The word on the street was one thing, making contact was another. She had a couple of names, a couple of numbers, but all it took was being put on indeterminate hold a couple of times and she was back at square one. She'd put out feelers, left messages, but so far none had been returned. The actual job she had come to do she had done in a morning; the imagined job she was after was only shimmering tantalisingly on an unreachable horizon.
Shit.
She caught a cab from the movie theatre back to the Brent– wood. The cab couldn,t get close to the kerb because a big stretch limo was hogging all the available space and she had to squeeze her way past it. She walked out of the fetid, goat-frying air and into the blessed cool of the lobby. The fine cotton of her blouse was sticking like grime to her skin. Her hair felt as if she,d bought it at a fairground on a stick. At the front desk she asked if there were any messages, grimly expecting none. There was one.
Oh . . .
Good.
It had worked. She had gone out to the movie specifically in order to make the phone ring. She couldn't bear sitting in a hotel room waiting.
She wondered. Should she open the message down here? Her clothes were itching and she longed to take them all off and just lie on the bed. She had turned the air conditioning way down to its bottom temperature setting, way up to its top fan setting. What she wanted more than anything else in the world at the moment was goose pimples. Then a hot shower, then a cool one, then lying on a towel, on the bed again, drying in the air conditioning. Then reading the message. Maybe more goose pimples. Maybe all sorts of things.
No. What she wanted more than anything else in the world was a job in American television at ten times her current salary. More than anything else in the world. In the world. What she wanted more than anything else at all was no longer a live issue.
She sat on a chair in the lobby, under a kentia palm, and opened the little cellophane-windowed envelope.
'Please call,' it said. 'Not happy,' and gave a number. The name was Gail Andrews.
Gail Andrews.
It wasn't a name she was expecting. It caught her unawares. She recognised it, but couldn't immediately say why. Was she Andy Martin's secretary? Hilary Bass's assistant? Martin and Bass were the two major contact calls she had made, or tried to make, at NBS. And what did 'Not happy' mean?
'Not happy?'
She was completely bewildered. Was this Woody Allen trying to contact her under an assumed name? It was a 212 area code number. So it was someone in New York. Who was not happy. Well, that narrowed it down a bit, didn't it?
She went back to the receptionist at the desk.
'I have a problem with this message you just gave me,, she said. 'Someone I don't know has tried to call me and says she,s not happy.'
The receptionist peered at the note with a frown.
'Do you know this person?' he said.
'No,' Tricia said.
'Hmmm,' said the receptionist. 'Sounds like she's not happy about something.'
'Yes,' said Tricia.
'Looks like there's a name here,' said the receptionist. 'Gail Andrews. Do you know anybody of that name?'
'No.' said Tricia. 'Any idea what she's unhappy about?'
'No,' said Tricia.
'Have you called the number? There's a number here.'
'No,' said Tricia, 'you only just gave me the note. I'm just trying to get some more information before I ring back. Perhaps I could talk to the person who took the call?'
'Hmmm,' said the receptionist, scrutinising the note carefully. 'I don't think we have anybody called Gail Andrews here.'
'No, I realise that,' said Tricia. 'I just – '
'I'm Gail Andrews.'
The voice came from behind Tricia. She turned round.
'I'm sorry?'
'I'm Gail Andrews. You interviewed me this morning.'
'Oh. Oh good heavens yes,' said Tricia, slightly flustered.
'I left the message for you a few hours ago. I hadn't heard so I came by. I didn't want to miss you.'
'Oh. No. Of course,' said Tricia, trying hard to get up to speed.
'I don't know about this,' said the receptionist' for whom speed was not an issue. 'Would you like me to try this number for you now?'
'No' that'll be fine, thanks,' said Tricia. 'I can handle it now.'
'I can call this room number here for you if that'll help,' said the receptionist, peering at the note again.
'No, that won't be necessary, thanks,' said Tricia. 'That's my own room number. I'm the one the message was for. I think we've sorted this out now.'
'You have a nice day now,' said the receptionist.
Tricia didn't particularly want to have a nice day. She was busy.
She also didn't want to talk to Gail Andrews. She had a very strict cut-off point as far as fraternising with the Christians was concerned. Her colleagues called her interview subjects Chris– tians and would often cross themselves when they saw one walking innocently into the studio to face Tricia, particularly if Tricia was smiling warmly and showing her teeth.
She turned and smiled frostily, wondering what to do.
Gail Andrews was a well groomed woman in her mid-forties. Her clothes fell within the boundaries defined by expensive good taste, but were definitely huddled up at the floatier end of those boundaries. She was an astrologer – a famous and' if rumour were true, influential astrologer, having allegedly influenced a number of decisions made by the late President Hudson, including every– thing from which flavour of cream whip to have on which day of the week, to whether or not to bomb Damascus.
Tricia had savaged her more than somewhat. Not on the grounds of whether or not the stories about the President were true, that was old hat now. At the time Ms Andrews had emphati– cally denied advising President Hudson on anything other than personal, spiritual or dietary matters, which did not, apparently include the bombing of Damascus. ('NOTHING PERSONAL, DAMASCUS!' the tabloids had hooted at the time.) No, this was a neat topical little angle that Tricia had come up with about the whole issue of astrology itself. Ms Andrews had not been entirely ready for it. Tricia, on the other hand, was not entirely ready for a re-match in the hotel lobby. What to do?
'I can wait for you in the bar, if you need a few minutes,' said Gail Andrews. 'But I would like to talk to you, and I'm leaving the city tonight.'
She seemed to be slightly anxious about something rather than aggrieved or irate.
'OK,' said Tricia. 'Give me ten minutes.'
She went up to her room. Apart from anything else she had so little faith in the ability of the guy on the message desk at reception to deal with anything as complicated as a message that she wanted to be doubly certain that there wasn't a note under the door. It wouldn't be the first time that messages at the desk and messages under the door had been completely at odds with each other.
There wasn't one.
The message light on the phone was flashing though.
She hit the message button and got the hotel operator.
'You have a message from Gary Andress,' said the operator.
'Yes?' said Tricia. An unfamiliar name. 'What does it say.'
'Not hippy,' said the operator.
'Not what?' said Tricia.
'Hippy. What it says. Guy says he's not a hippy. I guess he wanted you to know that. You want the number?'
As she started to dictate the number Tricia suddenly realised that this was just a garbled version of the message she had already had.
'OK, OK,' she said. 'Are there any other messages for me?'
'Room number?'
Tricia couldn't work out why the operator should suddenly ask for her number this late in the conversation, but gave it to her anyway.