by Roberta Kray
Chapter Thirty-eight
It was dark in the room but Iris knew it was morning. The first thing she was blearily aware of was the sound of running water, the second - and this jolted her fully awake - was that she was lying in someone else’s bed. Suddenly, like a trailer for a movie, a sequence of images flashed through her mind: climbing the stairs to Guy Wilder’s apartment, eating pasta in the kitchen, drinking wine in the spacious living room, hurling her phone on to the chair after talking to Luke, and then . . .
She could remember the need she’d felt for Guy, her desire to be comforted. With a groan, she scrabbled for the lamp on the bedside table. It took her a few seconds to find the switch and when the light came on she screwed up her eyes. They felt scratched and sore as if a sheet of sandpaper had been pulled across them. Turning her face, she squinted at the pillow beside her. There was no indentation, no sign that anyone had slept there. Then, through the hammering in her head - she had drunk way too much last night - her memory gradually cleared.
Nothing had happened.
She lay back with a sigh of relief. Sleeping with a man you barely knew under the influence of alcohol didn’t do much for a girl’s self-respect. It didn’t do much for her dignity either. And that dignity, after Luke’s casual dumping of her, was already at an all-time low. She rolled the word around on her tongue. Dumped. She’d never had a boyfriend leave her before. She had always been the one to do the finishing. A guilty feeling crept across her conscience. Had she ever been as cruel as Luke? Well, perhaps occasionally, but then again there was a difference between a three-month fling and a five-year live-in relationship. The latter, surely, deserved a touch more respect than a long-distance phone call.
Her thoughts returned to the previous night. Nothing had happened. Except, she realised, that wasn’t entirely true. As her memory wound remorselessly back through the details, Iris relived the moment when Guy had put his arms around her. She remembered the warmth she had felt, along with the glorious feeling of safety. But then there was that other moment, that vital moment when she had lifted her head and . . . Her heart sank like a stone. Oh God! With terrible clarity, she recalled how she’d made a clumsy pass at him.
Horrified, she stared up at the ceiling. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She shrank down beneath the duvet. What had she been thinking? The sound of running water stopped abruptly. There was a couple of minutes silence and then she heard Guy’s footsteps. She ought to get up too, although she wasn’t sure how she could face him.
What was the time? Dragging out her arm, she peered down at her wrist. It took a while for her eyes to focus, but when they did she leapt straight out of bed. She dashed out of the door, along the corridor to the living room and into the kitchen.
‘It’s half past eight,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
Guy was standing by the fridge with a carton of eggs in his hand. ‘And good morning to you too. I thought you could do with a lie-in.’
‘I’m going to be late for work.’
‘Give them a call,’ he said.
‘And tell them what?’
Guy put down the eggs and placed his hands on his hips. ‘Women’s troubles, flu, sore throat, toothache, emergency appointment.’ He grinned. ‘Cat ate the alarm clock. I’ve heard them all.’
‘And did you believe any of them?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t matter. It’s the getting in touch that counts, letting them know that you’re not coming in.’
‘I have to go in,’ she said. William had been good to her and with Gerald still off sick she didn’t want to leave him in the lurch. There was only a faint chance that Toby might bother to turn up - he was hardly renowned for his reliability.
‘Okay, so ring and tell them you’ll be a couple of hours late. They can manage for that long, can’t they? You can take a shower, have some breakfast and then we’ll go over to the flat. I’ll run you to work afterwards.’
Iris suddenly became aware of her state of dress, or more to the point the lack of it. She was standing in the doorway wearing only the white Nike T-shirt that he had given her to sleep in last night. That, however, was the least of her worries. She raised a hand to her mouth. She could hardly bear to ask the question, but it had to be done. ‘Just how much of a fool did I make of myself last night?’
Guy grinned again. ‘I was about to ask the very same thing. It all got a bit hazy after the third bottle. I can’t recall a thing after twelve o’clock. Did I do anything I shouldn’t?’
Iris suspected he was being more tactful than truthful. Whereas she’d been knocking them back like there was no tomorrow, he’d shown decidedly more restraint. And he certainly didn’t appear to be suffering from a hangover. In fact he looked as fresh as a man who’d gone to bed early with a good book and a cup of cocoa.
‘You grab that shower,’ he said. ‘Breakfast in ten minutes. And don’t tell me you’re not hungry. If you don’t eat, you’ll feel lousy for the rest of day.’
Iris knew she was going to feel lousy anyway, with or without the hammering in her head, but she nodded obediently and retreated to the bathroom. After a quick shower, she towelled herself dry and brushed her teeth. She wondered what to do with the toothbrush. Guy had given it to her last night, brand new and still in its wrapper. Was he the kind of man who always had a spare just in case someone stayed over? And if that was the case, how many did he get through in a month? Iris sighed. His sex life, whether promiscuous or otherwise, was nothing to do with her.
She left the toothbrush on the side of the sink and stared into the mirror. Her face fell. Yes, she really did look as bad as she felt. There were dark circles under her eyes and her skin had a greyish tinge. She made a mental note to never drink alcohol again. From now on she was a mineral water girl. At least she would be after she’d poured three cups of black coffee down her throat. She was going to need a lift to get her brain back in gear.
Iris rummaged though her bag but found only a few top-up cosmetics. With a stick of concealer, she did what she could to make herself look human, but knew she was fighting a losing battle. It would take twelve hours’ peaceful sleep to even begin to repair the damage. And then there was her hair. She frowned. Without the benefit of straighteners, it was going to revert to its naturally tangled wavy mess.
As she was about to go, Iris glanced towards the cabinet on the wall. You could tell a lot about a man from the contents of his bathroom cabinet. Like whether there was sometimes a female in residence. She reached out a hand, but then withdrew it. No, it wasn’t right to go snooping, not after all his kindness and support. But her attack of conscience didn’t last. After all, it couldn’t do any harm to sneak a quick peek. Before she could talk herself out of it, she whipped open the door and gazed inside. There was, she was pleased to see, no feminine items at all. There were only a comb, a razor, a can of shaving foam, a spare tube of toothpaste, dental floss and aftershave. She softly closed the door again and left the bathroom with a smile on her face.
In the bedroom, she took off the towel, folded it neatly over the back of a chair, and picked up her pants. She had washed them out the night before and left them to dry on the radiator. Now that was the true meaning of multitasking, she thought. It was amazing how practical she could be even when she was three sheets to the wind.
After getting dressed, Iris tidied the bed. She plumped up the pillows and straightened out the dark red duvet. Then she began to look around. The room was as masculine as the contents of the bathroom cabinet - and as sparse. Like the living room, it was painted a pure crisp white. There were a couple of pictures on the walls, Mediterranean scenes in shades of red and gold, but no photographs of family or friends. He was clearly a man who liked to keep things simple. A reaction to the dreadful mess of his childhood, perhaps. That was something she could relate to.
Iris checked her watch. It was ten to nine. William would probably be in work by now. She got out her mobile and scrolled through the menu. What was she g
oing to say? She didn’t want to tell an outright lie, but she could hardly tell the truth either. Sleeping in after a night of binge drinking was hardly acceptable behaviour for someone hoping to make their temporary post more permanent. And she needed that job now. With Luke gone, she’d be paying all the bills on her own.
The phone was answered after a couple of rings. ‘Tobias Grand & Sons.’
‘William?’ she said. ‘Hi, it’s Iris. I’m really sorry, but I’m going to be a bit late.’
She must have sounded flustered because he said, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Something’s just . . . er . . . something’s . . .’ She racked her brain, but it was still too sodden to come up with anything remotely plausible. ‘Look, I’ll explain later. I’m sorry to mess you about like this, but I’ll be in about ten-thirty.’
‘Are you sure—’
‘I’ll see you then,’ Iris smartly interrupted, and hung up before he could ask any more awkward questions. She put the phone down with a small sigh of relief. He had seemed more concerned than annoyed. If it had been Gerald on the other end of the line, she would have got the third degree. Still, after what had happened with Danny Street yesterday, William was probably grateful that she was coming in at all.
As Iris headed for the door, she paused to study her reflection in the full-length mirror. There was no visible improvement: her face still had the pallor of cold porridge and her eyes were struggling to stay open. She blinked hard, wishing she had some drops to put in them. The creases in her clothes didn’t do much for her appearance either. Still, she couldn’t hide away forever. She took a deep breath, picked up her bag and went through to the kitchen.
‘Scrambled eggs with smoked salmon,’ Guy said, turning to smile at her. ‘Toast and freshly ground coffee. Sit yourself down. I’ll have it ready in a minute.’ He picked up a bottle of aspirin from the counter and rattled it. ‘You want some of these?’
Iris pulled out a chair and nodded.
‘How many? One or two?’
‘About fifty,’ she said. ‘And please don’t shake that bottle so loudly. My head is in danger of exploding.’
He laughed and poured a glass of water. ‘Here,’ he said, placing a couple of tablets in the palm of her hand.
‘Thanks.’
‘Help yourself to coffee.’
Iris did. She poured herself a large mug and gulped down three fast mouthfuls, almost scalding her mouth in the process. Then she popped in the aspirin and washed them down with the water.
Guy brought over the plates and set one down in front of her. ‘Eat!’ he demanded.
Iris, although she knew she should, wasn’t sure if she could. A faint wave of nausea was rising from her stomach. She stared down at her plate. It was the kind of breakfast that under different circumstances she would have viewed as rather special. It wasn’t very often that scrambled egg with smoked salmon came her way. Even the toast, sitting in a rack, had been neatly cut into quarters and there were various pots of jam and marmalade on the table. All it needed was a bottle of champagne and . . . She quickly brushed aside the thought. For one, the very thought of alcohol made her feel ill, and for two it was perfectly possible that Guy Wilder always ate like this. She shouldn’t go reading anything into it.
‘This is very kind of you,’ she said.
Guy raised his brows.
She saw the gesture and frowned. ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, smiling. ‘It just sounded very polite, as if we hardly know each other. And I suppose we don’t, not really, but . . .’
Iris blanched as she thought about what had happened last night. ‘Well, I’m a polite kind of person.’ Having made the claim, she then felt obliged to pick up her fork and at least try some of the food he had made. She put a small amount of egg in her mouth. She waited for a second but her stomach, thankfully, seemed to accept it.
‘You don’t have to eat it all. I won’t be offended.’
Iris took another bite. ‘No, it’s good,’ she said. And it was good. She only hoped that she could keep it down. What remained of her dignity would hardly be enhanced by a hasty dash to the bathroom.
‘So how are you feeling? I mean, apart from the hangover.’
‘If you’re asking if I’ve changed my mind then no, I haven’t. I’m going to stay. If my dad is out there somewhere, I have to find him.’
‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘You should talk to Michael, see if he’s got any ideas about where he could be staying: old haunts, friends, that type of thing. I know it’s been going on twenty years, but people tend to return to places that are familiar. If we get some leads we can start asking around.’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure he’d tell me even if he could think of anything. I don’t mean that in a bad way, just that he wants to protect me.’
Guy leaned forward and refilled her mug with coffee. ‘Winding up Danny Street probably isn’t the smartest way to do that.’
‘Yes, well, Michael doesn’t always think before he acts. He has a kind heart, though. He’s doesn’t want me chasing after rainbows. He’s convinced himself that Dad must be dead - even if Terry didn’t catch up with him - and I doubt if anything I say or do will make him change his mind.’
‘And what about Luke?’
Iris shrugged. ‘What about him? It’s finished. I’ll get over it. There’s nothing more to say.’ That wasn’t strictly true, but what she did have to say was for Luke’s ears alone. ‘What time are you seeing Chris Street?’
‘Eleven-thirty.’
‘Will you call me afterwards, let me know how it goes?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And try not to worry too much. I’m sure I can buy us a few weeks’ grace.’
Iris noticed the ‘us’ and smiled. It felt good to have him on her side. ‘Thank you.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
By ten o’clock Guy was pulling up outside Silverstone Heights. He parked the white Mercedes convertible a few spaces away from Luke’s BMW. Iris turned and glanced wistfully out of the window; now that she and Luke had split, she would no longer have a car to borrow when she wanted to nip round to Vita’s of an evening. The moment the thought entered her head, she pulled a face. It was hardly the kind of regret that should be uppermost in her mind after the break-up of a five-year relationship.
They went into the empty foyer and Iris pressed the button for the lift. ‘I won’t be long. I just need to get changed and grab a few things.’ She had made up her mind to take refuge at Vita’s for a while. Even though Guy seemed confident about persuading the Street brothers to leave her in peace, she still didn’t fancy the prospect of being alone in the flat. Best, she decided, to give the dust time to settle.
‘It’s okay. There’s no hurry.’ He glanced around at the tiled terracotta floor, the spotless walls and the array of potted palms. ‘I’ve never been in here before. Very plush. I’m impressed.’
Iris, who had never felt entirely comfortable in the complex, gave a light shrug of her shoulders. She wasn’t sure how serious he was being. ‘Well, there are plenty for sale if you fancy a change.’
‘I don’t imagine your neighbours would be too happy with one of the local plebs moving in. I might be accused of lowering the tone.’
‘You could be right,’ she agreed, ‘especially with that old scrapheap of a car of yours.’
He grinned. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I’m some kind of flash bastard.’
‘God forbid!’
The lift arrived and they got in. Guy leaned against the side and crossed his arms. As they ascended smoothly, he tilted his head to one side and stared at her. ‘I’ve been trying to work out what’s different about you this morning.’
‘Different?’ she said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve just figured it out. It’s your hair.’
Iris self-consciously lifted a hand, fruitlessly trying to smooth her damp rampant waves. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘I like it.’ he said. ‘It suits you. You look like one of those pale and mysterious pre-Raphaelite girls, like you’ve just stepped out of a Rossetti painting.’
She stared at him, faintly surprised that he had even heard of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. And then gave herself a mental kick for allowing such shallow presumptions to even enter her head. Why shouldn’t Guy Wilder know about art? He might be an East End boy, born and bred, but was probably better educated than she was. ‘So do you reckon they all had hangovers too?’
He laughed, gazing back at her. ‘Maybe. It could account for those pensive expressions.’
Iris broke eye contact, glanced down at the floor and then up again towards the flat. It was only at that moment she noticed. Stopping dead in her tracks, she reached out and gripped Guy’s arm. ‘The door,’ she hissed softly.
It was open, only by an inch or two, but definitely open.
He shook off her hand. ‘Stay here,’ he said.
But Iris didn’t. She followed him inside, aware as she entered the hallway of the small but distinctive sounds of someone moving around. A wave of fear rolled over her. Oh God, whoever had broken in was still here! Danny Street? The bruiser who had accosted her at Columbia Road? Or maybe just some drugged-up chancer who’d discovered that no one was in. Guy walked quietly into the living room. It was empty. He turned and came back into the hall. Iris pointed towards the bedroom.
‘In there,’ she mouthed silently.
There was a series of louder rattling sounds now, as if the intruder was rifling through her wardrobe. Iris reached for the phone in her bag. It would have been smarter, she realised, to have retreated, to have called the cops from outside the flat - outside the building even. She had heard about people confronting burglars and coming off the worse for it. Getting injured, even getting killed. And whoever was here could be far more brutal than a common thief. What if he was armed? What if he hurt Guy? She wanted to cry out, to tell him to come back, but it was already too late.