specifically, but before the baby comes, definitely. He said it would depend on who he could find.’
Who he could find. Lee mulled on the words. Was he gathering material for a story after all? Was he finally going to write the memoir that publishing company in New York had been pushing him for? It would be a big-money deal, as she recalled.
‘If he rings again, I’ll tell him you were here,’ Gisele said. ‘It would mean a lot to him to know that you came over. He really misses you.’
Lee heard the plea – and accusation – in her words. She had finished her coffee (thank God). ‘I should get going,’ Lee said, pushing back her stool and standing up. ‘I didn’t mean to take up your time. I just wanted to . . .’ Why had she come here? She still didn’t know. Having coffee with Cunningham’s perfect wife had not be high on her to-do list.’ . . . check you were okay. I know it’s often hardest on those who are left behind.’
‘Thanks, Lee,’ Gisele said, looking surprised, and Lee wondered what Cunningham had told his wife about her – how he had explained their estrangement and yet called her his best friend.
They walked down the stairs again, Lee buttoning up her coat. The high pressure that had stalled over the country for the past week was showing no signs of moving and the clear skies meant biting temperatures.
‘You know, if you don’t mind me saying – you’re different to how I thought you’d be.’ Gisele stopped behind her.
‘Oh? How did you think I’d be?’ Lee asked, turning back to her on the doorstep.
Gisele shrugged. ‘Tough? Scary? Harry always says you’re the bravest person he’s ever met – man or woman.’
Lee looked away, feeling her throat close up. ‘Well, Cunningham is prone to exaggeration. You haven’t seen me trapped in a bathroom with a spider.’ Gisele laughed and Lee felt her constriction ease. ‘He’ll be okay, Gisele. Cunningham’s a pro. He knows what he’s doing.’
‘I hope so.’ Gisele nodded, closing the door softly with a smile.
The door clicked and Lee’s smile disappeared as she stood on the step, the echoes of words running through her head. Palmyra . . . Hotel . . . Something he needed to do. In spite of her encouraging words to his wife, something wasn’t right about this, she could sense it.
She went slowly down the steps and stopped again, her heart pounding as her mind strained for reasons, connections and clues, while her eyes slowly refocused on her surroundings, telling her something else was wrong.
It was another moment before she realized her bike had gone.
‘I’m here, I’m here!’ she proclaimed, knocking back the doors so hard they banged against the walls. ‘Sorry!’
Bart peered around the black curtain re-rigged for the set, his eyes wild with barely contained panic. He ran over. ‘Oh my God, where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying you all morning! I was about to start calling the hospitals.’
She gave him a withering look. ‘My bike was nicked. I had to get another one.’
‘Right now? They’ve been waiting for over an hour!’ Bart hissed, gesturing towards the back of the set. Music was playing and she could hear low voices on the other side of the curved curtain, a young blonde woman pacing in and out of view, arms crossed over her chest and a finger pressed to her lips in thought. She was wearing cream heeled knee boots and a navy mid-length skirt with a polo neck. She looked put-together, composed, chic. Everything Lee, right at this moment, was not. ‘Did you even remember this was on?’ he demanded, trying to keep his voice down.
Oh damn.
‘Of course I did,’ she lied. She had cycled to Cunningham’s house without any conscious thought, drawn there as though on a pulley, needing answers, finding none. ‘But I had to get it sorted, otherwise how will I get Jasper later?’
‘Uh – a cab?’ he replied sarcastically.
‘Duh! It’s not that easy – his bike seat is a special order now he’s so big. It’ll take four days to come in as it is. I had to get it ordered this morning. I mean, really, he wants his own bike but I’m still not sure he’s ready yet, you kno—?’
‘No, I don’t know, Lee, and right now, nor do I care. You should have rung, or texted, to let me know.’