“Hello?” A chirpy, cheerful voice answers on the thin, crackling phone line and Lydia seizes upon it like a comfort blanket.
“Donna?”
“Lydia! Darling!” The agent’s voice is dripping in honey. “How is it going down there? Are you almost done?”
“Yes,” Lydia replies, smiling with relief like she genuinely believes it. “I’ve made a deal with the killer to reveal all of his secrets to me tomorrow.”
“Oh, well done, darling,” says Donna enthusiastically, like a parent praising their precocious toddler. “Well, get it wrapped up and you can be back in New York in time for the holidays.”
“Yes…” Lydia sinks onto her soft bed, enjoying the thought of being home so much that she is even prepared to forget her hatred of all things Christmas for the sake of enjoying the moment.
“Is something wrong, dear?” Donna asks, picking up on the uncertainty in Lydia’s voice.
“No, no,” Lydia replies quickly. Donna doesn’t need to know about the teacher. She doesn’t need to know that her most valuable client is caught up in a deadly game she does not yet fully understand. Lydia peers out of the window, where heavy snow is falling gently through the black night. “It’s just… him—”
“Him?” asks Donna, confused. “Him who, dear?”
“Jason,” Lydia replies. Just saying his name causes her to feel an incongruous uncertainty, as though something is wrong with the world, as though a colder, darker alternate reality is grinding violently against the warm, comforting one she inhabits in this moment.
“Who’s Jason?”
“The Krimson Killer,” says Lydia in disbelief. “The guy I’m writing this book about.”
“Of course,” Donna replies, “serial killer, crazy, I knew that.”
“Honestly, Donna,” says Lydia, exasperated, “do you care about my books at all? Or just the royalties?”
“Oh, darling,” Donna replies, sounding grievously wounded. “How could you? Of course I care.” There is a brief silence. “So, do you have plans for the holidays?”
“I plan to do nothing,” says Lydia.
“Nothing?” asks Donna, dramatically.
“I’m not really the Christmassy type,” says Lydia. “I’ll probably do what I do every year. A warm fire, a good book and a dry martini.”
“Sounds good to me,” Donna laughs. “Well listen, I have a meeting, but let me know how it goes tomorrow, okay?”
“Will do,” says Lydia. “Thanks.”
“See you soon, darling!”
The phone rings off, and Lydia lets it drop out of her hand as she falls back onto the bed. What now? She turns her head and catches sight of a hotel brochure propped up on the bedside table. Oooh, she thinks, they have a spa. That sounds good…
*
An hour later Lydia finds herself in heaven, lying face-down amidst a sea of warm, flickering candles releasing their soothing fragrance. Strong yet soft hands massaging slippery oil into her back, gently easing her worries away. Maybe upgrading hotels wasn’t such a bad thing after all. She lets go, surrenders to the hormones triggering in her brain, delicious explosions of pleasure breaking down the dams of stress and tension. She smiles a wide, satisfied, genuine smile, and her thoughts begin to drift to later in the evening. She has arranged to see Alex again, and wonders what he might have in store for her. Dinner? Dancing? Their last night out had awakened something within her that she had not felt in a long time. Ever since she was a teenager, she had viewed men as threats and/or useful resources. That’s what Alex was too, at first. She liked him, but she didn’t feel for him. Now the thumping in her chest and warmth in her skin as she thinks about him tells a different story. She wonders if the masseuse can feel it, and her cheeks glow pink with mingled shame and pleasure.
Is this feeling what she thinks it is? Could she really, truly be capable of something as selfless as… love?