Warhol's Prophecy

too much trouble. No, it wasn’t that which preyed on her thoughts. It was the way he had discarded her.

She managed a smile as she wondered if his child had a rabbit. Perhaps she should boil it . . . throw acid over his car.

If it was good enough for Glenn Close, then . . .

She laughed out loud. Actually laughed.

No. She wouldn’t do that. Nothing like it. She wouldn’t cut her wrists, then call him. She wouldn’t attack him. She wouldn’t pretend she was pregnant.

Nothing like that.

She did, however, feel that it might be worth pursuing a claim for unfair dismissal. She made a mental note to visit the Citizens’ Advice Bureau the following morning. First there, and then the temping agency which had found her the job at BG Trucks in the first place.

The mortgage on her flat wasn’t exorbitant and she was confident enough of her own ability to secure a new job before a problem with finances even arose.

She wandered back into the living room, switched off the TV and reached for the remote that controlled the small CD system.

She skipped through tracks, avoiding any that were slow and moody.

Sandy wasn’t in the mood for crying. It was anger she felt, not desperation.

She adjusted the volume on the CD and reached for the discarded copy of Elle that lay on the floor beside the sofa. Sipping her Diet Coke straight from the can, she found her page.

At first she didn’t hear the knock on the door.

She looked up and shook her head gently, then continued reading.

Again the knock, more insistent this time.

She frowned and glanced across at the clock on the video: 22.17 p.m.

Sandy sighed.

She hoped it wasn’t that miserable old bastard from the flat below to complain about the music. Christ, it was barely audible.

She got to her feet and headed for the front door.

Rob?

A smile flashed across her face. Had he changed his mind?

Had he come to tell her that there was a future for them? That she could have her job back? That he’d been too hasty?

She ran a hand through her hair as she reached for the chain and slipped it into place, before gently easing the door open.

Her smile faded rapidly.

‘My God,’ she whispered, gazing at her visitor. She removed the chain, opening the door, ushering the newcomer inside. ‘Well, you’d better come in,’ she insisted. ‘You can’t stand there all night. What the hell are you doing here?’

‘That’s a nice way to greet your brother,’ said David Layton.

54

THE FLOWERS HAD arrived around two that afternoon. A huge bouquet of mixed blooms.

Hailey hadn’t even needed to look at the card.

He’d phoned four times that day, on each occasion leaving a message with Hailey’s secretary.

Would she please ring him back?

Please?

Hailey got to her feet and wandered across to the window, gazing out.

The sky threatened rain. Large banks of grey cloud were gathering menacingly.

‘Speak to him. You owe him that, at least.’

He’d get the message, surely. A day or two more and the calls would stop.

Wouldn’t they?

She tried to push thoughts of Adam Walker out of her mind. There were more important things to concern her.

She looked across at the bouquet.

She’d give them to Emma. Let her secretary take them home.

‘At least have the decency to return his calls.’

Hailey tried to concentrate on work. Just as she’d been trying to do since arriving at the office.

She’d spoken to someone from Nicholas Barber’s office. It seemed the local MP was looking forward to the charity bash in honour of SuperSounds’ anniversary. The organization for it was coming along well: everything seemed to be falling into place with relative ease. Hailey was glad that she clearly hadn’t lost her touch.

Not your touch – just your nerve perhaps?

What harm could it do to speak to Walker? The next time he rang, just take the call. Tell him that things had got out of control and ask him not to call again. What could be simpler?

She wondered what Rob would say if he ever found out about her liaison with Walker.

About the kissing . . . the sex?

No, it didn’t count. It hadn’t been sex. Not full sex. That made it OK, didn’t it?

She ran a hand through her hair.

What was it if it wasn’t sex? His tongue between your legs. His expert touch bringing you so close to that supreme pleasure.

Hailey turned away from the window, crossed to her desk and snatched up her jacket.

It was time to go. Time to pick up Becky. Time to get home to wait for her husband.

The phone rang.

For interminable seconds she stared at it, the breath frozen in her throat.

If it’s Walker, then speak to him.

Still it rang. Hailey gazed at it as if it were some kind of venomous reptile.

She reached for the receiver, noticing that her hand was quivering slightly.

This is bloody ridiculous.

‘Hello,’ she said, her voice a little stern.

‘Mrs Gibson, I’ve got Trudi on the line, from Water-hole’s press office,’ Emma Grogan told her.

Hailey relaxed.

‘Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow, Emma,’ Hailey said and put down the receiver.

Thank God. Now get out of the office before he does call.

She breezed through the outer office, waving a goodbye to Emma, who was still on the line to Trudi. The secretary smiled and returned her wave. Then she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece.

‘Do you want me to put those flowers in water for you?’ she said, hooking a thumb in the direction of the office.

‘You take them home if you want to,’ Hailey told her.

Emma’s face lit up. ‘Thanks,’ she said happily, and returned to her conversation with Trudi.

Hailey was already on her way to the lift.

55

SHE NEVER NOTICED him.

Only heard his voice at the last minute. Just as he reached out towards her.

Hailey spun round, startled as she heard Adam Walker close by.

‘Hailey,’ he said quietly.

She turned to face him.

He managed a smile. It looked almost apologetic.