Warhol's Prophecy (25 page)

‘Come in,’ she called.

The flowers seemed to appear like a huge multicoloured cloud, the cellophane sheath crackling in the hands of the young woman who carried them.

‘These just arrived for you,’ said Emma Grogan.

Hailey looked surprised, and took the immense bouquet from her secretary.

‘I wish I had someone to send
me
flowers like that,’ said Emma, staring at the array of blooms longingly. She stood a moment longer, then left.

Hailey pulled a card from the small envelope stapled to the clear wrapping and glanced at it.

She held the card in her fingers for long seconds, then slid it back into the envelope.

Sorry.

She glanced down at the flowers.

Sorry.

‘So am I,’ she murmured.

Hailey picked up the bouquet and dropped it into the waste-bin.

A
DAM
W
ALKER HAD
seen the same words before. Many times.

And one in particular.

Rejection.

It appeared in nearly all the letters he had received from publishers or record companies over the years.

He had assumed that the idea of rejection, the very
act
and process of being rejected, would somehow lose its sting. Surely if he suffered rejection often enough, it would become easier to live with.

He had found that wasn’t the case.

It still hurt.

Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps when rejection ceased to bother him, then that was finally the time to give up. But that idea never entered his thinking.

Yet it hurt. Every time it happened, it hurt. And it angered him. To think that someone could dismiss his work so easily was annoying.

He looked at the letter again, re-read it.

The record company thanked him for sending samples of his work (he always sent transparencies), but they didn’t use freelance artists for their album sleeves. Hence this latest rejection.

Rejection.

He crossed to a small filing cabinet in his study and slid open one of the drawers.

From inside he withdrew a black clip-file and flipped it open.

There were over forty rejection letters and slips inside it already.

He knew, since he had placed each one there carefully.

Walker found the hole-punch, snapped open the file and added the latest letter to the batch, then he shut the file and slid it back.

Out of sight, out of mind?

If only it was that easy.

He looked around at his canvases, his work.

What now?

Walker knew what he must do.

He found a fresh canvas and prepared himself.

Never give up.

As he moved about the study, he glanced occasionally at the portrait of Becky.

The sight of the child made him think of Hailey.

He’d rung her office three times that morning. The first time, she hadn’t arrived yet. No return call had been forthcoming, despite his urgent request to her secretary.

Perhaps she’d forgotten to tell Hailey.

Yes, that was it. The secretary hadn’t told her he’d rung. Otherwise she’d have called him back, wouldn’t she?

He’d rung twice since then.

Hailey was out at lunch, he was told. Again he’d asked if she could call him on her return. He hoped the secretary would give her the message
this
time.

He wanted to make sure she got his flowers. Wanted to be certain that she
knew
he was sorry for what had happened the day before.

If he could just
speak
to her.

He would stay in and work, wait for her call.

He had to leave the house later, though. If she called and he wasn’t there, he could catch her tomorrow or the next day.

She would understand if he wasn’t at home.

He wouldn’t be out very long.

But there was something he had to do.

T
HE BAR OF
the Crest Hotel was relatively empty when Hailey walked in.

However, she got the impression that, even if it hadn’t been, she would still have had little trouble finding the person she sought.

The young woman was in her mid-twenties: tall, statuesque even. She was wearing a black dress that ended several inches above her knee. A slit in the material revealed what little thigh was unexposed already. She was tottering around on a pair of platform boots that laced up as far as her knees. These platforms, plus her normal height, convinced Hailey that the woman was fully six feet tall. Her hair was so brilliantly platinum blonde it was practically luminous.

She wore purple eyeshadow and, as she strode towards Hailey and extended one sinewy hand, the black fingernails she sported seemed to glint menacingly.

‘Trudi,’ said the girl.

‘Without the “e”,’ Hailey said, smiling, shaking the proffered hand, feeling how thin it was.

This young woman, Hailey felt, was likely to be on intimate terms with an eating disorder. Had been, would be, or was currently.

‘You must be Hailey,’ Trudi said, looking down at her. ‘Would you like a drink?’

She spoke quickly, distractedly, one hand constantly brushing through her hair.

Hailey accepted a Bacardi and Coke.

Trudi ordered a margarita and sipped at it like a sparrow drinking at a bird-bath.

‘Where are the band?’ Hailey wanted to know.

‘They’re up in their rooms. They’re very busy doing interviews with the local press. One of my colleagues is up there with them.’

Hailey nodded slowly.

‘It’s quite an event for a place like this to have them here doing interviews. A big thrill for the local journos,’ Trudi announced. ‘I mean it’s not exactly London, is it?’

‘That’s why so many people like it,’ Hailey told her. ‘How long have you been in this business?’

‘I went in straight from college. Messed about, really. Didn’t know
what
I wanted to do. I originally studied drama, but the music business is more me. The vibe is awesome.’

Again Hailey nodded. ‘Isn’t it just?’ she said, barely managing to suppress a grin.

‘What about
you
?’ Trudi asked. ‘Have you been in the business long?’

‘Long enough.’

‘And you work for Jim Marsh?’

‘Part-time now. I’ve got a little girl.’

Trudi shrugged.

‘I couldn’t have kids,’ she said, almost dismissively. ‘They tie you down too much, don’t they? All that shitting and puking all the time. Not very cool, is it?’

‘There’s a bit more to it than that,’ Hailey informed her.

‘A friend of mine had a baby a few months ago. God, she put on
so
much weight. She still hasn’t got her figure back.’

Hailey was aware of Trudi running appraising eyes over her.

Perhaps you could
do
with having one then, you elongated stick insect.

Hailey laid her handbag on the bar as she sipped her drink.

‘I don’t recognize the make,’ said Trudi, peering at the bag as if it was some kind of precious stone.

‘You wouldn’t. I got it locally,’ Hailey told her.

‘I bought a Versace bag last week. It’s
so
cool. It cost me half a week’s wages, but it was worth it. I got it down the King’s Road.’ She sipped her margarita. ‘How do you manage, being so far out of London?’

‘We’re only thirty miles away. Twenty minutes on a train.’

‘But you have to be at the hub of things in my business. You know, on top of it all. And I
couldn’t
live anywhere but London. I’d feel too cut off. You must go mad sometimes.’

‘This whole city is mad actually,’ Hailey replied earnestly. ‘We have the highest incidence of insanity per head of population anywhere in the country. Especially women. Apparently it’s the lack of designer shops that does it.’

Trudi looked on with concern. ‘Really?’ she murmured, gazing at Hailey as if mesmerized.

‘Still, they’ve got running water in most of the houses here now, and they think that in a couple of years we might even have television.’

Trudi’s look of concern turned to one of bemusement.

Hailey saw a flicker of irritation on those gaunt features.

‘We can go up now,’ Trudi said brusquely.

‘I can’t wait,’ Hailey told her.

She watched as the tall PR girl slid off the bar stool and wandered away in the direction of the lifts.

Hailey picked up her handbag and followed.

They rode the lift in silence, standing on either side of the mirrored car until it bumped to a halt on the third floor.

‘Do you enjoy working for the band?’ Hailey said conversationally.

‘It’s mega,’ Trudi said. ‘They’re so cool, so funny. Especially Craig. He writes all the lyrics, you know. His wife’s really nice, too. She used to be an actress.’

Hailey nodded.

‘If you wait here a minute I’ll check they’re ready,’ Trudi told her.

She disappeared inside one of the rooms, leaving Hailey alone in the corridor.

She shook her head, smiling.

No, the record business never changes, does it?

She inspected her reflection in the large mirror opposite, satisfied with what she saw.

The door opened and Trudi stuck her head out.

‘You can come in now,’ she said, almost reverentially. ‘They’re ready for you.’

23 CRANLEY GARDENS, MUSWELL HILL, NORTH LONDON

He brought the Dyno-Rod van to a halt and checked his clipboard to ensure he had the right address.

Yes, this was it. Number 23.

It looked a little run-down compared to some of the properties in the same street, and the address he’d been called to was actually converted into flats. It had been one of the residents who’d called, complaining that she’d been unable to flush her toilet. This problem had been going on since the previous Saturday – almost a week now.

No wonder she wasn’t happy.

Michael Cattran wrote down the current time on his worksheet, then hauled himself out of the van, moving round to the rear of the vehicle to collect his tools.

The sky was darkening with the onset of evening. Great banks of dark cloud gathering in the sky promised rain.

Best get this job finished with and get home. It was his last call of the day and he wasn’t sorry.

He made his way up the path to the front door, rang the bell and waited for someone to answer.

When a woman appeared at the door, he saw the look of relief on her face.

It had been she who had called him, and Cattran listened while she rambled on about blocked drains and inconvenience, adding his own sympathetic comments every now and then.

She showed him round to the side of the house and stood there.

Cattran hated it when customers stood and watched him work, peering down at him while he toiled away. He warned her that he would have to inspect the blockage first, and that could take some time.

She offered to make him a cup of tea and he accepted readily, happy when she retreated back inside number 23 and closed the front door.

He looked down at the manhole cover then reached into his toolbox for the metal implement he would use to prise it open.

The cover was rusted slightly around the rim, and he was forced to use more strength than he’d anticipated, but finally, with a loud clang, it came free and he lifted it away from the manhole.

The stench that erupted was vile beyond belief. A putrid, virulent odour that clogged his nostrils and sent him reeling backwards, clutching his stomach. It was all he could do to prevent himself vomiting.

For a moment or two he stood away from the yawning hole, sucking in several lungfuls of clean air, as if to flush away the noxious smell that filled his nostrils. Finally he returned to the manhole, bracing himself for a fresh dose of the nauseating stench it contained.

A rusted ladder led down into the cistern itself, and Cattran realized that this was indeed a major blockage. He would have to take a closer look to determine how bad.