One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (11 page)

She arrived at the Laguna’s lobby doors, which obstinately failed to open for her. Through the glass she noticed one of the skeleton staff gesticulating at her from where he sat behind the reception desk. He was pointing with a bored expression at the unlit chandeliers and wall‐
mounted uplighters, communicating not only that the electricity was temporarily off but also that she must have the visual acuity of a pipistrelle not to have noticed.

She shifted the bag to her other arm and walked to the right‐
most door, which sported a blue triangular handle in the shape of the Delta Leisure logo. Neither pushing nor pulling yielded a result. The receptionist pointed with a pencil towards the other side of the entrance, this time not even looking up from his paper. Sighing, she changed her grip on the bag once more, the bloody thing getting heavier with every pace, and headed for the allegedly functional door on the far left.

‘You with catering?’ the receptionist mumbled as she approached the desk, more by way of statement than question. ‘Kitchens are through that door on your right, then down the stairs, but nothing’s working yet, obviously, because—’

Simone dropped the overnight bag on the tiled floor with a loud slap, and began rubbing her reddened palm. ‘No, I’m not with “catering”. I need the keys to the Orchid suite, please.’

‘The Orch …’ He looked perplexed. ‘But that’s Mr Hutchison’s suite.’

‘Yes, and I’m
Mrs
Hutchison.’

This seemed to worsen the confusion. ‘You’re Mrs … Oh.
Oh
. Right. Orchid suite. Orchid suite. Right. Here you are, Mrs Hutchison.’

The receptionist passed her the plastic keycard with the rapid over‐
eagerness of passing a buck, handling it as though it was hot. He looked suddenly terrified, and not, she understood, of her.

Gavin had been screwing
her
here. The bastard had been using the place as his own private, five‐
star love nest, and the skeleton staff on duty, keeping an eye on the place and taking out the empties, had assumed she was his wife. Simone gave a short, bitter laugh and stared upwards at the ceiling, calming herself so as not to take it out on the unwitting and undeserving lackey. Besides, she didn’t want any ire going to waste. Drink back the gall, she thought, all the more to spit in his face.

‘W-would you like a hand with your bag, Mrs Hutchison?’ the receptionist asked with a jumpy disquiet and a north‐
east English accent. ‘The suite’s on the top floor, and because the electricity’s down, the lifts—’

‘It’s all right, Jamie,
I
’ll see to our ever‐
beautiful hostess.’

Simone turned around to see where the voice had suddenly come from. Timothy Vale was standing not three feet behind her, at presumably the spot Scotty or LaForge had beamed him down. It warned her how immersed she’d become in her wrathful thoughts that she hadn’t noticed his approach, not even footfalls on a tiled floor.

‘Mr Vale,’ she greeted, resourcefully finding a smile several hours earlier than she’d anticipated managing one. She offered a hand, which he clasped between both of his as he gave a small bow.

‘At your service, madam.’

Her next smile came easier. ‘Well at least someone is. It’s nice to see you again. But I thought you were supposed to be on holiday. A shooting trip somewhere in the highlands, wasn’t it?’

Vale picked up her bag and led her towards the stairs, placing a light hand against the small of her back. The gentility of his touch defused any awkwardness – or indeed thrill – to such unaccustomed familiarity. To say Vale had always struck her as the perfect gentleman was to illustrate how devalued that expression had become, so far short did it seem to fall. There was something of the man that belonged to another era, an effortless, unaffected charm that allowed him to say things like ‘our ever‐
beautiful hostess’ or ‘at your service, madam’ without sounding like a complete tit.

On first sight, her impression of him had been that he looked like either James or Edward Fox, a notion she in time revised to conclude that he resembled both of them plus at least a good half‐
dozen other male relatives they might have. Other than that, he was an extremely difficult man to get a measure of. He was no taller than she (five‐
six at the most), and appeared as slight of frame as he was light of foot, yet up‐
close his arms struck her as taut rather than skinny. There was restless, mercurial energy about his aristocratic features, a mischievous, almost incongruous geniality to his face, which possibly took years off an accurate estimate of his age. At the same time, his skin had a deeply sun‐
weathered tint and texture that suggested greater exposure than an annual fortnight on the Med, which possibly stuck a few years back on. She guessed if you went for a number between 55 and 70, you’d be wrong, but you’d get marks for your working.

‘Oh, don’t torment me with thoughts of what I’m missing,’ he chided. ‘The glorious twelfth, grouse in season, clear skies on the moors, country‐
house cooking, open fires, single malts …’ He sighed, smiling ruefully as they climbed the stairs. ‘And let me assure you, my good lady,’ he continued, ‘there’s nothing piques the tastebuds for a meal and a dram quite like a long day blasting defenceless creatures out of the skies.’

Simone laughed. ‘So why are you still here?’

He produced a compact disc like a conjuring card. ‘This is why,’ he said. ‘Beta version of our surveillance program, hopefully with one or two fewer bugs than the alpha release, which had more than Doctor Fleming’s celebrated cheese sandwich. It arrived yesterday, more than a fortnight late, but that it arrived at all is reason for tearful gratitude when you’re dealing with software engineers. The sooner I’ve given it a full run‐
through, the sooner I can be out taking pot‐
shots at your native birdlife.’

‘If it works,’ Simone cautioned, showing him crossed fingers.

‘Oh good God no, my dear, it won’t
work
,’ he said with a grin and a shake of his wispy fair hair. ‘But once I’ve listed everything that’s wrong with
this
version, they can get on with fixing it while I’m off doing my bit for the distillery trade.’

Vale and his company had been contracted as security consultants shortly after a Delta marketing focus group uncovered ‘certain misgivings’ (Simone had seen Gavin personally Tippex the word ‘baulked’ from the report) about the consequences of assembling hundreds of strangers in a confined space with several miles of water between themselves and police intervention. Vale’s task was to assess all the ways in which the paying guests could harass, rob, assault, rape, kill or eat each other, then implement the means to minimise the risks of them doing so. He was charged with designing and installing a state‐
of‐
the‐
art surveillance system, as well as devising control and containment procedures, all of which had to be operable by whichever dopes Gavin hired locally once Vale signed off.

Simone had first met him in the spring at an outdoor afternoon reception Gavin hosted for the project’s many and various contractors. Such social functions were normally had indoors after dark, meaning she had to stay home with the twins and thus not cramp her husband’s dynamically virile image. However, on that occasion, Gavin had been playing the casual‐
sweater family‐
man card, intended to convey a sturdy responsibility to businessmen who might have reservations about their chances of ever getting paid for their involvement in such a radical project. Simone suspected Gavin was also half hoping the wife‐
and‐
weans, cherished‐
dependants bit would appeal to his contractors’ own paternal instincts and get them to knock the odd zero off their tenders. It was a desperate ploy she’d seen attempted by car salesmen: you went into their office and there was a photo of the missus and the adored offspring on Daddy’s desk, except it was facing
away
from Daddy’s chair, so the prospective customer would notice it. Simone had often wanted to ask these guys whether the picture was turned the wrong way because they found their kids too ugly to look at.

Vale had ‘materialised’ beside her that day too, with a spare glass of champagne, while Gavin was off wearing Rachel and Patricia. It was an act of attentiveness her husband had neglected throughout the afternoon, something Vale had unquestionably noticed. Noticing things was, after all, his business. His solicitude might, in anyone else, have seemed clumsy or ulterior, but the sense of observed propriety about the man put her immediately at ease.

Soon enough there came moments when she fleetingly wished his conduct and his motives not so proper; but only moments, only fleeting. The truth, she understood, was not that she fancied Vale (he could be twice her age, for God’s sake), but that she liked the idea of him fancying her. Of
someone
fancying her. Christ knows Gavin didn’t.

‘Anyway, enough about me. How are
you
, Mrs Hutchison?’ Vale asked, pivoting on the landing to ascend the next flight.

Simone stopped the word ‘fine’ in her throat. She was sick of pretending, of suffering in dignified silence – whose dignity was it preserving anyway?

‘Well, not at my best, I have to admit,’ she said. ‘I understand from my brief exchange with the lad downstairs that my husband’s been skewering his latest tart in the room I’m about to spend the night in. But then, you probably knew that, didn’t you?’

Vale said nothing, but gave her an apologetic look. She appreciated the honesty.

‘I’m sorry,’ she told him. ‘I’m not having a go. Besides, this place has only been functional a few weeks and he’s been banging her longer than that, so it’s not as if you knew before me or anything.’

‘No,’ he assured. ‘But now I know you know before he knows you know. You know?’

She couldn’t help laughing. Vale’s gentle humour had an irresistibly calming influence. Nonetheless, one thought did trouble her as they reached the door to the suite.

‘Mr Vale, I appreciate that you’re sort of working for Gavin, and in surveillance even, but can I trust you to keep—’

‘My dear Mrs Hutchison, I should remind you that while I have been contracted to install a surveillance system, I am not being paid to actually survey anything. Therefore neither your husband’s unconscionable behaviour nor my evaluation of him as a self‐
deluded buffoon are matters for my professional concern.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, sliding the plastic keycard into its slot.

Vale followed her into the spacious suite and placed her bag delicately down on the luggage rack. ‘Now, are there any more courtesies I can offer today, ma’am?’ he asked, standing with his back to the open door.

‘Not unless you stretch to professional killing.’

‘Ehm, I’m afraid that’s not a service I offer here in the private sector, no.’ He smiled.

‘Oh, that’s all right. I’ll just have to divorce him instead.’

‘Are you serious?’ Vale asked, the levity temporarily vanished from his voice.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘Very much so.’

‘Good for you,’ he told her.

Simone took off her jacket and placed it carefully on the king‐
size bed. when she turned around again, Vale was gone.

She closed the door and sat down at the suite’s bureau, looking around the opulently decorated quarters. She had to hand that much to Gavin – he might not have any taste himself, but he did know to hire people who did.

There was a rumbling, grinding noise from somewhere below, heralding the return of the Laguna’s electricity. The bureau’s angle‐
poise came on, as did the ceiling lights and one of the bedside lamps: the one on the right. Gavin slept on the left. She pictured the scene and smiled acidly to herself. He might be playing on a different instrument, but he wasn’t making any better music. The last time they were here, the poor girl was doubtless reading to pass the time while Gav took his scarcely earned post‐
coital snooze.

His last request to her, regarding the twins, drifted irritatingly to mind, and she cursed herself for allowing it to bully her into reaching for the phone. However, the tone went dead every time she dialled for an outside line, and a call to the still‐
stammering receptionist confirmed that the resort’s landline telecom links were temporarily down. She retrieved her Motorola from her jacket, flipping it open to be told, familiarly, that the battery power was too low to support a signal. Gavin was always nagging her about recharging it, which was precisely why she made a point of letting it run down. She could have lived without the thing altogether, as its principal function was to allow him to satisfy himself from a remote distance that she was at all times attending to her motherly duties.

Simone tucked the mobile back into her jacket and hung up the garment inside the spacious walk‐
in wardrobe, then she began unpacking the overnight bag, unfastening the hooks and unfolding the canvas lengthwise. She removed Gavin’s shirt and suit first, holding them up on their plastic hanger and eyeing a fountain pen on the bureau with calculated malice. No, she decided. Maximum self‐
inflation for a maximum bang when he burst. Then she took out her own evening wear and surveyed it with a smile. It had suffered a few minor creases in transit, so she hung it up in the bathroom rather than the wardrobe: an old travel technique. Leave it there while you steamed the place up and it had roughly the same effect as an iron.

Grabbing a bottle of fizzy water from the mini‐
bar, she noticed a small strand of orange foil snagged just inside the door. Veuve Clicquot, she identified, presumably the bimbo’s purchase, in which case Simone had to admit she shared her taste. Gavin always went for Moet, on the assumption that if it was the one Freddie Mercury sang about, it must be the most famous and therefore the best. The fact that the average supermarket Cava tasted better was not a consideration that troubled him.

She poured the water into a tall glass and dropped the empty bottle into the nearby bin, wondering at the absurdity of the little fridge being stocked as though the hotel was open for business. It was the same in all the guests’ rooms tonight, Gavin going the whole nine yards to convey what the place would be like when it was finished. Perhaps he’d argue that it was effectively a test‐
run ahead of forthcoming similar events for investors and travel journalists, but Simone knew which party he was most keen to impress. Still, at least it meant that the suite’s sheets had been changed since its last adulterous occupation.