Warhol's Prophecy

43

SHE WASN’T EVEN sure where she was when she at last stopped the car.

Hailey had been driving as if she was in a trance, grateful that the roads had been so quiet.

Now, finally, she pulled the Astra over and switched off the engine, her breath still coming in deep, racking gasps.

For what seemed like an eternity she sat behind the wheel, gazing aimlessly out of the windscreen at the trees that rose tall on both sides of the road. A light breeze whipped along the road, stirring fallen leaves – occasionally scooping them up into miniature whirlwinds that died as quickly as they had risen.

When Hailey shifted in her seat, she could feel the wetness between her legs – the desire still strong.

She looked into the rear-view mirror.

The face of Adam Walker looked back at her.

She blinked hard and looked again, but the image was gone.

She was looking at her own flushed features.

Hailey fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette and lit up, the Superking quivering between her fingers.

She closed her eyes and allowed her head to slump back against the headrest.

She thought about Walker.

About his tongue sliding so expertly between her legs.

Her eyes jerked open, as if to banish that image.

To force such feelings from her body.

You wanted him.

She sucked hard on the cigarette, took another couple of drags, then clambered out of the car.

The wind ruffled her already unkempt hair and she pulled her jacket tightly around her as she walked, unsteadily, along the path at the roadside.

There was a wooden bench about twenty yards further along, and she made for that, finally seating herself. She sucked in deep lungfuls of air, glancing up and down the road as if expecting to see Walker’s Ford Scorpio approaching.

What did you think you were doing back there?

She massaged her forehead with her fingertips.

You wanted him, and then you turned your back on him. Why?

Hailey knew that what she had intended was wrong.

But it felt so good, didn’t it?

Becky?

Becky wasn’t there. She would never have known. You led him on. You’re to blame.

Such thoughts whirled around madly inside her head.

You had your chance. You wanted revenge against Rob. You wasted that chance.

Becky?

Hailey still felt the excitement she’d felt as Walker had held her. As he’d lifted her onto the worktop. As he’d explored her most intimate desire.

She got to her feet and walked back to the car, the passion still burning between her thighs as she opened the door and slid into the front seat.

Barely thinking, she slipped her right hand down the front of her panties, her other hand gripping the steering wheel.

The sensations built quickly as she used the tip of her index finger to stroke her inflamed clitoris.

Her orgasm hit her with a speed and intensity that surprised her. She clenched the wheel, her knuckles whitening, her breath loud and guttural inside the car.

For long seconds she writhed in ecstasy, squeezing her thighs together to increase the sensations. Her body shook violently three or four times, then she lay back in her seat, her eyes half open.

A car drove past, but she paid it little attention.

When she pulled her fingers free they were glistening.

She glanced at the dashboard clock and knew she had to leave now.

Hailey started up the engine.

Adam Walker leant on the desk, head down.

He’d remained in that position ever since Hailey left the house. It seemed to take a supreme effort of will from him to straighten up and look around the room.

He could smell her: the delicate scent of her perfume; the musky aroma of her desire. He could still taste her in his mouth.

Walker let out a long breath and shook his head.

He couldn’t understand what he’d done that was so wrong. What awful act had he perpetrated to make her rush out of the room so quickly?

Walker wandered round behind the desk and slumped down in the high-backed chair, gazing slowly around the room. The eyes from all his paintings stared back at him blankly. There was no sympathy in those blind orbs, no understanding in those expressions.

He wanted to hold her in his arms again. To ask her what he had done wrong. To enquire how he could put it right.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have told her what happened between himself and his father.

The abuse he had suffered.

Some things were best left unsaid, weren’t they?

He shouldn’t have burdened her with that kind of knowledge. It was bad enough having to live with the memories, without sharing them with others.

And yet she had said she wanted to know.

She had said she wanted him.

She wanted him to hold her, didn’t she? She had told him she did.

A great feeling of sadness enveloped him like a shroud.

He looked across at the portrait of Becky.

He had painted her smiling.

Walker wished that Becky could see the painting. It had been done for her.

It was only right that she should see the painting.

If only Hailey had taken it with her.

If only . . .

Outside in the hall, the phone began to ring.