| |
I slammed the ornate whiskey glass against the hotel table and jammed the heels of my hands into my throbbing eye sockets. The first trickles of discomfort would certainly give way to an unbearable headache by morning, but—
“You drink well.” I peeled my fingers from my face to glare at the pure insolence and frustration scowling at the other end of the table. She had pushed her way, not only into my room, but my stash of liquor as well. Admittedly, I had not watched passively as the bottle of whiskey was drained past the midpoint; however, she had surpassed me without a breath of remorse.
I ran the dry pad of my forefinger around the glass’ rim.
“How did you find me?” The woman scoffed.
“Finding a woman who looks like a man isn’t difficult. That outfit you wore to the gallery did confuse me, though.”
“I don’t look like a man.”
“You dress like one.”
“There’s a difference.” My hand dove for the whiskey bottle and sloshed a few fingers worth into my glass; promptly tossing the scalding liquid down my throat. If I was honest with myself, I probably did resemble masculinity more than the strict contours of femininity; yet, to admit any form of weakness to a stranger is to hand them a dagger with its blade poised against your own chest. I was not ashamed of my own faults, be they more frequent than I would perhaps prefer.
At least partially rejuvenated by the gentle buzz of inebriation, I pushed the bottle across the table and settled back in my chair.
“Keane never mentioned you.”
“Didn’t he? What a shame. He talked quite a bit about you.” A lifeless smirk stretched across her face. “Too much, if you ask my opinion.” Single flecks of fire rose from her mouth and burned crimson gashes across my face.
“You didn’t come here to talk about Keane, did you?”
“Why else would I have come?”
“Because that is what you do, isn’t it? Pop in and out of people’s lives? By the way, which name will you be using this time? Rebecca or Cicily?” On the rare occasions I managed to pin Keane into the proverbial corner, there had always been an infinite sense of triumph; however, there was no success as this woman—this complete stranger—squirmed in her seat.
Because she did not squirm.
No, like my companion, she looked to me for an answer where hers should have been. To the same point, Keane at least bore the decency to do so with a gentle respect he was seldom without.
This woman—this corpse—only managed to stare and smirk as I became the unfortunate specimen locked within the mind’s eternal labyrinth.
“Or...” I shifted slightly. “Or would you rather we discuss your painting? I saw it, you know. At the exhibit. It wasn’t horrible, though perhaps a bit obvious to your acting career. I would have thought that little stint at our cottage was enough.” Ah. There it was; a flick of frozen light stabbing through her eyes. The labyrinth door had begun to open. “Yes, I did think it was quite a performance, posing as Alessandro’s wicked stepmother. A bit too close to a fairy-tale figure for my taste, but, then again, Keane’s madman character was hardly ready for the London stage. Wouldn’t you agree?” The scratches across her enlarged irises grew to enormous cracks across her carefully moulded face; however, as suddenly as the facade had fallen away, the mask was returned with an increased speed.
“Brendan often said you were quick-witted. I am glad to see he was right. Most men lie about their wives.”
Brendan?
“Keane is hardly an example of ‘most men’, as you say.”
“He also mentioned you were his junior by several years, not several decades.”
“Your point?” The woman’s head dipped tauntingly toward her right shoulder.
“Are you honestly clinging to the old ‘love has no age’ lecture? From his description, I would never have taken you for the romantic type.” I shrugged; fingers digging painfully into my palms.
“Romance has little to do with love.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Romanticises are unnecessary actions built solely upon fickle emotions. I admire and respect Keane. Whatever else exists between us is, do note, strictly our business. Not yours.”
“You do not love him, then.”
“I didn’t say that.” Red half-moon impressions tattooed the sweat-stained flesh of my palms, just as the boiling acid of anger melted the tips of my ears. Rebecca, or Cicily, or whatever her name was, appeared genuinely untouched by my words. She did not scold me for my inhospitable bitterness, nor mourn for a young woman who was apparently unable to hold any frivolous emotion on a gilded pedestal. She only sat; appraising my unkempt, slightly blurred features with a gentle nod of her head.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes.” She cemented. Then, as though spiritually extracted, the frozen demeanour dissipated as she leaned casually back in her chair. Though she wore a dress and a startling amount of lipstick, I recognized a distinct amount of femininity I was often forced to attribute to my own life. “I never contact an agent’s wife, but he talked so highly of you—”
“An agent?”
“Not officially, you understand, but—”
“Stop.” The woman’s face halted before my raised hand; eyes pausing just between my thumb and forefinger. “What do you mean ‘agent’? The term insinuates he is working for someone, and you as well, for that matter. Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“I would prefer to know. If I am to be stabbed through the spine, I would at least like to know whose hand was on the handle. Wouldn’t you?”
“Not always.” A painted fingernail was languidly raised to her face to wipe away the lightest smudge of lipstick from the edge of her mouth. “It isn’t safe.”
“But it is smart.”
The smart option may not always be the safest, Lawrence, but it is the most likely to let you walk away alive.
I leaned forward against the table; balancing my chin atop a closed fist. It was not the most confident, nor comfortable, of positions, but it stopped me from reaching for the whiskey bottle. I rarely drank in quantity; yet, I found there were occasions when an extra dram or two was not entirely unwelcome. The prescience of retching over a porcelain bowl for at least an hour the following morning; however, was without any appeal.
“Facts.” I allowed my head to sit more heavily upon my hand. “If I am to trust you in any way, I must insist on only the facts. Direct answers only. Now, for starters, Keane is missing.”
“Yes.”
“As of when?”
“A few days.”
“How many?”
“Nearly a week.”
“And you met him before that?”
“The first day he came to the gallery.”
“You knew him well then?”
“Not intimately, if that is what you are insinuating. He was quite a gentleman.”
“Is. Present tense.”
“Is.” She corrected, reaching for her purse. “Mind if I smoke, or are you one of those ‘purity’ types?”
Purity, Lawrence, may only be applied to two things: whiskey and the periodic table of elements.
Within the quick shuffle of cigarettes and flame, a thin trail of smoke emerged. It was much heavier than Keane’s preferred brand; light touches of vanilla banished behind a wall of wilting rose petals. Any sweetness suitably associated with the infamous flower was lost beneath a darker tang of decay.
However, I did not refuse the package when offered.
“Would you rather be called Rebecca or Cicily?” I asked around the cigarette’s end; cupping a hand as I held the match to the dried tobacco. Across the table, an enormous cloud of smoke swept to one side.
“Rebecca would be best for the time being.” There was a slight pause as the woman knocked a pinch of cigarette ash into her empty glass. Miraculously, no explosion of liquor-fed flames burst into a towering inferno. “What about you? Should I call you ‘Jo’?”
“Most people do.”
Most people use a great many other names as well; very few repeatable in polite company.
I pulled the cigarette away from my mouth and watched intently as the paper and ash balanced between my fingers.
“I must know if you—or whatever agency you work for—have any inkling of where Keane is at this moment.”
“We do not believe he has been taken out of the country.”
“Can this be proven?”
“It can, but not very well.” I sighed.
“So there is very little we can do?”
“Not exactly.” Rebecca slowly ground the burning stub of her cigarette into the glass and rose gracefully from her chair; utterly feminine facade falling once more into place. “Be at the gallery early tomorrow morning.” I nodded vaguely and stood to walk her to the door.
“Why me, though?” She stopped. “Why would you trust a woman you never met face to face?”
“I felt I owed you.”
“But you have seen more of Keane recently than I have. You were his what? His muse?” Rebecca shook her head; loosening the tight curls pinned over one shoulder.
“I could never influence his work. Even if it were possible, he will always be inspired by someone else.”