The Accidental Call Girl (32 page)

‘Well, I don’t know where it is.’ She straightened up. ‘Do you think they’ll suspect anything?’

Tugging his waistcoat into place, John came across to her, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before brushing strands of hair away from her face. They’d both removed their masks, knocked half awry by kisses, and Lizzie touched the disaster zone of her lost hairstyle ruefully, then rummaged in her little evening bag – which she seemed to have dropped some time in the previous century – for her comb. She’d have to wear it loose for the rest of the night. Given what most of the rest of the guests were probably getting up to, a suddenly collapsed chignon wouldn’t merit a second glance.

‘I think our hosts would be astonished, and a bit disappointed, if they didn’t find half of their rulers and other applicable instruments missing.’ He reached out, took the comb from her and moved around behind her to run it deftly through her hair, teasing out tangles. ‘It was probably left on the desk for the express purpose of prompting a scene like ours.’

Lizzie almost sighed with contentment. John’s hands were gentle yet capable, combing her hair as if he’d been tending to it for years, then smoothing it with his hands. When he stepped away and handed the little comb to her, she checked her appearance with her compact mirror.

Her face was a bit flushed, and her lips were pink from kissing rather than from lip-stain now, but her hair looked spot-on, just as she would have arranged it herself.

‘There’s a career for you in hairdressing if the tycoon thing ever falls through.’

John beamed, running his hands through his own blond curls, and not doing too bad a job of tidying them either. ‘Well, that’s good to know. It’s always handy to have skills to fall back on.’ With a sudden, sultry look, he glanced towards the edge of the desk. ‘And you’d make a superb dominatrix, if you ever decided to turn your hand to it.’

‘I wasn’t sure if I was doing it right . . . or whether you were enjoying it. Do you . . . um . . . do that often?’ She stowed away the mirror, watching John shrug back into his jacket and smooth his lapels. The sleek man of the world was back, invulnerable in his armour of perfect tailoring.

‘Not often.’ He picked at an imaginary speck of lint. ‘And I’m not sure I’ve ever really enjoyed it quite so much.’ His eyes were intent beneath his sandy eyebrows. ‘Like I said, you have a wonderful touch. Now, come on . . . let’s find that drink.’ He frowned a little, as if suddenly, some knotty problem had surfaced.

Lizzie’s heart ached for the distance opening up between them. She knew the gulf would come, and sooner rather than later, but still it hurt. ‘And the buffet too. I think I’m hungry again.’ She did feel peckish. It seemed crazy. But food was always a sovereign comfort.

She almost laughed, but instead manufactured a smile for him.

‘Are you all right, Lizzie?’ he said, suddenly softer.

‘Yes, fine . . . it’s just all this stuff . . .’ She gestured around. ‘It’s very intense . . . and I really am hungry.’

‘Me too. Let’s go. Masks on, sweetheart.’ He closed the gap between them – the physical gap – and helped her with the golden mask. When his own was in place, he led her to the door.

In the corridor, he tucked her hand in his arm. Lizzie had no idea of the direction back to the buffet, the house was so vast, but John struck out along the broad corridor, flashing her a smile. They walked for a little way, and she began to recognise the pictures they’d seen before, and hear the sound of voices from the buffet room, but almost as they reached the door, the dignified butler approached them from a corridor running at right angles to the one they were heading along.

‘Miss Page? I wonder if you could come quickly to the morning room. There’s been a call on your phone . . . I think it’s rather important.’

Lizzie’s heart froze. Her step faltered, and John’s strong arm slid around her, supporting her.

Brent.

It had to be Brent.

Oh, baby, what have you done?

Fearing the worst, she hurried after the butler, with John beside her.

The vending machine coffee was horrible. It didn’t taste of much, and was lukewarm, but Lizzie sipped it anyway, for something to do. Beside her, John had already thrown his plastic cup in the bin.

This is the real world.

The little waiting room off the men’s medical ward at the local hospital was bleak. The old building was nothing like the equally venerable building she’d left, not an hour ago, that palace of luxury and perversion where rich and sophisticated people still went about their kinky pleasures.

A nurse hurried by the open door of waiting room, and Lizzie looked up anxiously. It wasn’t news for her. They’d said she could see Brent when they’d settled him down, but it was taking a worrying while.

‘Shall I make enquiries again?’

John reached for her free hand and held it tight. His beautiful face was grave, but it was difficult to know what he was thinking. He looked troubled, but as he didn’t know Brent, it couldn’t be her friend he was concerned for, could it? Perhaps he was worried about her? She had no illusions that he might harbour deep feelings for her, and she knew that she was just a passing fancy to him, but everything about him told her he was a compassionate man at heart, for all his business ruthlessness and sexual peccadillos, and he probably did feel a genuine, general sympathy for her and for Brent.

‘Maybe in a minute?’ she suggested. They hadn’t really been waiting all that long. It just seemed like an eternity.

‘Sure?’

She nodded, wishing she could make some kind of conversation with him. But she couldn’t. This
was
the real world of unpleasant things happening and, to her, he was a creature of fantasy, a golden prince from her wildest dream.

He gave her hand a squeeze, and offered a small, strangely confused looking smile, then glanced away into the middle distance, leaving her to her troubled thoughts, and returning to his own. When she saw him frowning, she returned her attention to her unappetising plastic cup.

Back at the mansion, the call she’d been summoned to was one of many. Several had gone to voicemail, but her phone had kept ringing and the butler had finally answered in her stead. And then sped off to fetch her at the double.

Brent’s voice had been slurred and indistinct in the messages. Sounding drunk, but somehow more. The words ‘I just wanted to say goodbye’ had chilled her to the marrow . . . but at the same time galvanised her to action. She’d called their landlady, who lived close by, and 999, in quick succession, all the time cursing herself for not being there. Then she called Shelley, and imparted the news as calmly as she could, so as not to upset the other girl. Shelley got upset anyway, and said she’d be on the next train home.

I should have seen it coming. I should never have left him.

And yet, hadn’t Brent insisted she go? Oh God, maybe this was why? He’d wanted them both out of the way to do this. She’d known his sorrow about his lost love was deep. Why hadn’t she guessed he might seek the ultimate solace? The last comfort, beyond anything she could do to make him feel better.

All the while she’d been making calls, she’d been aware of John also in action. Summoning Jeffrey, making calls himself, frowning. It’d all seemed as if at a distance. When she’d finally leapt up, ready to leave, she’d swayed and he’d caught her and sat her down again. Then put a glass of brandy into her hand.

‘Drink this. Sit a minute. Jeffrey is bringing the car round, but I’m just going to see if I can find someone. We might be able to get there much faster. Just hold on a moment.’ He’d given her a hurried kiss on the forehead, then left the room, almost running.

Ten minutes later, they’d been in the back of a rather splendid helicopter.

‘Is this yours?’ she’d asked distractedly, as John had helped her buckle up, ready for take-off.

‘No, alas . . . though I’d like one. It belongs to a friend who was also at the party. He’s put it at our disposal for the time being. Here, you’ll need these . . .’ He’d passed her a headset.

Under other circumstances, it would have been a thrilling flight, her first ever, and she’d have been desperately curious about the ‘friend’. But all she could do was offer thanks, and sit anxiously in her seat, willing the craft to whirl its way as fast as it could to their destination, not caring about the how and why of logistics. She hadn’t a clue about such things and with Brent’s slurred farewells in her head, she had no mind-space to care. Dimly, at one stage, she’d realised she was wearing John’s jacket, with her pashmina round her neck and shoulders. She must have shivered on the way out to the helicopter and he’d bundled her up, but she simply couldn’t remember it happening.

They’d landed in the park at the Waverley. It was the small hours of the morning, but many lights were lit in the bedrooms, as if people were peering out to see what the fuss was. John sped her towards a hired chauffeur-driven car that was waiting to bring them here, to the hospital.

It had all taken barely an hour, and they’d been sitting here twenty minutes.

Lizzie made to set her cup down on the floor beside her, but John took it from her and disposed of it. Returning, he took her hand again.

‘Don’t worry. They said they got to him in time, thanks to your quick action,’ he said, rubbing her hand between his. Lizzie felt a hysterical urge to laugh; it was just what someone in a melodramatic film might do. ‘He’ll be fine.’

His voice was so quiet and composed, and his blue eyes were intent. For a moment she seemed to drown in them, even as her spirits lifted. Good grief, was he hypnotising her or something? It was ridiculous and impossible. How could Brent be OK, just because John
said
he would be? And yet, somehow, she felt more hope.

Swift, smart footsteps made her look around, breaking the spell that wasn’t a spell.

‘Miss Aitchison? Would you like to see Brent for few moments? He’s very tired and naturally he’s feeling a bit battered from having his stomach pumped, but I’m sure he’d like to see you for a minute.’ The kind-faced nurse glanced from her to John. ‘Just one of you, though. He’s very sleepy and he needs to be quiet.’

‘I’ll wait here.’ John’s hand slid beneath Lizzie’s elbow as she rose, as if anticipating the dizzy feeling that gripped her.

‘Um . . . thanks . . . but you’ve no need to hang around, if you don’t want to.’

What am I doing? Why am I sending him away?

‘I’ll wait here,’ he repeated, giving her arm an encouraging squeeze. The look on his face was that of an old-fashioned, admonishing uncle. How bizarre that seemed, after all the passion they’d shared. It seemed like a million years since their last embrace.

‘OK . . . Thanks.’ In the grip of anxiety, she gave John something that looked more like a grimace than a smile and hurried after the nurse, heading for the small side ward where Brent was being treated.

Approaching the bed, she wished for John’s strong arm again, but took a deep breath and braced up. Brent looked like a shattered doll lying there, hooked up to a drip and a monitor. His black hair was all awry, stuck up in curls and tufts, and his face was almost as white as the pillows and the sheet over him. Was he sleeping? She didn’t know. He was very still.

When she reached the side of the bed, though, his eyes flicked open, looking weary and feverish.

‘You look nice,’ he said in a reedy voice. Lizzie felt a rush of relief when her friend gave her a weak attempt at a smile.

‘You don’t,’ she blurted out, glancing quickly down at herself. She’d forgotten she was wearing her fabulous cocktail dress.

‘Thanks for that.’ It was clearly a struggle, but Brent maintained his feathery grin.

‘You know what I mean . . . How are you feeling?’ She wanted to be cross with him and demand of him what the hell he’d thought he was doing, but that seemed too cruel in his fragile state.

‘Like shit . . . and don’t worry, give me both barrels. I’m a fucking idiot, I know.’

Lizzie swayed, not sure what to say. How many hours had she been awake now?

‘Jesus, Lizzie, get a chair. Sit down.’ Brent struggled to sit up, then subsided back again.

Pulling up a hard chair, Lizzie said, ‘You are an idiot, B, but I’m a poor friend. I shouldn’t have dashed off like that on a sex jaunt when Shelley was away too. I should have noticed you were feeling so down. This is all my fault. I’ve been too obsessed with having a good time with John.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ From somewhere, Brent was finding a bit more energy. ‘For one thing . . . this . . . well, it was sudden. Had some booze . . . and some . . . some other stuff. And I got a long, chatty email from some guy I know from way back. He had no idea about me and Steve and what happened and he was all “How’s things with you?” and “Have you two tied the knot?” and everything just crashed down on me . . . and I lost my head.’

‘Yes, but if I’d been at home . . . or Shelley . . .’

‘Wouldn’t have made any difference, believe me. And anyway, by accident or design, I didn’t quite take enough stuff to do me in. So all it would have meant was that you’d have missed an exciting mercy dash from . . . from wherever you were.’ He glanced at her dress again. ‘My God, girl, that really is a posh frock. You look fucking stunning . . . what were you at, a fucking ball or something?’

‘Something like that.’

Astonishingly, Brent’s weary eyes sharpened. He could always sniff out wickedness and scandal, and clearly hadn’t lost the facility in his current, enervated state. ‘Spill it! I’m a sick man, remember. You’ve got to indulge me.’

Lizzie looked around. The door was still open. The other bed in the small side ward was empty, but a nurse could come in any minute.

‘It was . . . it was a sort of orgy. A bit like
Eyes Wide Shut
, but much more friendly.’

Brent laughed. It was a thin one, but full of genuine surprise and amusement. Lizzie was glad and relieved to hear it.

‘Right on, girl. Details! Details!’ Brent glanced beyond her to the door. ‘Incidentally, where is your billionaire pervert, by the way?’