New York and Mannadu, October
The bottles crowded the window ledge, each one an empty reminder of disgrace. Two had contained champagne, bought for celebration but drunk in disappointment. One had held Kentucky bourbon, its black label peeling now, and the remainder proclaimed themselves to be the king of beers. Lying amidst the tangled covers of her bed, Irene squinted through the array of curved glass at the distorted shape of the window. It was daylight outside, although she could not determine the time. She raised her head a little, swore at the pain that such effort caused and carefully sank back down on the pillow. Beside her, Patrick snored softly.
Failure. The word throbbed inside her head, reinforcing the thump of her hangover. Failure. She clenched her fists until her nails dug small semi-circular grooves in the palm of each hand. She had gambled everything on becoming Ms Manning’s neophyte, but now she must start again. She had thrown up her job to concentrate on the competition, so she was back on the streets in reality, seeking employment, seeking a new life, hiding from humiliation.
Leaving Patrick lying diagonally across the bed with one arm thrown over the pillow and the other folded beneath him, Irene pushed herself upright. She slid off the mattress, winced and sat down, holding her head to compress the pain into manageable proportions. Only when she convinced herself that there was no alternative did she stagger to the bathroom, stripping off the silk pyjama shirt that was her only covering.
Setting the power shower to cold, Irene stepped into the cubicle, squealing as the fierce jets of water hammered at her. After a few minutes she was unable to bear any more and increased the temperature before she began to apply shower gel. Sinking into a corner, she allowed the water to rinse away the lather, and remained there until her headache began to dissolve and the churning in her stomach settled down.
Removing two painkillers from her emergency cupboard, Irene thrust them into her mouth and chewed, hating the taste. Losers did not deserve the luxury of a glass of water in which to dissolve them. Her stomach protested at this new assault, so she sat down quickly until the sensation eased.
So she had failed to win a game show. Irene shrugged as a new recklessness slithered over her. Well, she had done the very best that she could, but her early life had betrayed her, while Kendrick’s money and influence had eased his path. Returning to the shower, she shampooed her hair vigorously and stepped under the nozzle. Streams of soapy water ran down her body, surging around her feet to drain away as if in imitation of her hopes. She had failed, but she would not give up on life. Who was she?
‘I am Irene Armstrong,’ she reminded herself. ‘I am Irene Armstrong.’ She spoke louder so her name echoed between the transparent plastic walls of the cubicle. ‘I am Irene Armstrong, and there is nothing I can not do.’ The phrase came from her childhood, a simple slogan that had helped her through some very bad times.
Steam from the shower filled the room as she cleaned a space on the mirror and brushed her teeth, allowing the toothpaste to foam and drop in frothy globules onto the sink. ‘Damn you Kendrick, for beating me, and you, Ms Rhondda Manning, for choosing a lesser contender. I’ll be back,’ she deepened her voice and repeated the words in imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s famous catch phrase. ‘I’ll be back!’
Vigorously towelling her hair, Irene returned to the bedroom. Patrick lay exactly as she had left him, face down on the bed and mouth slightly open. Grinning, she flicked off the covers and allowed herself the pleasure of admiring his muscular back, with the small scar just beneath his left shoulder blade and the indentation of his spine that ran into his smoothly curving bottom. Her smile altered to a sudden frown when she focussed on the tattoo on his right buttock. Linda had been a previous girlfriend, in a different life, but Irene always resented that he had chosen somebody else before her. During their vigorous lovemaking she always raked her nails across that name, hoping to eradicate the written memory, and now she delivered a stinging slap to the same target. When he jerked forward she laughed, stepped back and slapped again, harder. She felt immense pleasure at Patrick’s yelp.
‘Up you get, lazy! I’ve got a life to rebuild and you’re going to help.’
He rolled over onto his back and looked up, one hand clutching at the assaulted area. ‘What the hell was that for?’
It was his eyes that had first attracted Irene, a brilliant blue that seemed to hold all the mysteries of the universe, but now they were shaded through over-indulgence in alcohol. He blinked, obviously suffering the same agonies that Irene had so recently endured.
‘Just because it was asking for it. You’ve got two minutes,’ Irene told him, with no sympathy at all. ‘Then I’ll take drastic measures.’ She smiled sweetly, tied the towel around her head and walked to the kitchen to put on the coffee. A glance in the mirror reassured her that Patrick was watching the emphasised swing of her hips.
The knock at the door seemed to shake the entire house. ‘Get that, Patrick, I’ve got nothing on.’ Irene waited for a minute, as the knock sounded again, louder and more urgent than before. She looked into the bedroom, frowned as she saw Patrick once again recumbent amidst the sheets, and dragged on his dressing gown. It was many times too large, with sleeves that flapped loosely over her hands.
‘Who is it?’ Irene peered through the security glass and saw a tall man who she instantly recognised.
‘Peter Madrid.’ The man held up a card with his photograph on it and the unmistakable logo of the Manning Corporation. ‘I wish to speak with you, if it is convenient.’
‘Peter Madrid!’ Irene stepped back, instinctively putting up a hand to the towel that covered her hair. Moving swiftly, she kicked shut the bedroom door to conceal both the unmade bed and its naked occupant, fastened the cord of the dressing gown tighter and unfastened the security chain. ‘What can I do for you?’ She eased open the front door, biting back her bitterness. This man had watched her answer a hundred questions over the last few weeks; he had overseen her on four different tasks and had reported on her suitability as a neophyte to Ms Manning. At that minute, Irene had no desire to ever speak to him, or anybody else from the Manning Corporation, ever again.
Peter stepped in, his suit as immaculate as ever but his eyes swivelling around the tiny apartment. ‘Ms Manning sends her apologies for disturbing you,’ he said quietly, ‘and hopes that you have recovered from any disappointment that you may have experienced yesterday.’
Irene recommenced the assault on her hair with the towel as the twin sensations of defeat and failure returned. ‘Yesterday is past,’ she said, shrugging in an attempt to dismiss the heartbreak as unimportant. ‘It was fun while it lasted.’ She produced a bright smile. ‘Come in to the living room and I’ll make coffee.’
‘You’re not disappointed then?’ Peter lowered himself into one of the two cream coloured armchairs and raised an inquisitive eye. He glanced at the framed poster that showed crossed Armalite rifles in front of an Irish flag and the word Noraid, before switching his attention to the broken television in the corner of the room. Irene followed the direction of his eyes. She had watched the videotape that Patrick had made of The Neophyte, until the sight of Kendrick’s triumphant face had proved too much and she had thrown the remote control at the screen. It was too late now to hide the evidence.
‘Disappointed?’ Irene pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘No. It was only a game show. If you wait for a minute I’ll get the coffee. How do you like it?’
‘Black and strong,’ Peter told her.
‘Like Kendrick,’ Irene whispered sotto-voice, closing the door. She quickly squeezed into a pair of tight jeans and a white blouse, furiously brushed her hair and tied it back, checked her face in the mirror and groaned. The damp red hair contrasted badly with the blue shadows under her eyes. She looked exactly like a loser who had spent most of the night drinking.
Peter was sitting in the same seat when she returned with the coffee. He continued the conversation as if she had never been away. ‘If those are your true feelings, then there is absolutely no reason for me to be here. But I do not believe that they are.’ His eyes again strayed to the television set. ‘I am sure that I would be sick, bitter and extremely angry, if I had gone to half the trouble that you did. Sit down.’
Irene obeyed.
‘I’ll ask you that question once more. Are you disappointed?’
The scalding coffee shocked Irene into speaking the truth. ‘Let’s see. I was on the verge of being offered probably the best job in the world, being trained to take charge of one of the biggest corporate businesses anywhere, with a virtually unlimited salary and unparalleled power. But I lost. And you ask me if I am disappointed.’ She swallowed another mouthful of coffee, not caring that her voice was rising as quickly as her temper. ‘Of course I am disappointed! What sort of damn fool question is that to ask? Do you want me to spell it out? I put everything I had into winning that show, and I lost. I failed, and I hate failure. So now, Peter Madrid, once you have finished your coffee, could you please stop gloating and leave my apartment? I have a life to rebuild and you are wasting my time.’
Peter shook his head. ‘It seems that I am not.’ He sipped delicately at his cup. ‘Nice coffee; decaf? How would you like to rebuild your life within the Manning Corporation?’
Irene shook her head. ‘Working for Kendrick? I would not even consider it. Either I’m at the top, or I’m out completely.’
‘Good.’ Peter nodded. ‘That is the answer that Ms Manning hoped you would give. There is a limousine waiting on the street outside. It will leave at ten o’ clock, either with you or without you.’ He stood up and handed her the empty coffee cup. ‘Ms Manning does not send limousines for losers.’ He looked pointedly at the broken television set. ‘Nor does she give people a second chance.’
Irene frowned. ‘Is that an ultimatum?’
‘It is a fact of life,’ Peter said. He glanced at the clock that hung on the wall, its green digital figures counting away the seconds of the day. ‘I will see myself out.’
For a minute Irene pondered what she should do. Would she be better to swallow her pride and enter the limousine, placing herself in the hands of the woman who had so publicly rejected her, or strike out alone from nothing? The clock clicked again as another figure slid into place. Irene looked up and flinched. 09:50. She had five minutes in which to decide, and then five minutes to reach the street. 09:51. There really was no decision to make; she knew that she would enter the limousine.
Rapidly changing into a neat dark business suit and low sling back shoes, Irene tore a hunk of bread from a slightly stale loaf and threw open the door just as the figures changed to 09:57.
‘Irene? Who were you talking with? Where are you going?’ Patrick appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, his body unclothed and his eyes still half closed.
‘No time to explain,’ Irene told him. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘But my coffee?’
‘You know where the kitchen is.’ Irene crossed the corridor and madly pressed the button to summon the elevator.
‘Where are you going?’ Patrick padded after her.
The elevator seemed to take forever as it dropped the eight floors to street level, stopping once to let an elderly Jewish couple on, and again to allow them to leave. The foyer was quiet and the uniformed commissionaire smiled as he came toward her.
‘Miss Armstrong! I saw you on the television last night. You looked good.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘I really think that you should have won, though.’
‘Thank you, Mark,’ Irene spared him the briefest of smiles, ‘but I’m afraid that I am in a hurry.’
‘Of course,’ Mark opened the heavy glass doors and saluted as Irene bustled past. ‘You businesswomen! Always rushing away to some meeting or other!’
The street was busy, with yellow cabs blaring their horns and commercial vehicles thundering past. Long and dark green, the limousine was parked exactly in front of the door, with a uniformed driver at the wheel. Even as Irene approached, the driver started its engine, the soft purr spurring her forward.
‘Wait!’ She heard the crack in her voice as she pulled open the door.
The driver turned around. ‘Miss Irene Armstrong?’ He was about forty, broad faced but not fat, with narrow eyes.
‘That’s right.’
‘Please put your seat belt on, Miss Armstrong.’
‘Irene!’ Avoiding a despairing clutch by the commissionaire, a naked Patrick lunged toward the limousine. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know!’ Irene held the door open for a moment. ‘Go and put some clothes on, Patrick, and I’ll let you know as soon as I find out myself. Go on now.’
‘It’s ten o’clock, Miss Armstrong,’ the chauffeur said. ‘I must leave.’
‘Drive,’ Irene agreed. ‘He’ll keep.’
‘Wait!’ Patrick pressed against the window, but the driver eased into the traffic and rolled smoothly away. Unlike any other vehicle in which Irene had travelled, the limousine seemed to be able to split traffic like Moses parting the Red Sea. Signals altered to green at its approach, even the yellow cabs gave way and the road through the city was clearer than she had ever known.
Irene tapped on the glass partition that separated her from the driver. ‘Where are we going?’
‘LaGuardia,’ the driver said, quietly, turning into Grand Central Parkway East. ‘Sit back and enjoy the ride, Miss Armstrong. We should arrive in about twenty minutes.’
‘LaGuardia?’ Irene sat up straight. ‘I thought you were taking me to meet Ms Manning.’
‘I am following my instructions,’ the driver said enigmatically.
It was an eight-mile journey, but the driver barely halted until he steered into a reserved slot in the parking garage for the Central Terminal. A man in the pressed grey trousers and green blazer of the Manning Corporation was waiting for their arrival, and gently ushered Irene through Terminal Building A, past the security guards and onto the tarmac.
‘Onto the aircraft, ma’am,’ he said, indicating the Cessna Citation Bravo that purred a few yards away. The tail carried the familiar Manning logo.
‘Where am I going?’ Irene asked, but the blazered man proved as politely unforthcoming as the chauffeur.
‘I am following instructions, Miss Armstrong,’ he said quietly, ‘but I would not worry, Ms Manning takes care of her own.’
Irene had dreamed of being inside an executive jet, but the reality exceeded her expectations. The interior was the expected green-and-gold, but where the aircraft had originally been fitted for seven passengers in club class, the Manning Corporation had reduced the number of seats to four, ensuring more space for the lap-top computers and an even more relaxing flight.
‘Please take a seat, Miss Armstrong, and fasten your seat belt.’ The green blazered man had accompanied Irene on board. ‘We will be airborne directly.’
‘You don’t allow me much time for contemplation, do you?’ Irene did as she was ordered, only now aware that her headache was returning and she was beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger. Save for one mouthful of bread, she had not eaten since before the show yesterday evening, and the effects of the morning’s coffee were beginning to wear off.
‘Ms Manning likes efficiency,’ the blazered man told her.
The Cessna taxied very briefly, and then took off in what seemed a nearly vertical climb that had Irene swallowing hard. A look out of the window showed her the vast spread of New York visibly diminishing beneath her, with the tall buildings of Manhattan already assuming Lilliputian proportions and the Hudson River a streak of blue.
After a few minutes the intercom hummed and a calm voice sounded. ‘We are now flying at 7,620 metres and heading in a westerly direction. There is a gentle headwind but not enough to impede our speed or progress. We are approaching our cruising speed of 400 knots, or about 465 miles an hour, so sit back and enjoy the flight, Miss Armstrong. The steward will attend to any requests,’
There was fresh orange juice and a light meal of newly baked bread and cheese, followed by strong coffee, but Irene’s repeated demands for further information from the blazered man were met only with a polite smile.
‘I am only the steward, Miss Armstrong. I do what I am told.’
‘Well, let me speak with the pilot then.’
The steward shook his head regretfully. ‘I am truly sorry, Miss Armstrong, but Ms Manning’s safety protocols are very strict. The cockpit is fully secured and separate from us. We cannot approach the pilot when we are airborne.’
America seemed to crawl below them as the Cessna powered westward and Irene drank a never-ending succession of cups of coffee. She forced herself to sit quietly, either staring at the clouds that wafted below them or perusing the magazines that had been provided.
Leafing through the in-house magazine for the Manning Corporation, Irene refreshed herself with the sheer scale of the company. She read how Ms Manning had pushed herself through college and had begun in electronics in a very small scale. By sheer hard work and brilliance, she had steered her own company to be one of the main players in America, and then had branched out into other fields. Now the Manning Corporation was involved in real estate and hospitality, clothing and drink, transport and pharmaceuticals, as well as the original electronics.
Irene shook her head. The corporation was so vast it was astonishing that one woman could keep her finger on everything. Ms Manning truly was an impressive woman.
After the first couple of hours Irene had given up attempting to judge where they were and tried to sleep, but her active mind forced her awake, to think about the forthcoming interview. It was early afternoon before the Cessna touched down, and the steward was smiling as he approached.
‘We have reached our destination, Miss Armstrong. On behalf of Ms Manning, I would like to thank you for your patience and hope that you have had a pleasant flight.’
Irene stretched her legs and straightened her back as she stepped outside. However luxurious the cabin had been, the headroom had been less than generous to a woman of her height. She looked around, shivering in a wind that hissed straight from the Arctic. The aerodrome seemed to consist of a single long strip of tarmac beside a building of compact concrete, from whose squat tower rose a mass of complex communications equipment. A bleak, green-and-grey plain stretched to low hills that struggled above the distant horizon. ‘Where are we?’
‘Our destination,’ the steward repeated. ‘Within the continental United States, but I am afraid that I am not at liberty to divulge any more than that.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Irene demanded, but the steward merely smiled and ushered her toward another vehicle. The Ford Expedition King Ranch waited with its engine throbbing and the expected Manning logo shining on its doors.
‘The driver will take you further. It may be a bit wild out here, Miss Armstrong, but Ms Manning will ensure that you can rough it in comfort.’
Irene sighed, hoping that whatever Ms Manning wanted, it had better be worth all this trouble. She slid inside the air-conditioned interior and did not trouble the driver with questions. Stretching out on the comfortable leather seat, Irene nursed her head that still retained the memory of a hangover and wondered where she would be today if she had won The Neophyte competition. Probably already hard at work in some Manning Corporation office, she told herself.
The driver negotiated the rough track that led north and west toward the hills, saying nothing, but on one occasion pointing to a herd of buffalo that moved slowly to their right. Irene looked without curiosity; wildlife did not interest her as much as her future career.
Twice Irene saw smaller four-by-four vehicles driving alongside them but at a discreet distance, and once a Ford pickup crossed their track, with the unmistakable form of armed men sitting in the rear. Her driver drove straight on, unheeding, into a vast space beneath a sky that extended into infinity.
After an hour, Irene realised that they were heading toward a high, white building. Perched on a smooth knoll, castellated round towers protruded above tall, windowless walls of whitewashed stone. Irene shook her head; this building belonged to Europe, or at least Hollywood, rather than the reality of the United States. She half expected to see the Sheriff of Nottingham ride out on a prancing charger.
‘What the hell is that place?’
The driver did not turn around. He stopped a hundred yards from the arched doorway that seemed the only entrance and spoke a few words into a radio. After a few minutes the iron-studded door opened, and he manoeuvred through the entrance and into another world.
Surrounded on three sides by a high white wall, the courtyard was filled with the patter of the fountain that acted as centrepiece to a formal garden. While bronze mermaids disported with dolphins around an oval pool of clear water, shaded bowers sheltered carved wooden seats, and winding paths joined at an inner doorway that led into the main castle. Three towers soared to the empty sky, dominating yet not threatening any occupants of the courtyard garden.
Irene stared around her, she had been wrong; this place was no Nottingham, rather it came from some Persian pleasure palace.
Halting the King Ranch in one of the seven parking bays, the driver opened the door for Irene. She eased herself out, wondering what surprise next awaited her. Her period of uncertainty was brief.
‘Five minutes early, I see.’ Dressed in hip-hugging blue jeans and a check shirt, Ms Manning had pulled the peak of her green baseball cap low over her eyes. She looked relaxed, but had not lost her aura of easy authority as she held out her hand. ‘Come in, Irene. Welcome to Mannadu. Perhaps not Xanadu, but we do our best.’
Irene hesitated only a second before accepting the hand, and was immediately aware of Ms Manning’s close scrutiny.
‘Well done, Irene. It must have been hard to come here after yesterday’s rejection.’
Irene forced a smile. ‘Why have you brought me?’
‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’
Feeling like the fly accepting the invitation of a very predatory spider, Irene followed.