The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
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he called. Perhaps she was in the bathroom, couldn’t hear.
‘Lana.’ He said her name more forcefully. ‘Open this door.’
Still nothing.
He leaned his face against the wood and tightened his jaw against the cool, hard surface. Only quiet.
After a moment he dropped to his knees and drew to one side the gold leaf covering the keyhole. It was just possible to glimpse the fabrics of her bedroom, the apricot florals of a bed that was perfectly made. And perfectly not slept in.
Like a leopard, he pounced.
Turning from the door he flew down the stairs at startling speed, his bathrobe flying out behind him like a cape. In his own quarters he pulled aside a Man Ray print, reached into a narrow tunnel that could just accommodate his arm and drew out a plain, dark brown box. Inside was a collection of keys, each individually labelled. One was bigger than the rest and it was this he extracted: the skeleton key. He had never had cause to use it before.
He returned to his wife’s rooms with shaking hands and inserted the key into the lock. As it turned, he closed his eyes. He had never accessed Lana’s private space–it was as alien as unlocking a stranger’s house.
Inside, he was surprised at how neat she kept it. There was very little about the place that was personal, no photographs or pictures, no diary at her bedside, nothing that said who she was. The surfaces were clear except for a number of ragged books stacked together on a far shelf. They were all fiction; paperback novels whose pages were well thumbed. He scanned their spines. Mostly classics, none of which he’d read himself.
He yanked open her bedside drawer. Inside was a notebook with nothing written in it, though it looked like several pages had been torn out, then under that was a large white envelope. He lifted one corner and saw a face he recognised. It was a copy of the Las Vegas Reporter, with that hotelier St Louis on the cover. With grim satisfaction he applauded her: she was a hard worker, his wife, reading up on her premiere before sleep.
‘Lana?’ he called again, just to be safe. It wouldn’t do if she discovered him.
In the bathroom he warmed to his cause, fancying himself the private detective. The window was open a crack and he pulled it shut, securing the latch. Her cabinet yielded little–just a handful of half empty tubs of face cream, some packs of aspirin and a tube of toothpaste. There was a stout brown glass bottle with the lid screwed on tight. He turned it round in his hand, finding no label. Removing the cap, he tipped out a couple of white tablets and touched his tongue to their surface. Painkillers. For some reason he felt disappointed.
Then, just as he turned to go, the trash can caught his eye.
With a bare foot he pressed on the cool metal lever and the top eased open. Inside, screwed up tight, only just visible from where it had been hidden under a drift of paper, was a small paper bag. It had the air of having been concealed in a great hurry. He bent to pick it up.
When he first pulled out the white box, he didn’t understand what it was. He opened it and shook its contents, knowing it was somehow significant but not being able to work out why.
Then it dawned.
Cole reeled backwards on to the toilet, his mind hot.
It was a joke, it had to be, a practical joke. His head darted this way and that, like a bird’s, searching the room for the set-up, thinking he must have been Punk’d.
He knew he hadn’t.
How had she …? It wasn’t possible. This was some kind of sick mistake.
Hopelessly he attempted to process it, flipping through a catalogue of possible explanations, looking for something, anything. But there was no getting away from it-the facts were right here, heavy in his hand.
Cole dropped the box with a light smat that belied its significance. He sat very still, his chest rising and falling, his breath strangled.
How could she have done this to him? How could she?
Cole picked up the box and calmly returned to his rooms, locking the door quietly behind him. He got dressed in a series of thick, methodical movements.
After that he made two phone calls. The first was to Lana: he was a fair man, he would give her a chance. Her cell was switched off. Calmly he hung up and placed a second call.
‘Marty, it’s me. My wife is gone.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Find her.’
Lana had chosen to fly direct from LAX. She boarded an ordinary plane, with no entourage, no security or bodyguards. In a baseball cap and dark glasses she was something of a conspicuous figure, but moved quickly through the airport so that by the time she was recognised, it was already too late. The aircraft was only half full, so she was able to sink into her seat, look out the window and go, for the most part, unnoticed.
On the plane she slept, plunging so fast into a deep, sudden unconsciousness that each time she woke it felt like hours had passed, not minutes.
She sipped a bottle of water and tried not to over-think what she was doing. It was foolish; a hasty, ill-considered, selfish plan. But she didn’t know what else to do. Every time she reached for a solution it was like running trapped in a dark grid of streets, every avenue a dead end. This was her only lifeline.
Placing a hand on her stomach, Lana tried to connect with the person inside. It didn’t seem possible that life had caught on–a chance thing, tiny but strong and wanting to fight, accepted by her body without her consent. She felt like she was walking around in someone else’s skin, like she had borrowed a coat that didn’t quite fit.
A flight attendant offered her coffee, clearly star-struck. When Lana declined, she put down her tray and produced a paper napkin and pen.
‘Would you mind?’ she asked excitedly, keeping her voice hushed, holding them out.
‘Of course.’ Lana scribbled her name and the woman beamed, stuffing it in her uniform pocket. Lana wondered if she could tell, like every female she encountered instinctively knew.
The plane dropped through an air pocket and Lana gripped one hand to her seat, the other to her belly. She felt a violent, visceral surge of protectiveness. There were two of them in it now; she wasn’t alone.
It was cowardice, running away when the going got tough and there was no one else, disturbing the life of a man whose heart she had no rights to.
She closed her eyes. For years she had kept her distance with people, it was safer. Friends, colleagues, lovers–since Lester died she had kept them all at arm’s length. People got hurt when they got close, it had always happened that way. After her brother’s death she had lost contact with her foster mom: it was entirely her choice, she had felt too ashamed, too much of a liar to continue writing, and when she moved from Belleville it hadn’t occurred to her to pass on the new address. All she’d ever done was cut people out; shut herself away when they wanted to help. She thought of Arlene with regret and wondered if it was too late.
This child deserved an honest start, and a mother with the courage to face up to her past. There was only one person she could go to. Only one person she could trust.
Briefly Lana turned on her cell as they began their descent into Vegas. A missed call from Rita–shit, she wouldn’t be pleased–and one from Cole. His single attempt spoke volumes. With a heavy heart she knew he had detected her absence. Her thoughts darted to the pregnancy test that she’d stupidly left in the trash–thank God she was the only one with a key. It would be safe there until she figured out what to do.
She had lost enough family to last ten lifetimes. Whatever the outcome, she was keeping this baby.