Page 9 of Too Busy for Love

‘Who was it?’ Jock asks as I take a large mouthful of wine.

‘My mother. Apparently, we were the lead item on the news, along with the pictures those bastards took of us coming in the back door. She’s asked me not to go home in case I taint them by association.’

‘What?’ He sounds appalled.

‘Don’t worry. It’s not a surprise. It’s kind of par for the course from my parents.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thanks.’

Jock has been here longer than me but, as we sip our drinks in silence, I realise I’ve never looked at him properly before. I mean, I’ve looked at him, obviously, but I haven’t really noticed him. Physically, we couldn’t be more different, and it’s not just because he’s a man and much taller than me. Where I’ve definitely inherited my dark hair, brown eyes and olive complexion from my mother, Jock is fair haired with bright-blue eyes that sit above a perfectly straight nose. When he smiles, his teeth are even and white. He’s actually quite good looking, now that I’m seeing him as a person rather than just the head chef. He’s obviously noticed me gazing at him because his face turns quizzical all of a sudden and I feel my cheeks heating up in embarrassment that he caught me staring so brazenly.

‘It’s late,’ I tell him to defuse the sudden tension in the air. ‘We probably ought to go to bed.’

‘You’re right,’ he says, picking up the bottles and putting them back on the bar.

We ride the lift up in silence, and then wish each other goodnight before disappearing into our rooms. As I brush my teeth in my tiny ensuite shower room, I contemplate myconversation with Jock. That was probably the most we’ve spoken since I’ve been here, but he seems like a nice guy. There are many worse people I could have been incarcerated with for a week, I think as a big yawn catches me by surprise. At least I should sleep well tonight; I’m absolutely exhausted.

4

I may be absolutely exhausted, but sleep is firmly refusing to come. I’ve tried thinking happy thoughts, but they’re quickly overwhelmed by images of people in my bedroom going through all my personal stuff. I feel spied on and violated. I remember some burglary victims talking on TV ages ago about how it was the idea of the burglars in their house going through their things that was almost more upsetting than the loss of the stolen items. It seemed odd to me back then, but I fully understand what they mean now. Every time I close my eyes, visions of policemen going through my drawers start playing in my mind and I have to open them again to banish the images.

I’ve also never been this alone in the hotel before. There has always been life around me – guests sleeping (or not, as I’ve learned today) and the reassurance that the night porter is keeping an eye on everything – but now there’s nothing. However, even though Jock and I are the only ones here, it isn’t quiet. The faint hum of traffic below is familiar, but now my heart quickens every time I hear a siren, which happens a lot in London. There are also occasional creaks and bangs within the building, and my imagination starts conjuring upwild interpretations of what they might be. At one point, I manage to convince myself there’s someone tiptoeing along the corridor outside my room and I pull the duvet over my head for protection like I used to do when I was a child. As carefully as I can, I reach for my bedside light, snapping it on with one hand while wrenching the duvet off my head with the other, in the hope of startling whoever I’ve now decided is in my room for long enough to make my escape. Of course, there’s nobody there. My fight or flight impulse has kicked in fully though, and I sit on the edge of the bed waiting for my heart and breathing to slow down.

I glance at my bedside clock; it’s just after half past one in the morning and there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep at this rate. I’d almost feel safer in the cell at the custody suite, which I know is ridiculous. I decide to make myself a cup of herbal tea. Although our rooms all have ensuite bathrooms, like the guest rooms on the floors below, we also have a communal sitting room and kitchen up here. My heart is thudding again as I carefully open my bedroom door. The corridor lighting is dimmed to save energy, but it’s enough for me to reassure myself there’s nobody else out here. To my left is the door to Madame’s suite of rooms. I’ve never been in there, but Maria told me once that her suite is made up of four guest rooms, knocked about to give her a palatial bedroom and bathroom, with a large sitting room to boot. Apparently, the decoration is so lavish, it wouldn’t look out of place at the Palais de Versailles.

I’m briefly tempted to have a nose, but I quickly realise that would be a suicidal thing to do. If the police come back and find evidence that I’ve been in Madame’s room, that’s going to make me look guilty as hell. I’ve seen enough of those true crime documentaries to know that even a single hair would be enough for the forensic team to place me in there. With a shudder, I turn right towards the kitchen. After flipping on the light andfilling the kettle, I select a chamomile tea in the hope it will help me relax and get to sleep. The sound of the kettle heating is deafening in the silence, and I’ve just added the boiling water to my mug when Jock appears in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, looking dishevelled.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘Don’t worry, I was awake anyway.’

‘Do you want a chamomile tea?’

‘No, you’re all right. I’m more of a builder’s tea man, and I don’t think one of those would do me any good at this time of night. I’ll just grab myself a glass of water.’

I settle myself at the table and watch as he gets a glass out of the cupboard and fills it from the tap, before coming and sitting opposite me. Neither of us speaks for a while, but the silence has a comfortable quality to it, like it does when you know someone so well, you don’t need to speak to be understood. In a way, I’m not surprised. We’ve both been through the same horrible experience, we’re both facing an uncertain future and we’ve both been spectacularly deceived.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down before,’ he observes after a while. ‘It suits you.’

I run my hand through my hair self-consciously. I always wear it up in a bun with a hair doughnut when I’m working; it’s part of my professional persona. I’m starting to feel mildly uncomfortable under Jock’s gaze; I’m not used to people seeing me out of my work ‘uniform’ of dark pencil skirt with matching jacket and white blouse, so I feel a bit vulnerable in my long sleep shirt with only a pair of knickers underneath. I know I’m perfectly decent, but it feels intimate, somehow, especially as he’s not wearing much either.

‘So, what was keeping you awake?’ Jock asks, diverting me from my mounting unease.

‘Every time I close my eyes, my mind seems to go into overdrive. I’m exhausted but also totally wired.’

‘I know exactly what you mean.’

‘I never realised this building was so noisy either. Did it sound to you like there was someone walking along the corridor earlier?’

‘I can’t say that I noticed, sorry. I was busy imagining myself in prison.’

‘You’re a big guy, I’m sure you’d be able to take care of yourself,’ I tell him with a small smile.

He grins. ‘I guess there’s a compliment lurking in there.’ As he drains his glass and stands up, my eyes are instantly drawn to his thighs, which are as thick as tree trunks and dusted with light-brown hair. Men with totally hairless legs look unnatural, in my view, but the gorilla look doesn’t do it for me either. Jock’s legs are just right. Why the hell am I thinking about his legs?Get a grip, Beatrice.

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