Rosie got two, possibly three, reasonably clear-angled shots before the car disappeared out of sight. She caught a bus and got off at Sunset, called home, but when there was no reply decided she’d take the film round to the all-night Photomat Snap store, and get a set of prints made up while she waited. She also had to arrange with the rental company to collect the car. Suddenly being busy rather than in limbo, as she’d been for so long, made it all okay again. She handed over the roll of film and settled down outside the store with an ice-cream cone. She had half finished the big strawberry and chocolate ice cream when she saw the Janklow Mercedes passing. The blonde woman was alone, hunched over the driving wheel and wearing black gloves. She reminded Rosie of an old movie star, with her thick makeup, black sun-glasses, or maybe someone else, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Rosie sucked her hand, sticky with ice cream. She was good at remembering faces. She could match those puzzles, the jigsaw faces of stars, faster than a bat of the eye. Julie Andrews’s lips, Goldie Hawn’s eyes, Jane Fonda’s nose. She concentrated and then remembered. She was sure she’d seen the blonde woman at the art gallery, the one Lorraine had worked at. Confident she was right, Rosie returned to the store and collected the photographs.
As she waited for the bus back to Pasadena, she ripped open the envelope and sifted through the pictures. On the whole they were disappointing, especially the ones she had taken up in Beverly Glen, but there was one clear set of the blonde woman. She couldn’t wait to tell Lorraine but, to her disappointment, the apartment was still empty when she got home. It was way after ten and she began to worry. She fed the cat, and then sat by the phone but when Lorraine didn’t call she started to lay out the photographs on the table. She turned the one of the woman round, held it up, studied it from every angle, and then it hit her. It was not a woman at all, but a man. When she squinted at the photograph of the driver who had first pulled through those gates in the Mercedes, even though it revealed only half his face, Rosie was sure that the blonde woman, and the man they presumed to be Steven Janklow, were one and the same.
Chapter 11
At the University of California, Lorraine paid off the cab and headed for the main entrance and reception. She went up to a janitor who was polishing the floor.
‘Excuse me, I’ve come to see a Mr Fellows.’
He switched off the noisy machine. ‘He’s not here, was he expecting you?’ Lorraine nodded. The janitor checked in the visitor’s book. ‘He’s not in the laboratory but I think he’s over on the squash courts.’
No one paid her any attention as she approached the entrance. A group of students wearing tennis whites passed her, laughing and talking loudly; young tanned limbs, healthy fresh-faced kids, gleaming teeth, shiny hair. They made her feel old, unclean and uneasy.
Professor Fellows was on court six with a partner called Brad Thorburn, according to the booking card on the gate. The sound of the squash ball was like cracking thunder and more thunder emanated from court six than any other. Lorraine slipped into a seat at the end of a row overlooking the court. As neither player looked up to acknowledge her, she was able to watch both men and wonder which was Fellows.
She leaned forward, her concentration on the man she thought must be him, red-faced and sweating profusely as he lunged and hurtled round the court. She was sure Red-face had to be Fellows, hoped it was, because his partner attracted her. She had not been attracted to any man for so long that it threw her slightly, but it was not until she had sized up Fellows that she slowly turned her attention to Thorburn. He didn’t yell but gave small grunts of satisfaction, like a man fucking somebody well, those short hard grunts. He snapped out, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ every time he did a good shot and gave a smile of recognition when he missed one. It was his smile, a half parting of his lips, that attracted her. He was much taller than Fellows, she reckoned about six two, maybe more. His body was perfectly proportioned with long, muscular legs, dark-tanned with not too much hair, though she knew he would have a thick thatch around his genitals — a man with black hair always had. Because he was sweating, his hair clung to his head, thick, short hair, and she knew he would have a chest to match — she could see it, just, through his high-sleeved, fashionable T-shirt. This man was very different from Fellows. He kept hitching up his shorts as he swung his racket back and forth, bending forward as Fellows lined up a shot, and dragging his wristband across his forehead. His hands were strong and big. Lorraine inched further forward to get a better view of his face. His dark eyebrows were fine and his eyes... He turned and looked up. They were dark greenish-blue.
Fellows looked up and waved. ‘Are you Lorraine Page?’ She nodded. ‘Won’t be long.’
The game continued for another ten minutes and then she presumed Fellows won as he yelled his head off and flung his arm around his partner, who picked up a pristine white towel and wiped his face, arms and neck before draping it round his shoulders. He didn’t acknowledge Lorraine as he walked out of the court. Fellows, however, gave a wide grin and shouted that he would meet her in reception in five minutes.
She sat for a few moments. She pressed her crotch. It shocked her just how attractive she had found Brad Thorburn. She hadn’t wanted a man since she could remember and this one had sneaked up like the hard black ball they had been thrashing around the court. It felt as if it had hit her in the groin: she ached, she was wet, and she was scared to walk out and face him. Not until she felt the old Lieutenant Page surface, the one that didn’t give a shit what any man said or made her feel, did she leave her seat.
Lorraine waited in the main reception. An even pinker-faced Fellows finally emerged with his kitbag, now wearing slacks and a shirt with a sweater tied round his neck. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting but Captain Rooney didn’t give me an exact time.’
‘That’s okay.’ She looked past him, half hoping his partner would come out, half hoping he wouldn’t. He didn’t. Fellows took her by the elbow and walked her out into the cool night. He continued to chatter in an open, friendly manner as they crossed the courtyard and returned to the main hall. He hoped she didn’t mind having their discussion at his apartment as the main laboratories and his office were closed for the evening. He picked up his car keys from the janitor and, still with a light gentlemanly touch to her elbow, guided Lorraine to the staff parking lot where an English MG sports car, like Mike’s wife’s, Lorraine remembered, headed towards them. Fellows waved and Lorraine purposely didn’t look as she knew it would be Brad Thorburn. Instead she kept her attention on Fellows, saying how kind it was of him to see her. When she was seated in the passenger seat of Fellows’s odd little Japanese car, she clenched her buttocks, angry because she was still sexually aroused. She had wanted to see Thorburn, wanted to see a man that had made her feel like a woman again.
‘It was a very interesting game,’ she said rather lamely.
‘Yes, first time I’ve beaten him this year. He’s an old friend — we were at Harvard together.’
‘Does he teach here too?’
‘Good God, no. He’s rich as Croesus. He’s a writer, but he runs a big vintage car garage out in Santa Monica. He imports the cars, has them refurbished and then sells them at immense profit. It’s just a pastime really, because he’s got a garage full of his own. He started up to keep them in good condition and now it’s a flourishing business. Anything that man touches flourishes. He’s got the Midas touch but you’d never know it. He’s a charming, unassuming man. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to introduce you but you didn’t come to meet my old college buddy, did you, Miss Page?’