Their argument was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
While Carol went to answer it Zena finished dressing, checking that she had all her bits and pieces before picking up her handbag. She paused to light a cigarette, watching Carol cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder.
On the other end of the line Ray Plummer was apologetic.
He couldn't pick her up tonight.
'It's Okay,' said Carol. 'What's wrong?'
Nothing, he assured her. He just had some business to attend to.
'Will I see you tomorrow?' she wanted to know.
He said she could bank on it. He'd take her out for a meal.
'Great,' she said, her tone not exactly jubilant.
Zena waved goodbye and slipped out. Carol raised a hand in farewell and then she was alone in the dressing room with just Plummer's voice for company.
'Where are you ringing from?' she asked him.
He said he was at one of his gaming clubs in Kensington. He said he was sorry she was going to be alone tonight. He told her he wanted her.
'I want you, too,' she lied.
He said goodbye.
'See you tomorrow.'
He'd already hung up.
She put down the phone, stood gazing at it for a moment and banged the receiver.
'Damn,' she hissed. When she turned back to look in the mirror there were tears in her eyes.
TWENTY-FIVE
They didn't speak all evening.
Julie Gregson had sat looking at the television not really comprehending what she saw, while Gregson himself had continued drinking, flicking through the photos.
She'd looked over at him a couple of times, the expression on her face a combination of sorrow and anger.
Only when the hands of the clock crawled round to midnight did she speak. She asked him if he wanted a hot drink, tea or coffee, before she went to bed.
He shook his head and finished off the Teacher's instead.
'Are you coming to bed?' she asked.
'Soon,' he murmured, without looking up.
She paused in the doorway and ran a hand through her hair, watching as he flicked through the photos again.
'What do you think you're going to find, Frank?' she asked him. 'You've been looking at those damned things all night.'
'Just call it homework,' he said flatly.
'What are you trying to find?'
'Answers. It's my job.' He finally afforded her a glance she would have preferred he'd kept to himself. It was icy as he glared at her. 'But you didn't want to hear too much about my job, did you?'
'Don't start again, Frank,' she said wearily. 'Are you coming to bed? Yes or no?'
'You go,' he told her. 'I'll be up in a while.'
'How many whiskies later?'
He smiled thinly.
'Just go to bed, Julie. I'll handle it.'
'That's just the trouble, Frank,' she told him. 'I'm beginning to wonder if you can handle it any more.' She left him alone.
Gregson heard her footfalls on the stairs, heard her moving about in the bedroom above him. He listened to the sounds for a moment longer then got up and crossed to the sideboard where he retrieved another bottle of whisky. He poured himself a measure and sat down on the sofa once more.
He returned his attention to the photos.
TWENTY-SIX
A thin film of condensation covered everything in the small bathroom, even the clock on the wall. Behind the veil of dewy moisture the hands had reached 1.15 A.M.
Water dripped from one of the taps. Carol Jackson watched the droplets falling for a moment, occasionally raising her toe to prevent the constant plink.
She ran both hands through her hair and put her head back, closing her eyes, enjoying the feel of the water lapping around her neck. The flesh on her fingertips was already beginning to prune but she felt as if she needed to stay in the water to wash away more than just the grime of the day and the evening. If only it could wash away her problems as easily.
Before she left 'Loveshow' that night Scott had spoken to her, asked her if she was okay, told her how nice she looked.
Christ, his attempts at small-talk had been so clumsy she almost felt sorry for him. It had taken him a seemingly endless time and a barrage of aimless chatter before he finally asked her why he couldn't reach her the previous night when he'd called. She had the lie ready and told him she'd unplugged the phone from the wall because she didn't want to be disturbed. As if she was regularly pestered in the early hours of the morning by social calls.
But Scott had merely smiled, nodded and said he understood. He'd been worried about her. She'd felt like telling him not to worry about her, that she didn't want him to worry about her. But she had not been able to find the words.
Lies were simpler.
He'd asked her to come for a meal with him when the club shut, but she'd found that another lie had been preferable. She'd told him she had to get home. Her sister was going to call her from America. She hadn't spoken to her for months. She would see him another night.
Maybe.
Carol dipped her hands into the water again and rubbed her face, catching a distorted view of herself in the mist-shrouded bathroom mirror opposite. She wondered what had made her think of the excuse she had used to Scott. Her sister was going to ring her? They hadn't spoken for months. That part at least was true. Carol hadn't spoken to any of her family for some time. She wrote occasionally, when she could be bothered, and her mother sometimes replied.
Sometimes.
The last time she had spoken to her sister, Fiona, had been on her birthday. Fiona was five years younger and worked for a record company in the West End. It was a well-paid job and she had her own flat in Hammersmith. Carol had never even seen the place but she knew that it must be an improvement on her own humble dwelling in the basement flat of a large house in Dollis Hill. There were four other flats above her and she was on nodding terms with the other resident. She even spoke to one of the women who lived on the top floor.
Carol should have hated Fiona. She had often thought that. Fiona had everything she didn't: a good job, a nice place. More than that, she had a future.
