Welcome To Wherever You Are (32 page)

‘Of course I mind,’ yawned Declan, perching up on his elbows. ‘How often do they have
Playboy
beach volleyball tournaments on your doorstep?’

‘I know, I just don’t feel so great.’

‘What’s wrong? Have you taken your meds?’ Declan asked, suddenly concerned.

‘Yeah, I’m just hanging. Too many Jägermeisters at last night’s karaoke. I’ll sleep it off and maybe see you there later.’

‘Do you need anything? Do you want me to find you a doctor?’

‘No, it’s cool.’

‘Okay, look, I’ll hang here with you. We’ll have a day of chilling instead.’

‘Don’t been an eejit, go hunt me some rabbits.’

‘Alright, if you’re sure.’

Declan rolled to his side to grab another thirty minutes of sleep while Matty lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to regulate his shallow breaths.

Tommy waited the best part of an hour in the anonymous office of an unspecified individual in a dubious line of work before the man sitting before him finally offered a verdict on Nicole’s jewels.

‘What you have here, kid, are sixty-six emerald-cut diamonds,’ he began. ‘They’re very well cut, actually; the clarity is excellent, although to the naked eye there’s slight colour weakness.’

Tommy nodded like he knew what the man meant, and cleared his throat. ‘How much do you reckon they’re worth?’

‘Hmm . . .’ the man replied thoughtfully, tapping his chin with his index finger. ‘I’m prepared to offer you $8,000 for each of them. You’d probably get a lot more if you went elsewhere and went by the book. But it depends on how quickly you need the money, and if you’re happy for their origins to be scrutinised. You’ve heard of blood diamonds, yeah?’

Again, Tommy nodded, aware of the reference to the murky ways war-zone diamonds were sold to finance insurgencies. It was highly probable Mrs Baker’s gifts were legitimate, but Nicole had said she trusted him to do what he thought best if an offer was made.

The man removed a calculator from his desk and keyed in some numbers with a stubby finger. ‘It’s your call, kid. Sell them to another dealer for a bigger bucks or walk out of here with $528,000 in cash.’

Eric made his way towards the pick-up truck in the near-empty multi-storey car park, tossed a plastic bin bag into the footwell of the rear passenger seat and began clearing the rubbish Nicole had carelessly thrown around the vehicle throughout their travels.

Amongst the trash were local newspapers, fast food wrappers, empty cans and bottles of soda, and photocopies of maps and highways that marked their journey together. One of the things he’d learned about her over the weeks was that she could still make a mess in a rubbish tip. It was one of the – many – things about her that had begun to grate on him.

As he cleaned, Eric mulled over how Nicole’s behaviour towards him had visibly shifted since his outburst in Lubbock. Maintaining his façade day-in, day-out, had been more exhausting than he’d expected, and after one major slip, he was convinced Nicole now looked at him differently.

For the rest of their journey back to Santa Monica, he’d tried to lighten the mood by engaging her in conversation or singing along with songs on the radio, but it had little effect. And by the time their truck rolled into the car park opposite the hostel, he was ready to slap the sulking out of her.

Since their return, Nicole had kept her distance from him, and it had come as a welcome relief. Back in the real world, there was no doubt he enjoyed her company, even if she was a little whiney at times, but he could dip in and out of her worries and woes if and when he liked. On the road, there was no escaping each another.

He recalled the day he realised his estranged mother had been admitted to his hospital ward and, upon checking her charts, discovered she had little time left. It saddened him that her pain couldn’t be prolonged as it was no less than she deserved, not that Nicole would understand why. Eric believed coincidence or fate had reunited them, and it was pure luck and good fortune that she’d built up a rapport with Nicole. But when Mrs Baker had left vague directions of
his
inheritance to
her
, everything changed. Nicole was no longer a friend, she was a means to an end.

But with no way of knowing what his mother had planned, Eric was ready to throw in the towel and head home. Once he’d finished cleaning out the truck, he planned go online and price up a flight back to London. Nicole could do whatever the hell she liked: his adventure was over.

Eric worked his way towards the driver’s side pockets, throwing away receipts and used chewing gum wrapped in tight little newspaper balls, before digging out rubbish from the passenger’s side. When he lost his grip of a stray Tic Tac, it fell under the seat so he fumbled around to try and find it. Instead, he grasped a small piece of paper. He was ready to chuck it away, but its red handwriting caught his attention.

‘
Don’t let her son find these – they’re not for Eric
,’ he read out loud.

It took a moment before the significance of the words to sink in, and suddenly Eric understood he wasn’t the only one who was playing a game.

But he knew Nicole had no idea what she was about to let herself in for.

Jake and Nicole acknowledged each other with polite but wary smiles when he entered the hostel lounge and sank into the sofa opposite her.

Peyk messily slurped miso soup from a bowl balanced on his lap and turned the television on, flicking around the stations for a news channel.

Nicole and Jake had seen each other around the hostel, but had yet to talk. Both were aware Tommy played a part in the other person’s life, but not to what extent. Nicole recalled that when she’d rebuffed Tommy’s advances, he appeared to transfer his friendship to Jake, and now she couldn’t help but feel envy at their closeness.

Meanwhile Jake recognised Nicole as the girl from the hostel party Tommy had tried – and failed – to kiss, and was slightly resentful of Tommy’s attraction to her.

And while Nicole anxiously awaited Tommy’s return from his meeting with Ron’s contact and news of her diamonds, Jake also waited for his friend to reappear so he could apologise for storming out of the bar the previous afternoon. He wanted to offer Tommy an explanation for his sudden tantrum, but the jury was still out as to whether he could trust him enough to tell him the truth about his past life and his subsequent actions.

Because Jake knew what could happen when you mistakenly trusted someone.

TWO YEARS EARLIER – LONDON

Stuart Reynolds was no stranger to loneliness.

Lasting friendships were hard to make in foster homes, and even when he joined Lightning Strikes, his feelings of isolation continued. A part-time, behind-closed-doors relationship with Zak Stanley didn’t help him to find the meaning of belonging either.

But as Stuart sat on a wall opposite Geri Garland’s four-storey mansion on the wealthy side of Notting Hill waiting for her to return, he’d never felt more alone in his life. He pulled his hood over his head to shield his hair from the drizzling rain.

He looked from side to side to make sure he wasn’t being watched by a rogue paparazzi and removed two wraps of cocaine he’d kept at his apartment for Zak’s visits, dabbed his finger inside and rubbed the powder into his gums.

Eventually he recognised Geri’s Range Rover pulling up outside her town house. Her driver opened her door and she exited, putting on her sunglasses for the five-metre walk between the vehicle and her front door. Stuart hurried towards her, the drugs already making him alert and filling him with bravado.

‘What have you done to me?’ he yelled, and Geri turned around sharply. Another man appeared from the passenger side of her car and pushed Stuart backwards as he approached her.

Geri glanced over the top of her sunglasses and offered an insincere smile. ‘It’s alright, lads, he’s harmless. Come in, Stuart, let’s get this over with.’

TODAY

‘Fuck, man!’ yelled Peyk suddenly, and spat his soup across his bare legs.

He turned up the volume of the television, as a ‘breaking news’ graphic filled the television screen, along with a photograph of Zak Stanley and the word ‘murdered!’ emblazoned across it.

‘This just in,’ began the female newscaster, ‘Police sources have confirmed that actor Zak Stanley has been found dead outside his Hollywood home after an apparent attack.’

‘Oh my God,’ began Nicole, watching as cameras broadcast live from the street she and Jake had followed Ruth to days earlier. Black and yellow police tape had been attached to trees on opposite sides of the road to cordon off the area, while forensic investigators wrapped in blue plastic suits placed numbered markers on the road.

Neither Jake’s body nor his face moved as he processed what he was watching.

‘According to sources, it appears Mr Stanley was stabbed to death by a stalker,’ continued the newscaster. ‘His body was taken to UCLA Medical Center where he was pronounced dead on arrival.’

A small crowd of hostellers began to gather in the room, all stunned and some sobbing at what was being shown. Nicole suddenly lifted her hands to cover her mouth at the next image to flash across the screen.

‘And we have just received this footage taken by a passenger on a Hollywood Hills tour bus. It has yet to be confirmed, but it appears to be an ailing Mr Stanley with his attacker.’

As the HD footage focused in on the figure with her head on Zak’s chest, Nicole instantly recognised Ruth.

‘No,’ she gasped, ‘Oh no, no, no.’

Instinctively she wanted to find Eric to tell him the news until she remembered why that part of their relationship was as dead and buried as Mrs Baker.

She turned her head to look at Jake, but he had already disappeared.

The sweat trickled down Eric’s face as he furiously rummaged around the truck searching every nook and cranny of the vehicle. He didn’t know what he was looking for but he knew from the note it was important enough for him not to be made aware of it.

He hunted under the floor mats, down the back of the seats, through the boot, under the bonnet, and even rattled empty soda cans until he suddenly thought of the one obvious place he’d yet to examine. Remembering the air vent he’d kicked at Buffalo Springs Lake and Nicole had later fiddled with, he yanked out the plastic covering, put his fingers inside and rummaged around, until he found what felt like a small, sharp stone.

He pulled it out and dropped it in the palm of his hand. Instantly he knew it was part of his mother’s legacy – a modest but perfectly formed, polished diamond.

‘Gotcha,’ he muttered, then sat back in the seat and began to consider where Nicole might have hidden the rest.

He promised himself only one thing – this would not end well for Nicole.

‘I’m trying, but I’m just not getting it.’

‘No, darling, neither do I. Give me Constable or Renoir over this experimental twaddle any day of the week.’

Jane and Savannah’s heads tilted at right angles as they stood staring at a 15 foot by 15 foot painting in a plush art galley on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Dubbed the ‘coolest block in America’ by
GQ
magazine, everywhere – from the boutiques to the salons, restaurants and bars – was beyond Savannah and Jane’s budgets, but at least the galleries were free to browse. Although quite what they were peering at, neither could be sure.

‘It looks like a dwarf playing tennis with an ostrich in a bonnet,’ continued Jane.

‘It says on the plaque that it’s a portrait of a post-apocalyptic snowman.’

‘Well, who am I to argue with art? I can barely draw a stick man. What do you say to admitting defeat and grabbing an iced-tea in the café upstairs?’

Savannah followed Jane up two flights of clear Perspex stairs, where they sat on stools sculptured to resemble opened-palmed hands. Roseanna’s warning that there was someone in Savannah’s life she shouldn’t trust weighed heavily on her mind. Despite trying to be more trustful of people, she’d several times caught herself questioning Jane about her life back in England to see if her story altered, but there were no discrepancies. A day earlier Savannah had allowed herself to feel safe and now, so soon, she worried she was heading back to square one. She didn’t want to doubt Jane’s motives in befriending her or begin pushing her away, but it would be foolish to ignore the obvious.

‘I might not understand art, or even the people in Venice some of the time, but I am drawn to Los Angeles,’ continued Jane. ‘Not all that show business gubbins of course, but areas like Venice, Santa Monica and West Hollywood. How about you? Can you see yourself raising your baby here?’

‘I guess so. I don’t think I really have much of a choice for now. Once I save up some more money, I’ll rent a little apartment and, when he’s born, I’ll get a part-time job that doesn’t involve taking my clothes off or sliding down a pole.’