Warhol's Prophecy (29 page)

Hailey tried to concentrate on work. Just as she’d been trying to do since arriving at the office.

She’d spoken to someone from Nicholas Barber’s office. It seemed the local MP was looking forward to the charity bash in honour of SuperSounds’ anniversary. The organization for it was coming along well: everything seemed to be falling into place with relative ease. Hailey was glad that she clearly hadn’t lost her touch.

Not your touch – just your nerve perhaps?

What harm could it do to speak to Walker? The next time he rang, just take the call. Tell him that things had got out of control and ask him not to call again. What could be simpler?

She wondered what Rob would say if he ever found out about her liaison with Walker.

About the kissing . . . the sex?

No, it didn’t count. It hadn’t been sex. Not full sex. That made it OK, didn’t it?

She ran a hand through her hair.

What was it if it wasn’t sex? His tongue between your legs. His expert touch bringing you so close to that supreme pleasure.

Hailey turned away from the window, crossed to her desk and snatched up her jacket.

It was time to go. Time to pick up Becky. Time to get home to wait for her husband.

The phone rang.

For interminable seconds she stared at it, the breath frozen in her throat.

If it’s Walker, then speak to him.

Still it rang. Hailey gazed at it as if it were some kind of venomous reptile.

She reached for the receiver, noticing that her hand was quivering slightly.

This is bloody ridiculous.

‘Hello,’ she said, her voice a little stern.

‘Mrs Gibson, I’ve got Trudi on the line, from Water-hole’s press office,’ Emma Grogan told her.

Hailey relaxed.

‘Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow, Emma,’ Hailey said and put down the receiver.

Thank God. Now get out of the office before he
does
call.

She breezed through the outer office, waving a goodbye to Emma, who was still on the line to Trudi. The secretary smiled and returned her wave. Then she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece.

‘Do you want me to put those flowers in water for you?’ she said, hooking a thumb in the direction of the office.

‘
You
take them home if you want to,’ Hailey told her.

Emma’s face lit up. ‘Thanks,’ she said happily, and returned to her conversation with Trudi.

Hailey was already on her way to the lift.

S
HE NEVER NOTICED
him.

Only heard his voice at the last minute. Just as he reached out towards her.

Hailey spun round, startled as she heard Adam Walker close by.

‘Hailey,’ he said quietly.

She turned to face him.

He managed a smile. It looked almost apologetic.

‘I
had
to see you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’

She didn’t answer, merely stood there, the keys to the Astra still in her hand.

‘Did you get my flowers?’ he asked.

She nodded.

Silence.

Awkward, unwieldy silence.

They were like two strangers. Two people who had just met and were struggling for words.

Hailey knew she couldn’t ignore him
this
time. Not face to face.

‘I’ve tried calling you,’ he said. ‘I left messages with your secretary. I just assumed she hadn’t passed them to you.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ she told him.

‘I know that. I know you’re busy. I just wanted to make sure you got the flowers. I couldn’t call you at home. I wouldn’t want your husband to get the wrong idea.’ He shrugged.

Another silence.

They both began to speak simultaneously.

‘Go on,’ he said, smiling.

‘Adam, I don’t know what to say to you,’ she muttered, every word a struggle.

‘Look . . . what happened at my house the other day. I’m sorry, I—’

She cut him short.

‘Yes,
I’m
sorry too. I think things got out of hand.’ She was fiddling nervously with her car keys. ‘I should never have got myself into that situation.’

He nodded.

‘We all make mistakes,’ he said, the understanding tone in his voice not helping her.

‘I think it would be best if you didn’t ring me again,’ Hailey said flatly.

He looked bemused.

‘And no more flowers, eh?’ she continued.

‘But I just wanted to say sorry. To check how you were,’ he protested. ‘I didn’t want to embarrass you.’

‘I think you got the wrong message at your place.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘What happened, or nearly happened, between us, it shouldn’t have done.’

‘You said you wanted it.’

‘You picked up the wrong signals.’

‘Do you blame me? You asked me to take you back to my house.
I
didn’t suggest it.’

‘Let’s just leave it, Adam,’ she snapped, turning towards her car and sliding the key into the door.

‘Hailey, I’m sorry if I’ve done anything wrong.’

‘Don’t call me again, please.’

‘Why are you being so hostile?
You
were the one who started it.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You invited
me
for lunch. You were the one who asked to go back to my house. You led
me
on.’

‘I asked you to have lunch with me in the first place to say thanks for finding Becky. That was all. The rest of it should never have happened.’

‘Nothing
did
happen,’ he reminded her.

‘Look, Adam, if I didn’t do the job I did, you wouldn’t want to know me anyway.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You couldn’t make it as an artist, so you thought I could give you some help. You asked me to show some of your work to Waterhole.’

‘You volunteered to do that. I never asked you.’

‘You didn’t want
me
,’ she said scathingly. ‘You wanted what I could
give
you.’

‘That’s not true and you know it.’

‘Do I? I don’t know
you
, Adam. How do I know you didn’t have some ulterior motive for wanting to get close to me?’

‘I can’t believe you’re saying this. I found your little girl, and I brought her back to you. I didn’t know what
you
did for a living that day. I didn’t
care.
It didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. That day I saw a little girl who was lost and frightened and in danger, and I helped her. I didn’t expect a
reward
for finding her and bringing her back to you. I just did what any decent person would have done.’

‘And I thanked you for it.’

‘I appreciate that. You bought me lunch. You didn’t have to – it was very kind. I thought we were becoming friends. And that’s all.’

‘So you’re trying to tell me you never wanted anything else? You didn’t want to sleep with me?’

‘Hailey, you’re a very attractive woman. I’d have to be stupid
not
to want to sleep with you. But that wasn’t why I wanted to get to know you.’

‘You knew I was married.’

‘And you were the one who told
me
you were unhappy. You told me your husband had had an affair. You told me all the details of your life, and all I did was listen.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said sharply, pulling open the driver’s door.

‘At least take this,’ he said, and she could see that he was holding something fairly large and square in his hand.

It was the portrait of Becky.

‘I can’t,’ she said flatly.

‘Please, Hailey. Take it for Becky. I did it for her.’

She slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

‘Don’t call me again, Adam,’ she snapped.

‘The painting,’ he insisted.

‘You keep it.’

‘What have I done that was so wrong?’ he wanted to know.

He grasped the door, as if to open it.

She glared at him and he withdrew his hand quickly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘But please take this.’ Again he pushed the painting towards her.

She shook her head.

He smiled thinly. ‘OK, then,’ he said quietly. ‘Say hello to Becky for me, will you?’

No answer.

‘Hailey. I promise I’ll still remember you, even when I’m famous,’ he offered, his smile fading. He swallowed hard.

‘Goodbye, Adam,’ she said, looking at him briefly.

He opened his mouth to respond, but then realized it was pointless. He took a step back as she guided the car away from him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured as it moved further away.

Hailey glanced in her rear-view mirror, and saw him trudging back towards his own car.

Happy now?

She swallowed hard and pressed her foot down on the accelerator, anxious to be away from this scene of confrontation.

A little hard on him, weren’t you?

She switched on the radio and turned the volume up as far as it would go.

The first drops of rain began to spatter the windscreen.

‘F
UCKING THING
,’
SNARLED
Russell Poole, banging the fruit machine.

He stood glaring at it, while fumbling in his denim jacket pocket for some more small change. He fed in more coins and watched as the three reels spun once more.

Again nothing.

‘Fucking fix,’ he rasped and turned away in anger.

The Black Squirrel was busy. Both bars were full of noisy drinkers. It was one of the most popular pubs in the city centre despite its reputation. There were five or six other pubs, each with a somewhat calmer atmosphere, but Poole had always looked on this one as his local. All his mates drank here. He’d met his last two girlfriends here (fucked one of them in the Gents to be exact). The recollection brought a grin to his ravaged features.

He was twenty-seven: slightly built and with long, lank hair. His hands and most of his neck were covered in pink, puckered skin that a doctor had once told him was eczema. A scar ran from the corner of his left top lip to just above the nostril, giving him the appearance of constantly sneering.

Poole pushed his way through the mass of drinkers to the bar, downed a pint of Carlsberg, then made his way to the toilets to ease his already over-filled bladder.

The stench hit him as soon as he walked into the Gents.

‘Fuck sake,’ he hissed.

The other man inside glanced round from the urinal where he stood, ran appraising eyes over Poole, then continued urinating.

The doors of the three cubicles were open and Poole chose the first one.

‘Dirty fucking bastard,’ he grunted, looking at the filthy, excreta-filled pan. ‘Don’t people know how to flush toilets?’

He moved to the next cubicle.

Clean.

He smiled and bolted the door.

Poole urinated gushingly, then zipped up and sat on the cracked seat.

He slid the small plastic bag from his inside pocket and regarded it on the palm of his hand, grinning down at it.

He pulled the small bag open carefully and dipped the tip of his index finger into the powder.

The cocaine tasted cold on his tongue.

It was the only drug he dealt in that he actually used.

He never touched crack or smack, and E was for stupid fucking teenagers. Another one had died at the weekend. Taken a tab at some fucking club and died bleeding from every orifice. One less clubber, he mused, grinning. One less arsehole.

Stupid cunt – had it coming.

But he still sold them. He sold anything and everything if people wanted it. But the only stuff he’d touch himself was Charlie.

The odd joint, naturally, but otherwise he was very particular about what he shoved into his body.

Some silly fucker had asked him for acid the other week.

He’d got it, naturally. Poole prided himself on being able to deliver, no matter what the request.

Even the nitrous oxide had been easier to obtain than he’d thought. He had a contact at the local hospital.

Piece of piss.

He tipped a little of the coke onto the palm of his hand and regarded it almost lovingly.

Poole snorted the tiny pile: some of it into each nostril.

Fucking ace.

He re-sealed the bag and slipped it back into his inside pocket.