Warhol's Prophecy

24

SHE’D BEEN GONE when he’d woken up.

Rob Gibson had rolled over in bed and reached out towards where he’d expected her to be, but had found only a rumpled sheet.

He had no idea what time Sandy Bennett had left the hotel. At first he’d wondered if she had left. He’d wondered if he would arrive at the trade fair to find her waiting for him there. But, no, that was not to be.

He’d smelled her scent on the sheets when he woke, rolling across to where she had lain.

There had been no warmth there, so she’d obviously been gone for some time. He’d must have been sleeping more soundly than he thought, for her to dress and pack her meagre belongings and to slip unheard from his hotel room.

Going where?

Back to his company offices?

Would he arrive there tomorrow to find her sitting at her desk as usual?

Rob had rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

He had thought back to the previous night: the passion.

Could you really feel such passion with someone you didn’t love?

He was now sure you could. He knew that was possible, because he didn’t love Sandy.

That was one of the rules. You didn’t fall in love with your mistress, did you?

Did you?

He was now standing on the BG Trucks stand in the G-Mex centre, surrounded by other trade stands, enveloped by the noise of so many voices. And yet he felt isolated. Faces passed by and glanced at him; some even stopped and spoke to him, and he answered with practised, robotic words and actions. It was as if he was functioning in some kind of limbo – outside himself. Rob felt as if he was standing to one side, looking back at his own body. A kind of astrally projected selling, he mused.

His mind was elsewhere.

With Sandy?

He inhaled deeply.

Or with Hailey and Becky?

What would Hailey do if she ever found out what had happened last night?

He took a sip from the styrofoam cup close by, wincing when he discovered his coffee was cold.

That was it, he told himself: it was over now. The previous night had been a one-off. ‘For old times’ sake,’ Sandy herself had said.

She understood it was over between them, too.

Didn’t she?

He glanced at his watch and wondered how much longer this fucking trade show was going to last.

How much longer before he could go home.

Home to what? To more questions from Hailey?

What had he done here? Who had he spoken to? Some of her questions would be innocent. And then the other questions would begin.

Had he phoned anybody?

Had he contacted anybody?

Anybody. Jesus Christ, couldn’t she just say ‘Sandy’?

But, no, that was part of her rules, wasn’t it?

You never mentioned the other woman by name. She was always a bitch, a slag, a whore.

He could feel the beginnings of a headache gnawing at him.