by Linda Coles
“How so, darling?”
And so, Taylor recounted the story of her First Class upgrade, how she’d travelled in style, and the gentleman she’d chatted to and shared a glass or two of champagne with during the flight.
“Oh, darling, how wonderful. Your father and I have never travelled more than Premium Economy and I can’t even begin to imagine what First is like. Any idea why you were upgraded? Just lucky?
“None at all, and I expect it was a random thing, but it was a nice experience while it lasted. Probably never will experience it again.” Taylor rolled her bottom lip up over her top, mocking a petulant child.
“And I’m guessing this man you got talking to wasn’t your type?” said Leonard.
“Dad! No. He was way older than me. He had to be in his seventies, I think, so no.”
“Just enquiring, but I see your point.” Judy reached over and pretended to slap her husband on his hand for his comment. “Now let that be the end of it, Leonard. No more talk of men. Do you understand?”
He had the sense to keep quiet and nod his agreement.
“Now let’s order.” Taylor took charge, putting an end to her parents’ jovial spat.
As the three sipped champagne and chatted about their lunch order, the pretty waitress disappeared for the briefest of moments, ducking discreetly into a room off the main serving area.
On the other side of London, her message was received. Taylor Palmer was now under full observation.
Chapter Nine
The table of three had eaten well, drunk a bottle of champagne between them and were contemplating desert. Half-empty water glasses and crumbs littered their tablecloth.
“Well, I’m stuffed, but the chocolate fondant is calling me so I’m going for that.” Taylor placed her order with the pretty waitress, who then moved on to her father.
“And for you?”
“I think I’ll go for the same. Thank you.” He passed his menu to her as she asked Judy what she’d like.
“Make that three, thank you.” She smiled. With all three menus gathered, the waitress moved off and conversation at the table moved on again.
“So darling, what are your plans for the rest of the day? Rest? Jet lag is a funny thing; hits you at all odd hours.”
“No, I’m feeling fine, actually. I might just take a look around the shops after lunch, stretch my legs, get some air, then I should sleep properly tonight. Want to join me or are you heading back?”
“We’re heading back. Though you are still coming out tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, absolutely. Your roasts are legendary,” Taylor said, “though when I’ve finished off the chocolate fondant, I might never eat again.”
“Good. We figured you’d still come even though we’ve had lunch together.” Judy took Taylor’s hand in her own. “It really is good to have you back, and you look so happy and healthy. Life in New York obviously agreed with you.”
“Thanks, Mum. It’s been an amazing couple of years, and it’s now time to move on to something else new and wonderful, whatever that might be. And hopefully on this side of the globe.” The familiar ringtone of Taylor’s phone chirping from somewhere inside her bag stopped the conversation.
“Sorry, I thought I’d switched it to silent before lunch.” Taking her phone out to silence it, Taylor frowned as she glanced at the screen. “That’s strange. No caller ID.” The phone carried on its chirping.
“Hadn’t you better answer it? You’ll never know who it is otherwise. It could be important.” Taylor clicked the green icon to answer it and stood to move away from their table and the other late diners.
“Taylor Palmer,” she said.
A man’s voice greeted her back. “Hello, Miss Palmer. Please forgive my intrusion but I am calling on behalf of Mr. Terrance Dubonnet, whom I believe you met yesterday.”
Taylor thought for a moment, a little confused. “Yes, I did.” Wary.
“My name is Patrick. I work for Mr. Dubonnet. He wondered if you might be able to meet him later today. He has a couple of good connections in your professional field that could prove useful to you, and he wondered if you might be free to take afternoon tea with him?”
A little taken aback, Taylor found herself agreeing, intrigued if nothing else. Mr. Dubonnet had been lovely on the flight, and if he did have relevant connections, she’d be a fool to not use them if they were on offer. Someone as wealthy as he was could be extremely valuable in finding her next role, whatever that might be.
“I shall let him know,” said Patrick warmly. “He’ll be very pleased. A car will pick you up at four pm. What address, please?”
Taylor looked at her watch. Lunch had taken longer than she’d anticipated, and it was already 3.30 pm.
“I’m in Croydon at the moment,” she told him. “Will there be enough time? I don’t know where you will be coming from.”
The man at the other end of the line seemed unfazed by her concern. “That will be fine. If you’ll give me the address, I’ll be waiting outside at four o’clock precisely.”
Taylor relayed the restaurant’s address to him, and he repeated it back to her. When the call had finished, she stared at her phone a moment before returning back to her parents, and the chocolate fondant that had been delivered in her absence. A quenelle of whipped cream had started to melt on the desert plate.
“Everything alright?” her mother said, frowning. “You look a little perplexed, if I might say so. Who was that on the phone?”
“It was someone who works for the man I met on the flight yesterday. Said his boss has a couple of contacts for me and asked if I’d care to meet him later today to chat.” It sounded astounding to her own ears.
“Well, that’s wonderful isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, I suppose. I’m a bit surprised, that’s all. A car is picking me up in thirty minutes from outside.” She still sounded a little unsure.
“Well, from what you said earlier, he sounds lovely, and good on him for trying to help you. And if he is very well off, as you say he is, of course he’ll send a car. Better that than expect you to get on public transport to meet him.” She smiled at Taylor encouragingly. “Oh, how exciting!” Judy clasped both of her hands in front of her as if Taylor had just told her she was getting married. But it did the trick and relaxed her a little. A smile crept onto her face.
“Well, I guess there’s no harm in going along and seeing what he has to say. It could give me some better options, some more prominent galleries perhaps. And a recommendation from someone like him could be invaluable.”
“That’s the spirit,” Leonard chimed in. “Choices are always good to have.”
Judy looked at her watch. “Then we’d better eat up before he gets here. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”
Forks and spoons clattered as they tucked into their chocolate fondants, and the table fell silent for a few minutes.
At precisely 4 pm, the trio stood outside the restaurant. Taylor kissed both of her parents goodbye with a promise she’d see them the next day and fill them in on the conversation she was about to have, and they wished her luck.
As they disappeared into the distance, she was aware that a sleek black car with heavily tinted windows had pulled up at the curb beside her. She glanced at it, impressed. Even to someone who wasn’t a car boffin, the shiny Mercedes was unmistakably a top-end luxury vehicle. A man wearing a smart black suit and driving cap stepped out and held the rear door open for her.
“Miss Palmer.”
“Thank you,” Taylor said, and climbed into the backseat for another sumptuous First Class travelling experience. Just where she was headed she had absolutely no idea.
Chapter Ten
Just fifteen minutes later, the car pulled up outside an older boutique-style hotel. While it was less modern than some in London, it certainly oozed extravagance and luxury, but had she expected anything else? A doorman in a neatly pressed uniform and also wearing a cap was at her door before the driver
had a chance to get out. She swung her legs out to the pavement in one elegant, fluid movement. Maybe it was the luxurious car that had encouraged her to act a little more demure than usual when alighting. She never got out of a taxi that way; it was generally more of a scramble. The thought amused her as she carried on with the act of being someone she really wasn’t, and found she was enjoying it a little.
“Welcome, Miss,” the doorman greeted her, and gave her a friendly smile. He had kind eyes and wore gloves on his hands, she noticed. Not really sure what she should do next, Taylor was relieved when the driver appeared by her side with instructions.
“Please follow me, Miss Palmer,” was all he said, and she walked with him towards the lobby. Her shoes made no sound on the thick, rich red carpet. Heavy gilt-framed paintings adorned the walls; the lighting was muted and regal. Patrick led the way through to a small private room. As he opened the door for her, she saw it had been laid out for afternoon tea for two people. Her first thought was not to marvel at how beautiful the elegant room looked or wonder why it needed to be so private; instead, she groaned inwardly at the thought of more food. How was she going to take tea with her new acquaintance and not offend him by not eating? Maybe she shouldn’t have had the chocolate fondant, but it was too late now. No, she’d have to manage.
“Please, take a seat. He’ll be along very shortly.”
Then the driver was gone, leaving Taylor standing alone in the silence as she waited. The faint sound of distant traffic could be heard but not much else. Outside the sun was not much more than a creamy glow, like the light from a candle, as the day wound down. She made herself at home in one of the comfy floral chairs while she waited. No sooner had she sat down than the door opened and a much younger man than she was expecting introduced himself.
“Hello, Miss Palmer. My name is Marcus and I work for Mr. Dubonnet as his assistant.”
“Hello. Nice to meet you,” she said, standing again and extending her right hand. He really was quite handsome, she observed. Tall and athletic-looking in his suit, he obviously took care of himself. A gold band on a finger of his left hand told her he was spoken for. His sandy-brown hair was styled with just the right amount of ruffle, and a light tan completed the look. The only thing that was missing was a personality, it seemed.
“Mr. Dubonnet has been delayed slightly, so he asked me to ensure you are comfortable while you wait.”
At that moment, a woman dressed in a maid’s outfit arrived carrying a tray of silver pots, which she placed on the table to complete the set-up, then left as discreetly as she had come.
“I wasn’t really sure what type of tea you drank, so I took the liberty of ordering chamomile as well as Earl Grey and Darjeeling. What can I offer you?”
“Darjeeling is lovely, thank you.” Taylor watched as Marcus expertly poured the perfect coloured brew into a china teacup. “Sugar? Lemon? Milk, perhaps?”
“Oh, as it is will be fine. Thank you.”
Even though she smiled, he didn’t. Why was he so austere, she wondered? For a man who looked to be in his early thirties, he was pretty rigid. He passed her the dainty cup and saucer and excused himself, saying Mr. Dubonnet would be along in a moment. Then the handsome but rigid man was gone, the door clicking quietly shut behind him. Sitting back in the comfy chair again to wait, Taylor took sips of her tea and wondered about the last few hours since she’d left New York. So much had happened – the older man she had met, the luxury she had travelled in, and now here she was, sitting in a swanky hotel waiting for him to arrive and give her some gallery contacts.
Taylor glanced at her watch. Since the handsome assistant had poured her tea, ten more minutes had gone by, so she topped her cup up for something to do while she waited. With each minute that went by, she began to feel more and more tired; the jet lag was clearly catching up to her. She sighed and leaned farther back in the chair; the room felt just a little warmer than it had the minute before. Was she imagining it? She didn’t think so, but she was powerless to do anything about it. Finally, unable to keep her eyelids open any longer, she allowed them to close, thinking about nothing whatsoever as she fell into a deep sleep.
On a monitor on the other side of town, the operator watched as Taylor drifted into a comfortable, deep sleep and a man dressed in coveralls entered the room. He was pushing an empty laundry trolley. The operator watched as the man lifted Taylor, placed her expertly inside the trolley, and wheeled it back out of the room. A moment later, another man, this time dressed as a waiter, entered the room and removed the afternoon tea party remains. A quick wipe round with a cloth, and any evidence that Taylor Palmer had been sipping tea in the room was now gone. And so was she.
Chapter Eleven
He awoke. Same time every day. The alarm clock on the bedside cabinet bleeped four times and he reached to turn it off. It always bleeped four times, and he was always awake to hear it. His internal alarm clock was in sync with his battery operated one; both alarms were there for each other should one forget. He knew exactly what time it was – it was the same time every morning – and he swung his long legs out of the bed, turning the bedding down over itself, letting air get to the sheets. It takes fifteen minutes for bed lice to dehydrate, for the moisture to leave their bodies, allowing them to die off completely, and this was an important part of his routine.
Don’t confuse bed lice with bed bugs: those little suckers are a whole different story and if you’ve got bed bugs, you have a problem. Everyone has bed lice. But Griffin makes sure his are dead every morning. His routine could be described as normal or mundane, though many would call it OCD. Every day is the same. Nothing deviates. He heads to the bathroom for ablutions, a shave and a shower, and that takes fifteen minutes precisely. Many parts of his life are slotted into fifteen-minute segments. When his morning bathroom routine is complete, he folds the bed linen back in place, smartening his bed for re-entry in the evening. His wardrobe is equally precise: rows of folded clothing, three piles each the same in content, stacked five high.
He dressed in his uniform, a self-imposed uniform of blue jeans, white T-shirt, blue hoody. It hid his secret nicely, a part of him he’d rather other people did not see, and something he hoped would be dealt with soon. But the hoody would have to do the job for now, until he raised the funds and found the appropriate outlet for the task.
He walked through the lounge, which was simple, inexpensive, and immaculate. Ikea had benefited from his wallet. All his flat-packed deliveries had been methodically constructed, neither a gap nor an overlap visible in their build, not a random screw left over. Built to perfection. A couple of neutral-coloured throw cushions on the sofa were the only soft edges in the room; even the rug on the floor was rigid. In the kitchen, he flicked the switch of the kettle that he’d pre-filled the previous night before bed, then poured cereal into a bowl that was already waiting on the work surface, sliced the waiting banana into it, and poured milk from the fridge. The milk was the only thing he had to get from somewhere else. When the kettle had boiled, he poured hot water onto the tea bag that was also waiting in the mug and left it to steep while he ate his breakfast in silence.
Eating finished, he drank his tea and took the little pile of supplements that also awaited him and washed them down in one knobbly mouthful. When he was finished, he placed his used breakfast cutlery and crockery neatly into the dishwasher and turned it on, selecting low wash. Precisely thirty minutes later, he left his flat in Croydon and walked the short distance to catch the train into London, white buds stuck in both ears and the Boo Radleys singing the same ‘beautiful morning’ song. He loved the beat.
Once he’d boarded the train, along with hundreds of other daily commuters squashed into the metal capsule, then and only then would he allow himself to break out a little before he reached his office. Sometimes it was with Elvis, sometimes it was with Guns ‘N’ Roses, and sometimes it was with Gershwin. He allowed himself a wide range of music depending on his mood, and the mood of the p
eople in the capsule. Spotify had opened him up to a whole new musical world, and while he’d found it a little overwhelming at first to deviate from his routine playlists, he’d finally embraced the experience and begun to see it as part of his education. He wondered if perhaps the rest of his life would follow suit and he’d break out a little more, one day at a time – break away from the confines that restrained his life, break away from fifteen-minute segments. And perhaps one day he’d find someone to share his life with. But who would want him with his quirky routine? Or his issue? When he allowed someone to get close and they saw what he was hiding, the shock and repulsion on their faces was always obvious. And it hurt. People could be so cruel. And so, it was easier to stay as he was, for now. To stay away from having someone close. But when he finally had the money and had found someone to do the job to his standards and his budget, that would all change. He was sure. Until, then he’d continue working as a sports reporter by day, and searching for the perfect person who’d help him by night.
As the train pulled in at London Victoria, he changed his playlist, the crystal-clear piano notes of Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ cranked up in his ears. Ironic, really, since the piece itself had first been conceived while George Gershwin himself rode the train into Boston one day. It had since become a classical piece almost everyone would recognize. Griffin worked his way towards the tube entrance onwards to his final destination of Green Park. Thousands of other London commuters had gone before him already that morning to just another day at the office. Griffin himself would be behind his desk shortly – it would take him fifteen minutes precisely.
Chapter Twelve
“Morning, Griffin.”
It was Jan, editor in chief at the paper and general pain in the ass. Commonly referred to as ‘she who shall be obeyed,’ she was an ‘in your face’ type of boss who frustrated the hell out of most of the team. Including Griffin. He stared at her long red fingernails, chipped at the edges, and then at her folded arms, carefully averting his eyes from her heavily made-up face.