The only things missing were her mobile phone and her keys.
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
7
Entropy
Gail Strong glanced at her watch. Eight forty-five p.m. It was too early to leave the party. She had no intention of going home yet. Her father was still furious with her for skipping the Irish embassy dinner at Grosvenor House and staying out all night, and the atmosphere in the house was frostbitten. Besides, she wanted to have some fun. She was feeling horny.
She looked around the penthouse lounge for available men and found the pickings pretty slim. It was a theatre crowd; surely they were meant to be attractive?
There were two cute young actors handling the play’s smallest roles, but they were obviously gay, and the only other members of the cast she hadn’t met were women. The stage doorman was ancient, at least forty-five, and the show’s producer looked like a total creep. A group of dull men in off-the-rack suits were clearly bankers. One of the waiters was quite fit but – well, a waiter.
Which just left the lead, Marcus Sigler, who was in his mid-twenties and totally hot. But he was still talking to Delia Fortess, his leading lady, the one with the big sixties-style hair and the false eyelashes like garden rakes. At least they had managed to ditch the theatre owner’s wife, who was now having one of those don’t-let-every-one-see-we’re-arguing conversations with her husband.
Gail headed across to the windows overlooking the length of Northumberland Avenue and watched the rain coursing down the glass. Marcus was standing directly behind her. She glanced at his reflection and noticed that he was wearing low-cut Dsquared jeans and a River Island khaki T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms. She could price a man’s wardrobe from thirty paces. She wondered if he was screwing someone here – there were quite a few attractive single girls in the room.
Four old guys in D&G suits and patent leather Ferragamo shoes were hanging around by the door, eyeing the ladies lasciviously; they were obviously backers, and had been invited along out of politeness or because the director wanted to squeeze more money out of them. She had seen their type lurking around near her father at official functions so often that she could tell what kind of watches they would be wearing.
She knew she was looking good. She had great legs, and the tight little black skirt always caught men’s eyes. As she adjusted it, she noticed water pooling around the base of the window, coming through a seam in the glass. Moments later it had enveloped the left heel of Marcus’s trainers.
“Oh my God,” she said, touching him on the back, “your shoes are getting wet.”
He turned around, and now she caught the full effect of his eyes, a startling ocean green. He stared at her in surprise and looked down, lifting his feet from the water. “Hey, a bit of a leak. Thanks. I guess it’s hardly surprising with this weather.”
“I’m Gail Strong. I just joined the company.” She shook his hand.
He smiled. “I’m – ”
“I know who you are. I saw you when you took over the role of Emmett in Legally Blonde. You have a great singing voice.”
“Well, thank you.”
“I went twice, actually. Had a bit of a crush on you.”
“Did you now.” Marcus had a soft Irish accent that made her melt. His smile widened. “I’m glad you could make it tonight. Are you having fun?”
“Not really, no. I don’t know anyone.”
“Well, it’s a bit of a meet-and-greet for the investors, but these things have to be done. I guess if you’re here it means that Robert Kramer has just employed you.”
“He’s taking a chance. I’m standing in as ASM.”
They chatted easily for a few minutes. “Actually,” Marcus confided, “I’m dying for a cigarette. It’s because I’ve got a drink in one hand. They go together.”
“God, me too, I’m gagging. I think I saw a fire escape on the way in. I was wondering if it’s protected from the rain. I just had my hair done.”
“Come on then,” he said, brushing his fingers against the back of her hand.
That was when she knew she had him.
They found their way to the back of the room, then out into a corridor that led to the rear exit.
Marcus pushed open the fire escape door and stepped out. Rain sprayed through the diamond grating of the black iron staircase above them. It cascaded down the brickwork, rumbled through pipes, bounced from gutters and thrashed into drains, as if the world had sprung a leak and was subsiding into aquatic depths. The building had once been offices, but had been carved into residential apartments. The dead windows of other offices looked down on them, but everyone had gone home hours ago.
They had slunk from the party like thieves, propping open the door with an empty cigarette carton in case it closed and locked them out. Marcus sat on the stairs and inhaled deeply, funnelling blue smoke up into the damp air. “I love it,” he said. “Anyone who tells you they don’t is a liar. All that attention – of course acting is an ego trip.”
He handed the joint back. Gail had found it in her bag. She had got it from a Spanish waiter at an embassy dinner the week before. Her father would kill her if he thought she was smoking dope, which was why she always asked the waiters where she could score.
“But you’ll be playing a murderer every night. How do you get the audience to like you?”
“That’s an interesting question,” said Marcus. “Of course, every night is different. You never know who you’ll get in. I was in California last summer and I saw this teenage girl being interviewed on television. She had burned down her parents’ house one night because they wouldn’t let her watch her favourite TV programme, something like The X-Factor. They had died of smoke inhalation and she’d been arrested on suspicion of murder. And this is the terrible part – I remember thinking she was really sexy, even though she was probably a killer. It was the way she looked straight into the camera, and I could tell she was enjoying the attention. She’d realized she could become a celebrity. And she did when the interview appeared on YouTube. She got offered all kinds of modelling jobs. That’s the thought I hold onstage. Plus, I keep the top three buttons of my shirt open.”
Gail sucked on the joint, held the searing smoke in her lungs and tried not to cough as she exhaled. “I think you’re a little too pretty to make a convincing real-life murderer,” she said finally. “But you’re very good in the role.”
Marcus reached forward and slipped his hand around her waist. “I think you’re too pretty, too.” A moment later, she moved forward between his jeans-clad legs and kissed him, pressing down hard on his open mouth. Unbuttoning his jeans, she climbed the step and lowered her bare thighs onto his as the rain fell with renewed vigour.
Back at the party, Robert Kramer had noticed the water coming in through the window frame and had snapped at a waiter, ordering him to clear up the mess.
“What’s the problem?” asked Judith, joining him. She looked a little drunk.
“You’re supposed to be the hostess.” Kramer eyed his wife with fresh disappointment. “That means keeping an eye on everything. Christ, it’s not a very difficult job. You should be able to manage that.”
“I thought my job was to look beautiful and encourage those disgusting old men to hand over their cheques,” she bit back. “When can we get rid of them?”
“It’s too early yet. Did you check on Noah?” Their eleven-month-old son had almost taken his first tottering step unaided this week, and was asleep in his cot in the upstairs nursery.