‘Let me know how it goes,’ he said. Then he was gone.
Hailey waited for him to disappear, then picked up her handbag.
She was fumbling for her car keys when there was another knock on the office door.
‘Come in,’ she called.
The flowers seemed to appear like a huge multicoloured cloud, the cellophane sheath crackling in the hands of the young woman who carried them.
‘These just arrived for you,’ said Emma Grogan.
Hailey looked surprised, and took the immense bouquet from her secretary.
‘I wish I had someone to send
Hailey pulled a card from the small envelope stapled to the clear wrapping and glanced at it.
She held the card in her fingers for long seconds, then slid it back into the envelope.
She glanced down at the flowers.
‘So am I,’ she murmured.
Hailey picked up the bouquet and dropped it into the waste-bin.
45
ADAM WALKER HAD seen the same words before. Many times.
And one in particular.
It appeared in nearly all the letters he had received from publishers or record companies over the years.
He had assumed that the idea of rejection, the very
He had found that wasn’t the case.
It still hurt.
Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps when rejection ceased to bother him, then that was finally the time to give up. But that idea never entered his thinking.
Yet it hurt. Every time it happened, it hurt. And it angered him. To think that someone could dismiss his work so easily was annoying.
He looked at the letter again, re-read it.
The record company thanked him for sending samples of his work (he always sent transparencies), but they didn’t use freelance artists for their album sleeves. Hence this latest rejection.
He crossed to a small filing cabinet in his study and slid open one of the drawers.
From inside he withdrew a black clip-file and flipped it open.
There were over forty rejection letters and slips inside it already.
He knew, since he had placed each one there carefully.
Walker found the hole-punch, snapped open the file and added the latest letter to the batch, then he shut the file and slid it back.
If only it was that easy.
He looked around at his canvases, his work.
Walker knew what he must do.
He found a fresh canvas and prepared himself.
As he moved about the study, he glanced occasionally at the portrait of Becky.
The sight of the child made him think of Hailey.
He’d rung her office three times that morning. The first time, she hadn’t arrived yet. No return call had been forthcoming, despite his urgent request to her secretary.
Perhaps she’d forgotten to tell Hailey.
He’d rung twice since then.
Hailey was out at lunch, he was told. Again he’d asked if she could call him on her return. He hoped the secretary would give her the message
He wanted to make sure she got his flowers. Wanted to be certain that she
If he could just
He would stay in and work, wait for her call.
He had to leave the house later, though. If she called and he wasn’t there, he could catch her tomorrow or the next day.
She would understand if he wasn’t at home.
He wouldn’t be out very long.
But there was something he had to do.
46
THE BAR OF the Crest Hotel was relatively empty when Hailey walked in.
However, she got the impression that, even if it hadn’t been, she would still have had little trouble finding the person she sought.
The young woman was in her mid-twenties: tall, statuesque even. She was wearing a black dress that ended several inches above her knee. A slit in the material revealed what little thigh was unexposed already. She was tottering around on a pair of platform boots that laced up as far as her knees. These platforms, plus her normal height, convinced Hailey that the woman was fully six feet tall. Her hair was so brilliantly platinum blonde it was practically luminous.
She wore purple eyeshadow and, as she strode towards Hailey and extended one sinewy hand, the black fingernails she sported seemed to glint menacingly.
‘Trudi,’ said the girl.
‘Without the “e”,’ Hailey said, smiling, shaking the proffered hand, feeling how thin it was.
This young woman, Hailey felt, was likely to be on intimate terms with an eating disorder. Had been, would be, or was currently.
‘You must be Hailey,’ Trudi said, looking down at her. ‘Would you like a drink?’
She spoke quickly, distractedly, one hand constantly brushing through her hair.
Hailey accepted a Bacardi and Coke.
Trudi ordered a margarita and sipped at it like a sparrow drinking at a bird-bath.
‘Where are the band?’ Hailey wanted to know.
‘They’re up in their rooms. They’re very busy doing interviews with the local press. One of my colleagues is up there with them.’
Hailey nodded slowly.
‘It’s quite an event for a place like this to have them here doing interviews. A big thrill for the local journos,’ Trudi announced. ‘I mean it’s not exactly London, is it?’
