Warhol's Prophecy

53

FUCKING BASTARD.

Lousy, gutless, fucking bastard, thought Sandy Bennett.

She wondered what he was doing now. Sitting playing happy families with his wife and kid, no doubt.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

She exhaled deeply and padded through the small flat to the kitchen, where she found a can of Diet Coke. She’d been toying with idea of getting drunk: downing enough vodka to blot out his memory, at least on a temporary basis.

Instead she’d taken a bath, sitting in the warm, soapy water for what seemed like hours. Thinking about her life – about Rob Gibson.

Bastard.

What was she meant to do now? She didn’t care about losing her job. She knew she’d find another without 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.