A Quiet Life(73)

Her voice was confident as she spoke to him, but as she came back into the house she wished she could pretend to be sick and go to bed and forget about the whole thing. She felt like trash, so she was careful to dress in a way that made her look as sleek as possible. She had bought a fox wrap second-hand a few weeks ago, and she wore it over a plain black dress that Cissie had given her, and a pair of perfect nylons Ellen had sent her. She had to carry a large bag in order to fit in the bugging device, rather than the little purse the outfit demanded. She put tissue paper around it and an American cake of soap in its box on the top. Then, if anyone looked inside, she hoped it might just look as though she had been shopping that day. When she got to the hotel, she leaned over the desk. ‘Mr Blanchard asked me to go up to his room.’

‘He is not there.’

‘He wanted me to wait for him there – Room 248.’

The man knew Laura, of course, how could he not? In the weeks she had been chasing Blanchard, she had been careful to smile at all the staff she met and to tip them lavishly with Stefan’s money. He passed Laura the key as if it was nothing, and she went to the elevator. At Room 248 she knocked first, in case Stefan had not been able to get to Blanchard, and then put the key in the door.

She remembered the disorder of the room when she had accompanied Nina, and in an odd way she was expecting it still to be in the same state, but of course that was all gone: it was hotel clean. There was a large desk under the window, with an onyx lamp on it and a green leather blotting pad. At first she thought of fixing the bug under that, but the telephone was next to the bed, and surely it would be more useful for Stefan to be able to hear Blanchard’s telephone conversations. She sat on the bed, putting her hand behind it, but it was too close to the wall for her to consider gluing the bug behind the headboard. The bedside table was flush against the wall too, so she opened the top drawer to see if there was space to fix it inside somehow. Lying there in the drawer was a pistol, among papers and coins. Laura closed the drawer and stood up. With the sight of the gun, her feeling of suspended animation had shifted. It had only ever been false courage driving her on, she realised; a sense of unreality. But this was real. Fear overwhelmed her.

Just as she put her hand on the door handle to leave, it was rattled from the other side. Blanchard was there, standing bulkily in the door, although it was only quarter past eight.

‘Why are you here?’ he said without preamble.

‘You told me to meet you here.’

‘I didn’t tell you to sneak into my room.’

Laura tried to look innocent and stupid, as she muttered that she was sorry, that she had misunderstood.

‘You should be sorry. Give me my room key.’ He came into the room and shut the door with a slam, before gripping Laura’s wrist with his hand and taking the key out of her fingers. The fear was hot now, filling her stomach.

‘Shall we go down for dinner, then?’ she said, with an awkward attempt at insouciance.

‘A drink first,’ he said. Somehow she had to change the temper of the evening and withdraw the invitation she had made when she had offered her body to him silently a couple of weeks ago. But here she was, in his room, and here he was. Her thoughts dashed and dashed, but she saw no way out.

He was mixing martinis of a kind, pouring cheap gin into glasses and splashing vermouth on top. Laura sat down on the sofa and he gave her a drink, at the same time putting a hand on her knee, pushing her legs open. Instinctively she moved away, stifling a desire to slap him.

‘I’m so sorry, it’s so embarrassing, I’m not feeling very well. I ate oysters at lunchtime – I’m not sure … may I use the …’

‘It’s over there.’

In the bathroom, Laura washed her hands in cold water, wishing she did not have to come out again. She would have to pretend she had been taken ill, she thought. She came out to find him waiting for her by the bed.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m really not well. It’s such a pity; I had been looking forward so much—’

It was as though he had not heard her. He grasped her arm with his hand, bending his face down to hers. Automatically Laura pushed at his chest to get away.

‘I think I’m really unwell.’

‘I think you are playing a game. And girls who play games with me get punished.’

With no more warning, Blanchard threw her face first onto the bed. She felt his hand force her legs apart, ripping the silk of her underwear, and then his fingers were thrusting inside her. Laura screamed, but his other hand was on her mouth, pulling her head back so hard that she could hardly breathe. His fingers were pushing into her so roughly, as though they wanted to rip her softness apart. She found herself limp under him, unable suddenly to resist.

‘You like it like this,’ he grunted. It was terror that prevented her from moving. He moved his hands away from her genitals to undo his flies, positioning himself just above her. Laura moved very slowly under him, turning over and putting her hands up to stroke his shoulders, as if she had succumbed entirely to him, allowing a little moan as if of pleasure to escape her. Somehow, she did not know how, agency had come back to her. She was able to dissemble, she was able to act as if she desired him. He allowed her to move under him, he put his mouth to her breasts and she felt him biting her right nipple through her dress. Then, just as he finished unfastening his trousers, she suddenly flung herself sideways and grasped open the drawer in the bedside table. Before he realised what she was doing, she had the pistol in her hand, pointing it at him. He started back, his exposed penis slowly becoming flaccid.