An Unwanted Guest(5)
He gets up and lifts the bags, then follows Lauren up the stairs. The place seems so quiet. Maybe it’s the snow, or the thick carpet, or the soft lighting, but everything seems muffled, subdued.
‘Did you notice anything odd about that woman Riley?’ Lauren whispers as they climb the elaborate staircase.
‘She looked pretty rattled,’ he admits.
‘She didn’t say a word the whole time. I mean, they only slid into a ditch. No actual harm done.’
‘Maybe she’s been in a car accident before.’
‘Maybe.’ When they reach the second floor she turns to him and says, ‘She seemed awfully tense. I got a weird vibe off her.’
‘Don’t think about her,’ Ian says, giving her a sudden kiss. ‘Think about me.’
Chapter Three
Friday, 5:30 PM
GWEN SITS ON the bed furthest from the door – they have a room on the second floor with two double beds, as requested – and watches Riley anxiously. She could tell that woman, Lauren, had been wondering about her.
It dawns on Gwen for the first time that maybe she isn’t what Riley needs right now. Gwen is becoming infected by Riley’s quiet panic, rather than Riley being reassured by Gwen’s calm pragmatism. Riley has always been the stronger personality; she probably should have realized that Riley would have an effect on her rather than the other way around. Already Gwen finds herself looking into dark corners, jumping at unexpected sounds, imagining bad things happening. Perhaps it’s just being in a strange place, and the old-world atmosphere of this hotel.
‘Maybe we should freshen up a bit and go down for a drink before dinner,’ Gwen suggests.
‘Sure,’ Riley says unenthusiastically.
She’s pale, and her long blonde hair hangs limply around her face. There is none of that liveliness she used to have. She was beautiful once, but now it’s hard to think of her that way. What an awful thought, Gwen realizes. She hopes that beauty will return. Gwen looks imploringly at her. ‘I know you’re going through a tough time. But you have to try.’
Riley flashes a look at her; annoyance maybe, or resentment. Anger. Gwen feels a little flare of anger of her own and thinks suddenly that it’s going to be a long weekend if she has to watch everything she says. But she immediately reminds herself that Riley is one of her best friends. She owes her. She wants to help her get back on her feet; she wants her gorgeous, vivacious friend back. She wants to be jealous of her again, she realizes, like she used to be.
‘Let me brush your hair,’ Gwen says. She gets up off her bed and rummages through Riley’s handbag for her hairbrush. Then she sits down on the bed behind her and starts brushing her hair in long, soothing strokes. As she does, she sees Riley’s shoulders begin to loosen a little. Finally she says, ‘There. Put some lipstick on. I will, too. And we’ll go down and get something to eat. Then we can come up here and have a quiet night and talk, just like we used to. Or read, if that’s what you want.’ She’s brought a couple of books herself. She wouldn’t mind escaping into a book. Her own life is far from perfect.
A corridor runs past the reception desk along the west side of the hotel, dividing the west wing of the hotel into front and back rooms. Down the hall is a bar, but when David Paley pops his head in, the room is empty. To the right of the door is the bar itself, with an impressive array of bottles, but there is no one behind it to serve him. The room is panelled in the rich, dark wood of the lobby. Across from the bar, on the other side of the room, is a fireplace with a handsome mantel, and above the fireplace is an oil painting – a dark, moody study of a man holding a pheasant by the feet. The windows look out onto the front lawn. In front of the fireplace is a gathering of small tables and aged, comfortable leather chairs. It’s a man’s room. He wonders whether he should stay and hope a bartender shows up, or return to the lobby and have a drink brought out there. It’s awkward, travelling alone. He sits in a leather armchair by the fireplace, even though there is as yet no fire burning in the grate, waits a few minutes, supposes that no one is coming, and wanders back out to the lobby. There’s no one there either; the young man who was behind the desk earlier has vanished. David taps the old-fashioned bell on the front desk. The clear ring is louder than he expected and he starts a little. The same young man from before rushes up to the desk, appearing from the hall that runs behind it, beside the staircase.
‘So sorry to keep you waiting,’ he says. ‘We’re a bit short staffed because of the weather.’ He smiles apologetically.
‘I was wondering if I could get a drink.’
‘Of course. We’re going to be serving drinks here in the lobby. I’ll be bringing out the bar trolley in a couple of minutes.’
‘That’s fine,’ David says amicably. He just wants a drink, a comfortable chair, and a warm fire. And then a good dinner and a deep, undisturbed sleep.
He sits down and wonders who might join him. He soon hears the rumble of wheels and the sound of glasses and glances up and sees the young man pushing a well-stocked bar trolley into the lobby. The usual bar staples are there, as well as a cocktail shaker, a bucket of ice, several mixes and garnishes, good liqueurs, and assorted glasses. Underneath are wine bottles, as well as a champagne bucket filled with ice, with the foil-wrapped neck of a bottle sticking out.