Chasing Summer. Abigail Gordon
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mind out of its dungeon of horrors to really look at the building for the first time. It was a solid square two-storeyed structure, painted an unprepossessing dark brown, with ‘MARTINE’S’ in gilt letters over a heavy-looking wooden door.
Mike moved ahead slightly up the front steps, the door yielding reluctantly to his push. He held it open and waved her inside. Salome stepped into the dimly lit, air-conditioned interior, her whole insides twisted as tight as a coiled spring. The door closed behind her, giving her an entombed feeling. She glanced around nervously as Mike drew to her side.
He was right about the restaurant. The interior was quiet and dark and intimate, with a small black and white tiled lobby, a classy-looking bar on their left, a flight of stairs straight ahead, and offices, Salome guessed, behind the closed door to her right. An attractive dark-haired woman in her late thirties and a smart black dress floated down the stairs, smiling at Mike as she approached. ‘Mr Angellini,’ she murmured with a gracious nod. ‘Your usual table has been reserved for you.’
Salome’s agitation was momentarily distracted when she followed the woman to the top of the stairs and realised why Mike had chosen this particular place to eat. Clearly, it wasn’t far from their block of units, since the wide windows on the upper floor displayed the same splendid view Salome had seen from her penthouse balcony that afternoon. Except that now it was night-time, with Darling Harbour, the city and the bridge ablaze with lights, their glittering reflections dancing in the black waters that lapped the foreshores.
Salome hesitated only briefly to admire the view before continuing her trek between the tables at the woman’s heels. Her eyes automatically noted and assessed the quality cream tablecloths and napkins, the comfortable cane-backed chairs, the silver candlesticks and the assorted potted palms placed discreetly for extra privacy. A place of class, without being ostentatious.
They were shown to the most private table of all, tucked away in a dimly lit corner, but still with an unimpeded view, a reserved-for-Angellini card propped up against the silver candlestick. Recalling the woman’s words that this was Mike’s usual table sent an ironic little smile to Salome’s lips. This was not his usual sort of date, though, was it?
Salome no longer had the slightest worry about Mike making a pass at her tonight. She knew he wouldn’t. Beneath his drily amused tolerance and neighbourly goodwill, he still despised her morals. It was all rather a sick joke, the way she kept wanting him, despite everything. He would probably laugh, if he knew.
Once they were seated, their hostess handed out the menus, lit the single candle, then asked if they would like a pre-dinner drink. Mike glanced questioningly over at Salome, but all she could think of was how brilliantly his eyes gleamed by candle-light and how sensuous his mouth looked in shadow. ‘Salome?’ he prompted.
Oh, God! she thought despairingly. ‘My usual,’ she managed huskily, guilt and shame a heavy burden in her heart. How could she be thinking and feeling these things for a man who thought so lowly of her? On top of that, she was supposed to be still in love with Ralph! It was all very confusing.
Mike ordered her a vodka and orange, and a double Scotch on the rocks for himself. The woman departed saying she would bring the wine list and take their orders when she returned with the drinks.
Once alone, an awkward silence fell over their table, with Salome deliberately averting her eyes from his too intuitive ones to stare blankly at the panoramic view.
‘How far are we away from home?’ she asked after a while. But she still didn’t look at him.
‘Only a couple of blocks.’
‘And you come here often?’
‘Often enough.’
Composed now, she swung her eyes back to face him, and was surprised to find she was able to look at him in a perfectly calm manner. See him for what he is, Salome, she told herself. A womaniser. A worse user, even, than Ralph. Maybe that will exorcise you of these unwanted and unwarranted desires.
‘You’ve had a lot of women, haven’t you?’ she said casually.
He seemed startled by her question, leaning back in his chair and studying her for a few seconds before answering. She found the delay almost as unnerving as his close scrutiny. ‘How many is a lot? Five? Ten? A hundred? And from what point are you counting? From my first fumbling encounter, or from the time I would classify myself as a passable lover?’
Salome began wishing she had not started on this subject. The thought of his making love to any woman was suddenly agitating her. Silly, really. What did it matter? It seemed, though, that this tack was certainly not curing her. Far from it.
She gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Please yourself.’
‘Oh, I usually do,’ he drawled. ‘Which means I decline to answer your question on the grounds that it might incriminate me. Unless, of course, you want to play mutual confessions... How many men have you had, Salome? Or have you lost count?’
She stiffened, but then laughed. ‘Touché. But I claim the same privilege as you, Mike. You already think I’m Mata Hari. I wouldn’t want to shock you further.’ And shocked he would be, she thought ruefully, if she said she’d only had one man, and that man was not her husband! Not that he’d believe her.
The drinks arrived at this fortuitous point, and Salome resolved to keep their conversation off sex for the rest of the dinner. It wasn’t easy, but she managed, chattering away about the weather and sport during the entrée, politics during the main course, music and theatre over dessert, then the state of the economy all through coffee and liqueurs. Salome could not have told anyone afterwards what she actually ate. Seafood, she supposed, since it was primarily a seafood restaurant.
Occasionally, she caught her companion giving her a frowning glance as though he didn’t know quite what to make of his remarkably well-informed companion. Salome smiled to herself at the irony of his confusion. Her own was far more unnerving.
It was past eleven by the time Mike announced they should be going. She stood up much too abruptly, and swayed on her feet.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked solicitously.
‘The wine has gone to my head a bit,’ she said, clutching the back of her chair.
‘Here...take my arm. What you need is some fresh air.’
‘Fresh air’ was putting it mildly. It was bracing and cold, a stiff breeze coming off the water. But at least it was sobering. Not that Salome had drunk all that much. She hadn’t. A couple of glasses at most. Perhaps it was the company that was so intoxicating, she thought tartly as Mike led her across the car park, his thigh brushing against hers with each stride.
‘Are you sure you’re capable of driving?’ he asked.
‘Perfectly,’ she stated with conviction, knowing she wasn’t over the legal limit and desperately wanting some respite from his physical nearness.
Still, she drove very carefully back to the apartment block, trailing after Mike’s Jaguar from a safe distance, and parking in slow motion in one of her allotted spaces in the basement car park. Mike carried her large case over to the single private elevator that operated from that level, using his key to operate the locked doors. Salome sighed as the doors whooshed shut and the lift began its rapid climb to the penthouse floor. A few minutes and she would be able to crawl into bed, taking her fuzzy head and wretched feelings with her.
Halfway between the fourteenth and the fifteenth floors, the unthinkable happened. The elevator shuddered to an unscheduled halt and the lights went out, plunging everything into darkness.
IT TOOK a few seconds for Salome to grasp what had actually happened. She stood frozen and disbelieving, hoping against hope that the lights would snap back on and the elevator would resume its smooth ride upwards.