Warhol's Prophecy

Becky began to giggle.

‘I know when I’m not wanted,’ Hailey continued, tickling her daughter, smiling as the little girl wriggled.

Finally she sat back in the chair beside Becky’s bed, running a hand through her daughter’s hair.

Becky was still smiling, clutching a battered old stuffed dog.

‘Are you going to go to sleep now?’ Hailey asked.

Becky nodded and leant over to kiss her.

She waited until Hailey was on her feet, then rolled onto her side.

‘Mum, do you still love Dad?’

The question took Hailey by surprise. She turned and took a step back towards the bed, kneeling beside it, looking into her daughter’s face.

‘What makes you say that, darling?’ she wanted to know.

‘You do still love him, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. I’ll always love your dad.’

‘And he loves you?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve heard you and Dad shouting sometimes. I thought you didn’t love each other any more.’

Hailey gripped her hand and squeezed.

‘People disagree about things sometimes, Becky, that’s all,’ she said reassuringly.

‘Do they shout when that happens?’

‘Sometimes. They shouldn’t, but they do.’

‘Dad hasn’t gone away because you’ve both been shouting, has he?’

‘No, darling. He’s working, that’s all.’

‘And he is coming back?’

‘Of course he is.’

Hailey began to stroke her daughter’s hair again. She felt tears welling up inside, but fought them back.

It was less than five minutes before Becky drifted off to sleep. She shifted beneath the covers and rolled onto her back. Hailey kissed her gently on the forehead and cheek.

‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘Sleep tight.’

She walked out of the room, pausing against the closed door for a second as if to recover her composure.

‘I’ve heard you and Dad shouting.’

Hailey made her way downstairs and into the kitchen, where she turned on the kettle.

‘Do you still love Dad?’

Hailey was surprised at how quickly her own tears began to flow.

20

FUCK!

That was what Rob thought.

Fuck!

That one word stuck in his mind.

Fuck the meeting. Fuck the clients. Fuck the hotel, and fuck this lift.

It rose slowly and he leant back against one of the walls, his head spinning.

He’d had too much to drink; he knew he had. He felt a little sick and also angry with himself for letting alcohol get the better of him.

He glanced at his watch as the lift continued to rise towards the designated floor.

The meeting had been a success: he’d done what he had to do. He’d laughed and smiled in all the right places. He’d raised bullshit to an art form as he secured a deal with the two reps he’d spent the evening with.

12.46 a.m.

He’d been in that bar downstairs for over three hours, but at least it had been a successful three hours.

He’d phoned Hailey from a payphone at about 10.30 and told her to go to bed, that his clients were likely to keep him drinking for Christ only knew how much longer.

She’d told him she loved him.

He’d replied in kind.

Lousy bastard.

Fuck it, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, would it?

The lift bumped to a halt and he got out, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his key as he wandered down the corridor towards his room.

Sandy would be waiting for him.

He’d thought about her once or twice during the evening, wondering what she was doing at that moment up in his room.

He paused outside 422 for a second, before he pushed his key into the lock.

Rob could hear no sound from inside. Perhaps she was asleep.

He opened the door and stepped in, locking the door behind him.

The two bedside lamps were lit, but apart from that the room was in darkness. Even the TV was off.

Sandy Bennett was sprawled on the bed, wearing just a long grey T-shirt and a pair of white knickers. He could see them clearly as she stretched her slender legs. Her eyes snapped open as he stood at the end of the bed gazing down at her.

‘Sorry, I must have dozed off,’ she said sleepily.

He noticed the tray with its plates of half-eaten food beside the bed.

‘Was it a good meeting?’ she wanted to know, sitting up and running a hand through her hair.

He pulled off his jacket and draped it over a chair.

‘I got what I wanted,’ he told her.

‘You always do, don’t you, Rob?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ he grunted, smiling.

He began unbuttoning his shirt.

‘I see you made yourself at home,’ he observed, nodding towards the room-service tray.

‘You told me to.’

‘And you always do what I tell you, don’t you?’

He fumbled with one of his buttons and she slid off the bed and crossed to him, trying to help.

‘I can manage,’ he told her, and she smelled the drink on him.

‘Are you drunk?’ she said, a thin smile touching her lips.

‘Not drunk enough.’

She stood close to him, looking into his eyes, searching for some sign of reciprocated longing there.

He could feel the warmth of her body, smell her delicate scent. His breathing grew heavier.

‘You said you came here to talk,’ he said finally. ‘So talk.’

‘What happened between us . . .’ she began.

‘Is over,’ he reminded her, interrupting.

‘Because you want it to be?’

‘Because it has to be.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, come on, Sandy, don’t start that shit all over again. You know why. I’m married. I’ve got a kid.’

‘You were already married with a kid when we started seeing each other.’

‘All right, it’s over because it has to be over – because we got caught. Got it? You knew the rules when we started.’

‘Whose rules? Yours?’

‘No. The rules. I never told you my wife didn’t understand me. I never said I wasn’t happy at home.’