Warhol's Prophecy

24

SHE’D BEEN GONE when he’d woken up.

Rob Gibson had rolled over in bed and reached out towards where he’d expected her to be, but had found only a rumpled sheet.

He had no idea what time Sandy Bennett had left the hotel. At first he’d wondered if she had left. He’d wondered if he would arrive at the trade fair to find her waiting for him there. But, no, that was not to be.

He’d smelled her scent on the sheets when he woke, rolling across to where she had lain.

There had been no warmth there, so she’d obviously been gone for some time. He’d must have been sleeping more soundly than he thought, for her to dress and pack her meagre belongings and to slip unheard from his hotel room.

Going where?

Back to his company offices?

Would he arrive there tomorrow to find her sitting at her desk as usual?

Rob had rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

He had thought back to the previous night: the passion.

Could you really feel such passion with someone you didn’t love?

He was now sure you could. He knew that was possible, because he didn’t love Sandy.

That was one of the rules. You didn’t fall in love with your mistress, did you?

Did you?

He was now standing on the BG Trucks stand in the G-Mex centre, surrounded by other trade stands, enveloped by the noise of so many voices. And yet he felt isolated. Faces passed by and glanced at him; some even stopped and spoke to him, and he answered with practised, robotic words and actions. It was as if he was functioning in some kind of limbo – outside himself. Rob felt as if he was standing to one side, looking back at his own body. A kind of astrally projected selling, he mused.

His mind was elsewhere.

With Sandy?

He inhaled deeply.

Or with Hailey and Becky?

What would Hailey do if she ever found out what had happened last night?

He took a sip from the styrofoam cup close by, wincing when he discovered his coffee was cold.

That was it, he told himself: it was over now. The previous night had been a one-off. ‘For old times’ sake,’ Sandy herself had said.

She understood it was over between them, too.

Didn’t she?

He glanced at his watch and wondered how much longer this fucking trade show was going to last.

How much longer before he could go home.

Home to what? To more questions from Hailey?

What had he done here? Who had he spoken to? Some of her questions would be innocent. And then the other questions would begin.

Had he phoned anybody?

Had he contacted anybody?

Anybody. Jesus Christ, couldn’t she just say ‘Sandy’?

But, no, that was part of her rules, wasn’t it?

You never mentioned the other woman by name. She was always a bitch, a slag, a whore.

He could feel the beginnings of a headache gnawing at him.

25

AS HAILEY WALKED back into the kitchen, she found Walker standing looking at some photographs that hung on the wall near the cooker.

Photos of Becky.

‘She was a beautiful baby,’ he commented, without turning.

Hailey smiled and joined him, eyeing each of the four framed colour ten-by-eights in turn.

‘Those were taken at three months, six months, nine months and one year,’ she explained.

‘Who do people say she resembles?’ Walker wanted to know.

‘My mum and dad reckon she looked like Rob when she was a baby, but she’s grown more like me as she’s got older.’

He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the photos.

‘Yes, she has. She’s beautiful,’ he said quietly.

‘Would you like another coffee?’ Hailey asked. ‘Perhaps you can drink this one in peace. Caroline does tend to go on a bit.’

‘She seemed friendly enough.’ He smiled, eyes still scanning the kitchen walls.

He noticed a couple of roughly drawn crayon sketches, which he guessed had been done by Becky. On another wall hung a calendar featuring different views of New Zealand. Opposite it, next to the phone, a small piece of paper cut from a newspaper had been Blu-tacked to the wall. It featured Sky TV’s live-televised match schedule.

There were a couple of small framed prints, of the Vatican and the Bridge of Sighs, and another of the Duomo in Florence. Beneath it a framed menu from Lindy’s Restaurant in Times Square.

‘You’ve travelled a lot,’ said Walker, studying this array of memorabilia.

‘That’s stuff Rob and I brought back from Italy and New York,’ she told him.

‘What about your trips abroad with Jim Marsh? Didn’t you bring back anything from those?’

She put the cup in front of him, and sat down opposite.

‘Just odds and ends,’ she said. ‘Usually presents for relatives. I never got too much chance to go shopping, you know. It was hard work.’

He nodded and sipped his coffee.

‘What does your friend Caroline do for a living?’ he wanted to know.

‘Believe it or not, she’s a writer.’ Hailey chuckled. ‘I know you might find that hard to believe.’

Walker looked suddenly interested.

‘What does she write?’ he asked enthusiastically.

‘She’s done a couple of non-fiction books about crime. One of them about serial killers. I don’t think either of them sold that well, but she doesn’t need money from her writing anyway. It’s more of a hobby for her.’

‘Why doesn’t she need money?’

‘Both her ex-husbands paid her large divorce settlements, and she invested the money wisely.’

‘Does she still write now?’ he persisted.

Hailey nodded. ‘I think she’s working on something at the moment.’

‘Another crime book?’

‘I’m not sure. She doesn’t talk about it much.’ Hailey grinned. ‘I’m sure if you ask her, she’ll let you have copies of what she’s written.’

‘She sounds like a talented woman. I admire talent in anyone. If they’ve got it, they should use it. Talent keeps boredom at bay.’ He smiled.

‘I don’t think Caroline’s ever had a boring day in her life,’ Hailey said wistfully.

‘And what about you, Hailey?’

‘I haven’t got time to be bored. Not with a house, a child and a husband to look after.’

She was aware of him gazing at her. She met his stare and held it.