Then and Always (24 page)

I glanced at my watch. It was only late morning but there was a possibility that Matt might be free for an early lunch. It would be good to explain to him some of the things Dr. Andrews had said while they were still fresh in my mind. Perhaps it would help him to understand why I was finding it so hard to fall straight back into my role as his fiancée. Acting on impulse, I pulled out my mobile phone and scrolled down the address book until I reached
Matt Office
.

His secretary answered the call on the second ring, her cool professional tone warming considerably as she recognized my voice. Which was more than I did for hers.

“Oh, Rachel, I’m sorry, you’ve just missed him. He left about ten minutes ago for his flat, but you’re meeting him there for lunch anyway, aren’t you?”

“Umm …” I don’t know why I didn’t immediately correct her assumption, but some small warning voice told me not to. And I listened to it.

“He should be back there really soon, traffic permitting. And could you let him know I’ve managed to cancel those meetings he had this afternoon, like he asked?”

“Oh … good. I’ll tell him.”

“It was nice speaking to you again. I do hope you enjoy your lunch today. We’re all so glad to hear you’re getting better.”

“Thank you …” I struggled for her name, but none was forthcoming, so I repeated my thanks and ended the call.

I sat looking at my phone for a long time before finally flipping it closed and replacing it in my handbag. There were a hundred different reasons why Matt’s secretary could have misunderstood what he’d told her about his plans. We had, after all, been intending to meet for dinner that night, and when he asked her to cancel his appointments this afternoon, she might have become confused and believed we were meeting instead for lunch. And yet she had sounded so positive he was on his way to meet me at his flat. How could she possibly have misinterpreted that?

But perhaps I was ignoring the even bigger question. What was so pressing that it made a workaholic like Matt cancel his entire schedule in the middle of the day? Because it certainly wasn’t to have lunch with me.

I don’t recall finishing my coffee, or paying the bill, but as no one ran after me yelling “Thief!” as I left the coffee shop, I guessed I must have taken care of it.

It was easy enough to hail a cab, although I did have to consult my address book for the precise location of Matt’s flat. As the taxi crawled through the midday traffic I kept my mind blank and refused to listen to the voice in my head that was screaming out an unpleasant prediction for this surprise visit. I reminded myself that I knew little of Matt’s working practices, that disappearing in the middle of the day might be perfectly usual behavior.
Yeah, right
, said the voice.

Eventually the cab pulled up in front of an exclusive-looking apartment block.

“Here you are, love, Hanbury Mansions.”

I smiled stiffly and reached into my wallet to extract a note for the driver. I saw that my hand had begun to tremble, ever so slightly.
Ridiculous
, I chided myself. Why was I getting worked up about something that could have a simple explanation?
I was seeing mysteries where there were none. Surely I had enough drama in my life that I didn’t need to invent a whole new episode?

I almost told the cabbie then that I’d changed my mind, but then I looked out through the rain-speckled window and saw Matt’s car discreetly parked to one side of the forecourt in a private bay. Okay, so he
was
here. It still meant absolutely nothing. Nevertheless, my hand, which had been hesitating over the door latch, pressed down on the lever and I climbed out of the cab.

My resolve wavered slightly as I looked up at the tall red-brick and glass building. How stupid was I going to look when all this turned out to be nothing more than a wild-goose chase? Not to mention paranoid. No doubt this would give me something else to work on with Dr. Andrews at our next session.

Yet still my feet continued to walk toward the building. Even knowing that Matt could have any one of a hundred valid reasons for going home in the middle of the day, reasons he chose not to share with his secretary, I still couldn’t ignore the impulse that had set me off on this journey after that phone call to his office. I knew that whatever was about to follow from this point on could very well end badly. But the secretary’s words had planted a question in my mind, which screamed out now for an answer.

The taxi gunned to life behind me and sped away from the forecourt. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked up to the building.

The large glass-fronted entrance was manned by a uniformed doorman, who politely held open the doors for me. It wasn’t until I was inside that it occurred to me that I didn’t have the slightest idea which flat was Matt’s. The only detail
I had was the address of the building. The bank of locked mailboxes to the left of the foyer showed that there were twenty or so flats in this block: Matt could live in any one of them. The obvious solution would be to ask the uniformed concierge at the reception desk which apartment was Mr. Matt Randall’s. But if I did that, the protocol would probably be to call up to the apartment and let the owner know they had a visitor. Clearly, if I approached the concierge, I would lose the element of surprise, so the only solution was to somehow get past him and then try to figure out which flat was Matt’s.

In a flash of inspiration I pulled a piece of paper from my bag and pretended to consult it. If I just walked past the security man with confidence, perhaps I could pull this off. Luckily, the telephone on the reception desk rang at that moment, and as he answered the call, I seized my opportunity. Keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the bank of lifts at the rear of the foyer, I strode purposefully past the desk. I was quick, but not quick enough.

“Excuse me.”

I ignored the voice.
Walk with purpose, as though you have every right to be here
, I told myself.

“Miss, excuse me.” The voice was louder that time, and despite myself I hesitated. There was no one else in the foyer. His comment was clearly directed at me. I considered proceeding regardless but the prospect of being frog-marched from the building between two burly security guards was too awful to risk. I turned toward the desk with what I hoped was an innocent-looking smile. A second security guard, who I hadn’t noticed until then, looked up with interest from the pile of paperwork before him.

The first man, the one who had hailed me, made a small
beckoning motion with his finger. Oh, this was beyond embarrassing. I gave a quick glance toward the entranceway, still being securely guarded by doorman number three. The possibility of making a run for it was clearly not an option. Feeling guilty, and hoping I looked anything but that, I tried to keep smiling as I walked toward the reception desk on legs that felt like jelly. As I got closer I could see that what I had taken for an angry glower was actually a fairly pleasant smile.

“Yes?” I inquired, hoping no one but me could hear the wobble in my voice.

“Have you forgotten something?” the man prompted.

I blinked back at him stupidly. Forgotten what exactly? Forgotten to report to reception? Forgotten that I don’t live in this building? Hell, I could do way better than that: I’d actually forgotten the last five years.

“Your key?” the man continued, as though coaxing the answer out of a small child.

“Um, oh, of course, my key,” I replied, and opened my bag to pretend to look for a key I didn’t have.

The guard’s smile widened a little as he reached across the desk and handed me a front door key, attached to a large silver fob. His voice was kindly as he continued, “You ask us to keep your key to Mr. Randall’s apartment for you at reception, Miss Wiltshire,” he explained, in a gentle paternal tone. “It saves you having to carry it around with you all the time.”

I reached out to take the proffered key, noting thankfully there was a number engraved on the silver fob.

The guard hesitated as though unsure as to whether his next comment was entirely appropriate. “We all hope you’re feeling better now, Miss Wiltshire. We’ve missed you around here lately.”

“Umm, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

My fingers fastened around the key and I smiled at both men, realizing for the first time that the younger of the two appeared somewhat agitated. His eyes kept darting from me to the key and then back toward his older colleague.

I turned and began to head back to the lifts once more, hearing as I did a hurriedly whispered comment and a responding exclamation from the men at the desk.

I pressed the call button on the lift.

More urgent whispering; they were clearly in a quandary about something. An instruction was given, followed swiftly by the sound of a telephone keypad being punched. Another exclamation and a heated muttering between the two.

Where was the damn lift? I heard them try the phone again at the precise moment that the carriage pinged its arrival. I just caught the words “still engaged” as the doors slid open and I entered the lift.

“Miss Wiltshire,” hailed the older man, getting up from his seat and coming around his desk. But he wasn’t fast enough and the doors glided to a close before he was even halfway across the foyer.

Matt’s flat was on the top floor, and I could only hope that his phone line had remained engaged throughout the time it took me to reach his doorway. I think I knew by then what had been worrying the security men in reception and why they had not wanted me to reach his flat without alerting him first.

Luck was clearly with me, for when I reached the front door there was no sign that my visit had been announced. From within the apartment I could hear strains of music, but no conversation.

I drew in a deep breath to steady my nerves, momentarily deafened by the loud beating of my heart, and slid the key
into the lock. The door opened onto a vast, wooden-floored loft-style apartment, elegantly decorated in black and white leather. The source of the music lay to my left; the slow seductive strains of jazz played on an expensive hi-fi system.

On a large, low, rectangular glass table stood an open bottle of wine, and two half-empty glasses. To one side of the huge leather settee was the telephone, lying off the hook beside its base.
Good luck with making that warning call, guys
, I thought wryly, surprised at the bitter taste suddenly in my throat.

For several moments I stood rooted to the spot, then from far away at the rear of the apartment I heard a voice, followed by what sounded like a soft peal of laughter. I didn’t move. I knew the answer to the question now. Knew it from the evidence before me in the room. Had known it, if I were being completely honest, even before I left the café and hailed the cab. Did I really need to pursue it to its inevitable and ugly conclusion?

I walked in the direction of the voices. Apparently I did.

The door was open; well, why wouldn’t it be? They thought they had the place to themselves. I entered the room silently, seeing more than I wanted to of their entwined bodies, before some latent sense alerted them to my presence. Their reactions were completely different: Matt jerked back as though electrocuted, releasing his hold on the woman in his arms. Cathy moved with precise deliberation, her eyes unreadable as she slowly reached down to pull up a sheet to cover her naked breasts.

We remained motionless in that way for what could only have been a second or two, but it felt like an eternity, frozen in a hideously tawdry tableau.

I had thought I would say something but all speech was
momentarily stolen from me. It was Cathy who broke the silence.

“Well, this is all horribly familiar.”

Matt shot her an angry look before reaching for the trousers he had carelessly discarded beside the bed. His eyes were locked to mine as he fumbled to struggle into them.

I turned away from the bedroom and quickly crossed the large living space. I was moving fast but everything felt dreamlike, as though it were all happening in slow motion. From behind me I could hear Cathy say something, which was followed swiftly by an angry retort from Matt. I was almost at the door when I heard him cry out.

“Rachel, wait! Please wait!”

I opened it. His next words were silenced by the shutting,
not slamming
, of the front door.

In the corridor, with the dreadful, pathetic scene shut firmly away in the flat behind me, I finally drew breath. The dizzy feeling that had begun to blur my senses was instantly washed away on a tide of oxygen, and with it too came the pain, and even worse than that, the humiliation. In fact, the only emotion that didn’t assault me was surprise. Wasn’t this, after all, exactly what I’d been expecting to see?

I didn’t wait for the lift but followed the signs for the emergency stairs, only just slipping through the fire door as Matt burst into the corridor, hastily buttoning a shirt over a torso still glistening with sweat from his activities.

Either he heard the door or guessed where I had headed, for he wasted no time in summoning the lift and instead ran down the hallway toward the staircase. I heard the click of the door opening and the call of my name ricocheting down the concrete stairwell. His flat was on the fifth floor: that meant
eight half-flights of stairs. I had a head start. I could do it, if I ran.

He caught up with me before I was even halfway down, my progress slowed by the height of my heels and my blurred vision. I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying until then. Even so, he must have flown down the stairs, his bare feet pounding each tread to catch up with me so quickly. He reached out his hand to stop me with such force that I almost fell. He reacted quickly, pulling me back and preventing me from plummeting down the remainder of the flight. I felt the heat and damp from his body through the thin material of his shirt and recoiled in disgust. It was the heat from her.

“Rachel, please, for God’s sake slow down before you fall.”

I turned on him then, my anger hot enough to have dried my tears in an instant. “Like you care! As if that wouldn’t be the perfect solution!”