Warhol's Prophecy

11

‘HAILEY, I DIDN’T plan this,’ said Rob, almost apologetically. ‘I only found out this afternoon.’

‘Do you have to go?’ she demanded.

‘It’s a very important trade fair, and it’s only for two days,’ he told her. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m not too overjoyed about it myself. It is Manchester, after all. I mean, no one spends two days in fucking Manchester unless they have to, do they?’

‘Why can’t Frank go?’

‘Someone has to run the business, and Frank’s better in the office. He hates this kind of thing.’

She watched as he dropped socks, underpants and T-shirts into his small suitcase. His suits he folded carefully, placing them in position before resting some shirts on top of them.

‘You always were better at socializing, weren’t you, Rob?’ she said, a slight edge to her voice.

He looked at her for a moment, then continued packing.

‘It’s got to be done. I’ve got to go. That’s all there is to it,’ Rob told her.

‘And what if I don’t want you to go?’

‘Oh, come on, Hailey. Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘OK,’ he snapped irritably. ‘I won’t go. I’ll stay in the office. Sod the trade fair. To hell with all the contacts I can make. Fuck the extra business I could get for the firm. Happy now?’

She watched him struggling to fold a shirt, and stepped in front of him to complete the task.

‘This is for our benefit, not just mine,’ he reminded her. ‘If I can get some extra business, then it means more work, and more work means more money. More money means we all live better. You, me, and especially Becky.’

‘I don’t need a lecture in economics, Rob. That’s not the problem.’

‘Then what is, for Christ’s sake?’

‘This will be the first time you’ve been away from home since your

(affair. Go on say it. It’s only a word)

little game with that slag. I assume she arranged it all, this trip, seeing as she’s your secretary. Did she book your hotel, too?’

‘Don’t start, Hailey. You know bloody well she did. It’s her job.’

‘And what kind of room did she book? A double? Just in case she fancies nipping up to see you while you’re there?’

‘Look, if you think that’s going to happen, then ring the office while I’m gone and talk to her. Talk to Frank. Get him to tell you where she is. Ring me. Ring the fucking hotel: it’s the Piccadilly. I’ll leave you the number. I’ll call you every night. You can get the manager to check on me if you like, make sure I haven’t got any women in my room.’ He glared at her. ‘Do whatever you have to do, Hailey. I’ve got to go to this fucking show, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘Well, it’ll give you some peace and quiet for a couple of days, won’t it? Two days of not having to answer my questions.’

‘I’m sure you’ll have some more when I get back.’

‘Did she say she wished she was coming with you?’

He merely shook his head wearily.

‘Where else did you take her? London? Reading? Leeds? God, that was romantic, wasn’t it? Manchester not classy enough for her?’

He dropped the last of his things into the suitcase and snapped it shut.

‘I’ll call tonight and speak to Becky before she goes to bed,’ he said quietly.

Hailey nodded.

‘I just want you to see my side of this, Rob,’ she told him.

He held her gaze for a moment. ‘I’ll call you before I go to bed tonight,’ he said. ‘The fair doesn’t start until the morning.’

‘What will you do tonight?’

He shrugged. ‘Have a meal in the hotel. Go to the pictures. What do you do in Manchester when you’re on your own?’ He smiled wanly.

‘As long as you are alone,’ she insisted.

‘Hailey, I—’

She cut him short.

‘I mean it, Rob,’ she said quietly. ‘If I find out she’s with you, or she’s meeting you there . . .’

She allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘I’d better go,’ he said, picking up the suitcase. ‘If I leave now, I can be there before five.’

She followed him downstairs, watched as he gathered his jacket and a coat from the rack in the hall.

‘See you in a couple of days,’ he said, smiling.

He leant forward to kiss her, his lips brushing hers – gently at first, then more insistently.

She stood in the doorway, watching as he loaded the suitcase into the car boot, then slid behind the wheel and started the engine of the Audi.

He swung the vehicle out onto the road.

She waved.

He didn’t look back.

Hailey couldn’t sleep.

Despite the fact that her eyelids felt so heavy, that her body was crying out for rest, she could not drift off into that oblivion she wanted.

She sat up in bed, glanced first at the radio alarm, then at her own watch: 1.43 a.m.

Rob had rung her over two hours ago from his hotel in Manchester.

He’d eaten a meal, been to see a film.

Blah, blah, blah . . .

She had tried her best to sound amiable, managed to resist asking him if he was really alone.

Thirty minutes later she’d rung the Picadilly and asked the receptionist if there had been any messages for Mrs Gibson in room 422. The receptionist had checked: as far as she was aware, Mr Gibson was alone. Hailey had thanked her and hung up.

Very clever.

Hailey felt satisfied that Sandy Bennett wasn’t at the hotel.

She would check again the following night.

Happy now?

She ran a hand through her hair, catching a brief glimpse of her naked image in the mirror on the wardrobe door opposite.

For interminable seconds she stared at it, studying her own features as if she was seeing them for the first time.

The narrow face and the pointed chin, the finely chiselled cheekbones.

She allowed the sheet to slip down to reveal her firm breasts, her flat stomach.

Hailey rose up on her knees, still watching the figure of the woman in the mirror. She allowed her gaze to rove, to trace the curve of her hips, the small triangle of downy hair between her thighs. She touched one index finger to her slim legs, and felt how smooth her skin was.

What was so wrong with this body?

Her image stared back.

She sank down onto her heels again, then lay down, covering herself with the sheet, pulling it tightly around her neck like a cocoon.

Still sleep eluded her.

There was a portable TV in the room, but she decided not to switch it on in case it woke Becky. There were books on the cabinets on both sides of the bed. Rob was reading a biography of Michelle Pfeiffer. It was propped on top of another hardback, about the class system in Britain.

On her own side of the bed there were a couple of thrillers, neither of which tempted her.

Inside the bedside cabinet was her Walkman and a handful of tapes, and for a second she considered trying to drift off to sleep with the aid of music. In the end that idea didn’t appeal either.

She wondered what Rob was doing.

Sleeping soundly, she guessed. He never had trouble sleeping alone – or in strange beds.

Well, he’d had more practice, hadn’t he?

She reached out a hand towards his side of the bed, longing to feel him there.

For the first time in months, as she thought about him

(and the affair)

she was filled not just with anger but also with a feeling of incredible sadness. It felt as if she was in mourning.

She wondered how much longer the feeling would last.

Weeks?

Months?

Years?

As the first tears began to flow, she turned her head into the pillow.