Thin Air by Storm Constantine
In the pool area, a heated conservatory, carpeted in soft green, she took off her thick towelling robe amid the lush palms and threw it on to a recliner. Beneath the robe, her trim body was sheathed in a silvery swimming costume. Before sliding into the water, she tied up her hair in a band. The pool was comfortably warm, like a mother’s arms. For a few moments, she floated on her back, probing the thoughts that were troubling her.
Rhys hadn’t been himself for the past few days. He was never nasty with her, but sometimes, he just went quiet, as if something was on his mind. He’d never tell her what, though. She knew he must sometimes be under a lot of pressure, and that the operation of big business took its toll, but she also realised his work provided the beautiful house she lived in, the expensive clothes and cosmetics, and because of this she had to put up with his silent moods. It didn’t happen often enough to cause her great concern, and usually she just breezed through these cloudy phases, confident of the clear skies ahead.
Samantha sighed, and swam a few leisurely lengths, her sleek, toned limbs cleaving the water. Steve, her personal trainer, would arrive in about half an hour. A strenuous work-out would take her mind off her anxieties, the rush of blood and adrenaline through her body would banish any hint of the vague depression, which had hung about her for the last few days. On several occasions, she had walked past her husband’s study to hear him talking on the phone in a heated yet muted manner. Something serious must be happening. He’d sounded angry, even distraught. In her company, he’d been distant and distracted. At dinner two nights ago, she’d carefully asked him if everything was all right. He’d just bared his teeth at her in an unconvincing grin and assured her, ‘of course, honey. Just busy.’ That must be it. Yet tension hung in the air like washing steaming in a small hot room. It made the house seem smaller. In bed, Rhys had muttered softly in his sleep. Samantha had lain awake beside him, praying that he wasn’t in trouble financially. Her lips had worked soundlessly in the dark. And last night: it had been horrible. She had gone to bed earlier than Rhys, and as she’d begun to drift off to sleep, the phone had started to ring downstairs. She lay there, motionless, listening to it, holding her breath. It was so late. Late phone calls always meant trouble, didn’t they? ‘Answer it, Rhys,’ she whispered. ‘Please answer it.’ It rang and rang, the sound increasing in volume, as if the phone was coming up the stairs. Samantha sat up in bed, called, ‘Rhys!’ Then the ringing stopped, and she lay back down, her heart beating fast. She waited for him to come upstairs and tell her whatever news had come, but the house was silent. She couldn’t sleep. Should she get up? It was so cold. He’d come to her soon.
Later, she’d been awoken abruptly by the clamour of a high wind. It attacked the house like a predatory animal, in short bursts of furious power. Rhys had not come to bed. Beside her the flat duvet was endless and icy. Her mouth was dry, filled with a sour taste. The wind dropped for a few moments, then hurled itself at the house again with renewed force. She heard the front door rattle downstairs. It was as if something was trying to get in. She groped for the switch to her bed-side lamp, reassured when a warm honey-coloured light chased the shadows from the room. She was behaving like a child. It was just bad weather. Sitting there, she could not move.
Minutes later, she jumped when the door opened and her husband came into the room. ‘Oh, Rhys, it’s you!’
He smiled. ‘Who else?’
‘The phone went earlier,’ she said. ‘Who was it?’
He took off his jumper. ‘Only business. Nothing to worry about.’
He seemed more like himself now, relaxed.
‘I hope that wind doesn’t take the slates off the roof,’ she said, settling down again. She had nothing to worry about. He’d said so.
‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ he soothed.
‘I was a bit frightened.’
He laughed. ‘Poor baby.’
In bed, he held her close, and she realised the wind had dropped. She could be so silly sometimes, she thought.
Steve bounced into the pool area; a short man, who made up for his lack of stature by his fanatical fitness. Samantha climbed out of the pool. Now that Steve had arrived, she didn’t feel like working out. She felt tired. It was most unlike her.
‘Morning, Sam,’ Steve said, flexing his muscles.
She smiled at him. ‘Hi.’ She shrugged herself back into her robe. They would share a jug of mineral water before getting down to work. ‘Can we keep it fairly low impact today?’ she asked. ‘I’m not feeling too good.’
‘You work at your own pace,’ Steve answered, graciously.
She knew she’d find it hard to keep up with him. Her nerves were still jangling from last night. She tried to concentrate on Steve’s conversation about his triumphs down at the gym, but her mind kept drifting back to the wind and the darkness. If Steve sensed she was preoccupied, he didn’t reveal it. They went into Samantha’s dance studio, and soon the music was pounding, their bodies flexing, stretching, reaching. Samantha felt as if someone she didn’t know was standing at the edge of the room behind her, watching her perform. It wasn’t a person, exactly, but something else, she couldn’t say what. It was as if some terrible event was looming, something she had known would happen, but had forgotten about. The last time she’d felt like this was just before Rhys’s daughter, Lacey, had run off. She shuddered, hoping her feelings would pass. She didn’t like anything interfering with her routines.
After the work-out, when Steve had left, she took a shower and dressed herself in her favourite soft leather suit with the fringes, beads and diamond studs. She only wore the palest shades of khaki and cream. In her dressing-room, she re-fluffed her hair, and touched up the curling finger-nails, which were a testament to the results of never having to do her own washing-up. She felt a bit better now. The exercise had helped.
In the kitchen, her house-keeper, Mrs Moran, massaged cleaning fluid into the work surfaces. ‘Morning, Betty,’ trilled Samantha. ‘Kettle on?’ Her voice was high-pitched, still coloured by an East End twang.
The older woman smiled and flicked a switch. ‘Mugs are laid out,’ she said. This was a morning ritual between them.
Samantha sat down at the kitchen table. Sighing, she reached for the daily papers - they only took the ones that Rhys owned. She looked at the astrology columns in each one. If only astrologers could talk a bit of sense. Half the time she hadn’t a clue what they were on about. ‘What’s this supposed to mean?’ she said to Mrs Moran, who was now busy fussing with the tea-pot. ‘The easiest choices are sometimes the most difficult to make.’ She frowned.
‘Rubbish,’ announced Mrs Moran, then added, ‘perhaps it means getting some new curtains or something.’
‘Yeah.’ Samantha tapped her talons on the table-top. ‘Do you ever get funny days, Betty?’
‘Funny days?’ Mrs Moran frowned. ‘What d’you mean, love?’
‘Well, you know, when you feel a bit out of sorts for no reason.’
‘Oh, we all get those days, love.’
Samantha smiled, reassured, and licked her fingers, before flicking through one of the papers. ‘Oh, that’s all right, then. Must have got out of the wrong side of the bed.’ She giggled, unaware of the rather searching glance Mrs Moran directed at her behind her back.
‘Rhys’s up in London today,’ Samantha said. ‘Won’t be back for dinner.’ Restlessly, she got to her feet and went to the kitchen window. The garden looked so different now; the lawn was a brilliant patchwork of fallen leaves. It looked beautiful. Pity that the gardener would soon sweep them all up. Samantha sighed. She wished Rhys liked animals. Today was just the right kind to go romping through the leaves with a dog.
None of the local women were very friendly - thought too much of themselves - so Samantha often felt lonely, although she’d never admit this to herself. Betty Moran was her only local friend. In the evenings, when Rhys wasn’t home, she had the telly. She still had friends who had been in modelling with her - Cherry
Just as Samantha turned away from the window, she saw movement in the corner of her eye. Someone was walking towards the front door, and by the time she directed full attention upon them, had already disappeared from her view - the kitchen window was on the side of the house.
‘Oh, we’ve got a visitor,’ she said to Betty. In the deepest corner of her heart, Samantha still harboured the hope that one day the local women might relent, accept her, and invite her to a coffee morning or something. She tip-tapped out to the hall, waiting for the door-chimes, an elaborate orchestra of bells, to ring. But no-one pulled the wrought iron handle outside. Disconcerted, Samantha stood in the hall-way, staring at the door. Should she open it before the visitor rang? It might seem too eager. Eventually, curiosity overcame her. Someone had walked up to the house, but apparently they hadn’t intended to visit. What was going on? Slightly annoyed, Samantha opened the door. She couldn’t see anybody. Perhaps some cheeky local had been taking a short cut across her land, but it seemed almost too cheeky to march in full sight along the front of the house. Anyway, their security man, Terry, wouldn’t have let that happen. His alertness to intruders bordered on a sixth sense.
Samantha took a few steps beyond the white-columned fascia. The wind was unfriendly, gathering up the leaves in spiteful fingers. It seemed as if the air was alive with flying colours. Shivering, Samantha went back into the house and closed the door.
Walking back into the kitchen, she said, ‘No-one at the door. I hope it wasn’t anybody up to no good.’
‘Perhaps it was just the leaves,’ said Mrs Moran.
‘A leaf person!’ shrieked Samantha, laughing wildly. She didn’t know why; her remark hadn’t been that funny.
The previous afternoon, Rhys Lorrance had called Zeke Michaels to deliver a morsel of news. It did not come blanketed in a sauce, but bare upon its plate. ‘Dex has been seen, Zeke.’
This news had been greeted by a short silence, followed by a nervous laugh, and the remark, ‘Again? He’s always being seen, Rhys.’
Lorrance had sighed impatiently. ‘I’m talking about a genuine sighting. Would I trouble myself with anything less?’
‘Well, no, of course not.’ Michaels had cleared his throat. ‘Where’s he been seen, and by who?’
‘That doesn’t matter to you yet. All you need to know is that the source is reliable.’
‘Right, right...’ Michaels risked a question. ‘But was the sighting in this country?’
‘Yes. I would like you to contact the Samuels woman. You must speak to her in person tomorrow. Get her to the office as soon as you can after ten.’
Lorrance had refused to say anything more on the subject, saying only that he would explain in more detail when they met, face to face, in the morning.
Now, at half past nine, Rhys Lorrance stood very still before Zeke Michaels’ desk. Michaels was clearly disturbed. Lorrance had little patience with his underling’s discomfort. Situations only became big problems if you believed them to be so. ‘What time is the woman arriving?’ Lorrance asked.
Michaels looked at his watch. ‘In about an hour, like you wanted. How do you want me to handle it?’
Lorrance sniffed thoughtfully. ‘Well, I consider it likely Dex will have contacted her, but we can’t be sure. I suggest you try to shock her into saying something. Get a reaction. If he hasn’t been in touch with her yet, he might well do so very soon.’
Michaels grimaced. ‘Why should he? He just walked out of her life. She must have been part of his problem.’
Lorrance laughed; a quiet, disturbing sound. ‘Perhaps. But I’ve a hunch he’ll want her services.’
‘I think she’s just going to laugh in my face,’ Michaels said. ‘This won’t be the first time someone’s told her they’ve seen him, definitely seen him.’
Was there a note of belligerence in Michaels’ voice? Lorrance fixed him with a meaningful stare. Presently, Michaels’ eyes dropped and he picked up a pen from his desk, fiddled with it.
‘Oh, come now, Zeke,’ Lorrance said. ‘I’m sure you can concoct something to wind her up. Break her defences. That’s not beyond you, is it?’
Michaels sighed petulantly. ‘Even if she has seen him, I can’t see her telling me about it. Why should she? We were never exactly bosom buddies.’
‘Then assume she already has seen him. An outright accusation should provide an unguarded response.’
‘She’s not that stupid.’
Lorrance sighed patiently. ‘Well, let us just say, we are casting bread upon the waters of life. I am curious to discern what may return to us.’
Michaels stared at him with round eyes for a moment or two. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘No.’ Lorrance rose to his feet and sauntered towards a door opposite the entrance to the office. ‘I shall wait here in the bathroom, Zeke. I should be able to hear everything clearly, don’t you think?’
Michaels shook his head. ‘This is ridiculous. Hiding in bathrooms? You’d better be quiet. It’ll be embarrassing if she susses you. Remember Jay Samuels is a nosy little bitch.’
Lorrance ignored this advice. ‘Just speak to her. I’m not asking you to win her trust. Just hook her.’
The summer seemed to have given way to winter when Jay stepped out of her front door. A scimitar of north wind cut down the street, stripping the trees of their autumnal flounces. The air was full of twisting leaves. Things arrive on the wind, Jay thought, as she got into her car. When the wind changes, they come. She could not remember where she’d heard this particular bit of folklore, but again it reminded her of her childhood. Perhaps all future events had their roots in the past.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about the impending meeting with Zeke Michaels. There was no doubt the summons had kindled excitement inside her - curiosity even - but she was also uneasy about it. It could be no coincidence it had arrived so soon after the peculiar phone calls and the incident with the magazine. Since she’d talked with Gina, there hadn’t been any further strange phenomena. Perhaps it had all been self-induced and her confession had somehow cleansed her of it.
The last time she had been to the Sakrilege building, Dex had been at her side, a young prince of the music business, commanding the simpering respect of courtiers, who did all but bob curtseys as she and Dex had made their way to the top floor. Few people here would recognise her now. She steeled herself on the pavement outside, then breezed into reception. The decor had changed. It was all chrome and leafage now. Jay approached the first of the company gate-keepers behind the desk. ‘Hi, I have an appointment with Zeke Michaels.’
A surly teenager, a perfect example of the starved, hollow-eyed look cultivated by the kind of magazine Jay worked for, raised her eyes from a computer screen. She wore a name tag that said ‘Tara’ and looked bored beyond imagination. Jay wondered how often the girl practised the look at home. ‘Name?’ said the girl rudely, tapping keys.
‘Jay Samuels.’
‘Take a seat.’ The girl flapped a hand towards a group of sofas next to the glass wall that looked out onto the street.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Jay, flashing her sweetest smile. She sat down amid a jungle of unnaturally green specimen plants.
Of course, he’d keep her waiting. She wouldn’t let it bother her. The lovely Tara wouldn’t off
After ten minutes or so, a bright young woman, dressed in a tailored beige trouser suit, her yellow hair cut in a swinging bob, came bouncing through the double doors that led to the inner chambers. ‘Hi there. Jay Samuels?’