“I’m doing good, thanks,” she responded. “How are you though? That bruise looks real nasty.”
“Looks much worse than it feels,” he answered dismissively. “I’m thinking of auditioning for Quasimodo.”
Melanie relaxed a little and smiled. “I’d say you’re a cert to get the part but I’m not sure that’s what you want to hear. Would you like a drink?”
“A scotch would be great, thanks.”
Melanie moved towards a bar in the corner of the room. “Throw your coat somewhere and have a look around, while I fix the drinks,” she invited. “There’s a truly amazing bathroom over there.” She pointed to a door on the other side of the room. “There are two bedrooms as well.”
Tom did his tour of the suite and returned to find Melanie with a faint smile on her face. Probably because his jaw was on the floor.
“That’s nothing like any bathroom I’ve ever seen,” he remarked. “I don’t know what you’re used to in the States but over here we’d consider that more of a leisure centre. Are those taps real gold?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think they unscrew easily?”
Melanie handed Tom what appeared to be a very large measure of scotch in a smart crystal tumbler. He was glad to see she had included a liberal amount of ice. She had poured a glass of white wine for herself.
“I’ve tried a couple of times but they’re not budging so far,” Melanie replied with mock seriousness. “Shall we sit?” she asked, moving towards the centre of the room where two very plush sofas faced each other, separated by a large marble coffee table. He sunk into the sofa opposite Melanie and managed to resist the urge to put his feet up on the table.
“I’m very sorry about the two people who died,” he began. “Had you known them long?”
Melanie sighed. “Carol had been with me years. The bodyguard just twenty four hours.” She seemed deep in thought as they sat silent for a few seconds.
“I’m sorry,” was all Tom could think to say. “Actually I owe you a large vote of thanks for almost definitely saving my life,” he continued. “I was in over my head with the man you shot.”
Melanie snapped out of her thoughts. “Nonsense, it’s me who owes you the thanks for saving my life. If you hadn’t come along I hate to think where I’d be now.”
“To us then,” Tom toasted, raising the glass to his lips. “Do the police have any new information?” he asked, as he tasted his whisky and recognised it for a very expensive malt.
“Actually I learned more from reading your newspapers. Your police aren’t very forthcoming. Incidentally, did you see this morning’s papers say those two men were known to be members of the IRA? What the hell did I ever do to the IRA?”
“If it was the IRA it’s going to cause a huge political stink,” Tom answered. “Talking of newspapers,” he continued rather sheepishly. “I feel I should tell you that I’ve sold my version of events to the press. Actually it’s why I’m in London today. Frankly, business hasn’t been good and I need the money.” He felt a bit guilty but at the same time didn’t because after all what would Melanie Adams ever understand about being short of money.
“Tom, I have no problem with that. And really it’s none of my business. I hope you got a good price. The way I see it, if it wasn’t for you I might be dead now. At the very least I wouldn’t be sitting here drinking wine. So I’m happy whatever you choose to do.”
Tom felt a certain relief. He knew he didn’t exactly need Melanie’s blessing for what he’d done but he was glad to receive it nonetheless. He recognized his actions could be interpreted as making money out of other people’s misfortune and he didn’t want this fledgling friendship destroyed before it had got off the ground. The truth was he had gone ahead anyway before speaking with her, so the reality was his selfish financial needs were taking priority over everything else.
“Cheers,” Tom toasted, raising his glance. “To the future.” He was feeling more relaxed in his surroundings.
“The future,” Melanie concurred. “Talking of which I hope you’re going to let me take you to dinner tonight? How about The Fig Leaf?”
Tom was struggling to maintain any sense of reality. It certainly wasn’t reality, as he knew it, to be in Melanie Adams’s hotel suite sharing a drink and discussing whether to eat at what is arguably London’s most exclusive restaurant. He normally existed on a diet of takeaway cholesterol or the occasional homemade pasta dish. He decided he would stay in town to celebrate. His cheque would take a few days to clear but his credit card would just about sustain a night in a hotel, though not of the calibre of the Imperial.
“Don’t you have to book The Fig Leaf weeks in advance?” Tom asked.
“They always manage to squeeze me in,” Melanie replied with a slightly mischievous smile.
Foolish of me, Tom thought. Of course they would always find space for Melanie Adams.
He was pleased with himself for having decided to wear his only smart suit to London for his earlier meetings. Somehow he’d hoped it would convey an image of success and increase the price he received for his story. He reasoned that if they knew he was desperate, they would be tougher negotiations. As he would happily have accepted half
