my own mind than that I need to put the quick-minded Libby in the picture. She’s a smart girl. “I’ll call them into the office to courier something for us on Monday. We’ll delay their employee and try to get him to talk.”
“I could do that,
” Libby offers, holding up one hand as if she’s volunteering for book duty at school. “Especially if he’s gorgeous.” She stares at my surprised look. “What? You’ve got your own man. I’m looking for mine.”
“I hope that’s still true. About mine, I mean.”
“Oh, honey, Jack Keogh’s not going to let you go that easily. You mark my words.”
I hug my best friend.
We jump in a black cab that has just deposited a couple in front of the hotel and give the driver instructions to take us back to Belvedere. The simple fact is, no amount of evidence gathering distraction will settle me until I’ve had a chance to see Jack again. Misery keeps bubbling to the surface and even Libby has her work cut out turning off my inner tap.
“Only the address of a courier firm to go on,” I state. “It isn’t much.”
“It’s more than you had an hour ago.”
I hold my breath all the way up in the elevator and Libby turns to me. “Are you okay? You look flushed.”
I expel air in a rush and gasp to get a new breath in. “Forgot to breathe.” My stomach is turning cartwheels like a circus acrobat. I feel sick with apprehension. What if he still isn’t home? What if he is?
The apartment is ominously quiet. Neither Libby nor I speak as I stride around looking for him. I know it’s hopeless before I even start. There’s no Clive Christian. No Sirocco. Dead air space.
“He isn’t here.” It’s a pointless statement. I want to bawl my eyes out in self-pity but I know if I do Libby will never go home and it isn’t fair to keep her with me like this. Where is he?
All of a sudden I remember the boat. “cailín álainn!”
“Colleen what?” Libby asks. “Who’s she?”
“His boat. It’s the name of his boat. cailín álainn. It’s Irish Gaelic. It means beautiful girl.”
“Does it now?” she replies strangely.
“He might be sleeping there. Come on. It’s just round the corner in Chelsea Harbour.” What if he’s been this close to me all along?
I rush back to the elevator, dragging Libby, running, all the way to the harbour. The boat still rides in the water where we left it yesterday. Even though I can’t see any sign of life I jump straight on board.
The door to the interior is locked. I knock loudly enough to wake the dead and shout his name repeatedly. I look through every window I can access and bang on the glass too.
“Jack? Jack, are you in there? Please, Jack.”
It’s as silent as a tomb. The only sounds of life come from the gentle lapping of calm water bobbing the boats against their moorings and the high cry of gulls sweeping out over the Thames.
“He’s not in there, honey. He would have heard you.”
I can’t restrain myself any longer. I sink down to my knees and weep. Libby kneels beside me and holds me in her arms. She tries to comfort me but it’s Jack’s arms I need around me. Anything else only serves to point out the difference between what I have and what I really want.
The last time I stood on this boat I was in a different world. A world of sheer joy where everything worth having was already mine. I recall every twist and turn of the river; every bridge we sailed under; each word, each caress. Jack’s thoughtful surprises.
All gone. Wiped away with a word. A look. Replaced by an emptiness so deep, I haven’t yet sunk to its absolute depths.
Suddenly I’m cold. I stand. I want his jumper. I turn mindlessly back to Belvedere with Libby’s arm around me. Even my violin can’t help me this time. No music in the world can fill the barren wasteland of my heart.
Libby tries to lead me to the guest bedroom but I shake my head. “I want to sleep in his bed.”
“Is that a good idea?”
She thinks it’ll make my emotions worse. She doesn’t understand I have to get close to him anyway I can. I slip off my shoes and crawl beneath his covers. Even though he didn’t sleep there last night, there’s still the faintest trace of Jack’s scent on the sheets. I won’t let Lenuta strip the bed tomorrow. I won’t let her wash the sheets until he’s home with me again, where he belongs.
“I’ll make us both some tea. Perhaps he’s got Earl Grey,” Libby says hopefully.
When she leaves I crawl out of bed again and go to the laundry hamper in the guest bathroom. I pull out Jack’s jumper; the one he put on me to stop me feeling cold. I feel cold now. So cold. More bone-biting coldness than I’ve ever felt.
I pull it over my head and down to my thighs. I stuff my arms in the long sleeves, keeping my hands entirely covered up. I surround myself in Jack’s scent and crawl back into his bed, curling up into a foetal ball. Tears flow unhindered down my face onto his pillow but I make no attempt to wipe them away. I love him so much. I miss him. To be without him is to be without my own heart.
“Oh honey, don’t take on so.” Libby comes back through the door carrying a tray of tea things. “If I knew where he was I’d drag him back here by the scruff of his neck for doing this to you.”
“It’s not him. It’s her. She did this.” I still want to defend him.
Libby puts the tray down and sets up the cups. She steps into the bathroom and returns with a towel which she hands to me. I sit up and stare at the towel.
She shrugs. “No amount of Kleenex is going to deal with that many tears.”
I dry my face and pat at the damp patch on Jack’s pillow.
“That bitch –” she begins.
“– is probably lying right next to Jack this very minute.” My heart-broken sobbing breaks out all over again.
Libby places a cup of tea on the bedside cabinet and sits on the bed next to me. “What if she’s not? What if he’s holed up somewhere feeling just like you?”
I focus on her words to dispel my awful vision of him and Amanda making love to each other. What if he is? He said he loved me. I bloody well love you. If he loves me even a fraction of the way I love him, he’s hurting. I kick off the sheets and scoot across the bed to pick up the house phone extension. I ring Jack’s phone. It rings until it goes to answer machine.
“Jack?” I leave a small, pathetic trace of my existence by saying his name.
He doesn’t pick up so I terminate the call. I ring again. And again. And again…
The click almost doesn’t register. “Jack? Where are you? I thought –”
I’m interrupted. “Miss Caid? It’s Blackstock, Miss Caid.”
“Mr Blackstock?” For a moment I think I’ve hit the wrong number. I twist my brow in confusion.
“Yes. Are you alright, Miss Caid?”
I hear a garbled noise in the background and a muffled sound. “Jack? Where’s Jack? Is he alright?”
“Yes. He will be.”
Something about Blackstock’s tone, the words he uses, frightens me. “I want to speak to him.”
“You can’t right now.”
“Why not?” I hear a loud crash in the background, like glass smashing. I hear Blackstock huff impatiently.
“He can’t speak with you, Miss Caid. I’m sorry.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I can hardly form the words. “He really hates me.” There’s scuffling noises. Blackstock sounds like he’s wrestling a tiger. “What’s happening?” I hear an angry shout. It’s Jack’s voice, I know it is.
The line goes dead.
I look at Libby who’s staring at me, spellbound.
“What’s going on?” she whispers.
“I don’t know. It was Mr Blackstock. He answered Jack’s phone. He said Jack doesn’t want to speak to me.” I’m shaking.
“Here, drink some tea.” Libby holds the cup to my lips and I sip.
“I think Jack snatched the phone from Mr Blackstock. He hung up on me. Jack isn’t going to answer his phone to me ever again.”
“Let’s leave it for a bit,” Libby says, offering me the tea cup again. “It sounds like Blackstock may have his hands full. Do you know the man’s own cell phone number?”
I nod. “It’s programmed i
nto the house phone.”
“We’ll give things a few hours to calm down and if one of them hasn’t phoned us back by then, we’ll try phoning Blackstock ourselves. See if we can’t find out what’s going on.”
I’m overcome with exhaustion. The nervous energy I’ve expended over the past twenty-four hours defies credibility. I’ve worked myself into a complete state of anxiety over wanting to tell Jack how I really feel – not that I ever took the chance; I suffered real gut-wrenching fear in that hotel suite not knowing what was going to happen to me; but worse than all that, I can’t rest knowing Jack thinks I betrayed him.
I hardly slept last night and my last night with Jack was practically sleepless but for completely different reasons. I’m on the verge of utter physical and mental collapse.
Libby can see it. “Why don’t you try and get some shut eye? I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“If Jack comes home.”
“Or if they call. Please sleep, honey. I’ll be right outside. Eating all his ice-cream.” She winks at me and I try to smile at her attempt to be cheerful.
When she goes I cry again. I just can’t help myself. I think I cry myself to sleep.
But something wakes me with a start. I rush out of the bedroom, my heart thumping. Is he home or did I only dream it?
Libby’s slumped on one of the sofas watching TV. She gropes for the remote and mutes the sound. “Feeling any better?”
“Much better,” I lie. “You know, you really don’t have to babysit me anymore. I’ll be fine.”
“What and miss living it up in a London penthouse? Fat chance. If I’m going to marry a motorbike courier, this will probably be my only taste of the high life.”
“What makes you think the courier will arrive on a motorbike?” Has she found something out while I’ve been asleep?
“Leather-clad. Biker boots. Tight t-shirt over swollen pecs. Strong thighs with a Harley throbbing between them?” Her face takes on a cross between dreamy and lusting. “If he’s skinny, got pimples and is riding a push-bike, he’s your problem.”
“Well that’s not my usual fantasy either,” I protest. I’m really trying to keep my fantasy out of my empty spaces. It only makes me weep. “Okay, deal; any pimply cyclists will be mine to deal with. In which case I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you.”