A mere minute seemed to pass before
Vince’s door opened again. Amy emerged, her face purple. Gently she closed the
door and daggered Nancy with that Cleopatra glare. ‘He says he will be down to
take his treatment after breakfast.’
Nancy’s
thumbs stopped twirling. Wild orchid revisited as Amy stepped past. Violet
glinted from her doughnut bun before she presented her glower. ‘Nora Clements.’
Her expression fell still. ‘I can’t find anything about that name to
substantiate the stuff you told me the other day. I don’t reckon you knew Mr.
Fairchild and I don’t believe you helped him quit smoking.’
Nancy’s
throat tightened. ‘I knew Mr. Fairchild.’
Amy
snorted. ‘I’ve heard my share of bullshit from opportunists and blackmailers
out for somethin’. I’ve just gotta figure out how you got your hands on those
business cards.’
Nancy
knit her lip.
‘Go
give Mr. Jonas his treatment. I’ll be here to serve your medicine soon, Nora
Clements, sooner than you think. You can bank on that.’ Amy slid her bag into
the fold of her armpit and continued down the stairs. Before Nancy had reached
the top, Amy had slipped from sight. Henry loitered at Vince’s desk but Nancy
did not wish to encounter him. She backed herself into the utility room and peeked
out of the window. Only once his denimmed figure had emerged from the back of
Vince’s garage did she enter the foyer.
Amy’s
convertible had gone. The gallery’s row of casements presented an aspect unfettered
of vehicles. Cubist shapes of light and dark channeled her sights to the
Edwardian door at the bottom of the gallery. Curious, she approached what
appeared to be a sun-dappled fig tree on the other side of the glass.
Within
a huge conservatory, black leather couches and a view across the copse hinted
at design bent on music appreciation. Racks of LPs and CDs one day collectable
accompanied the mandatory upload – thousands of albums, according to the teak
music system with five-foot speakers. A favoured playlist informed Nancy that
in spite of his passion for the new, Vince had a thing for the eighties, disco,
soul, Motown and the female voice. Nancy pressed a button to be engulfed by Joan
Armatrading’s Love and Affection.
She killed the power feeling somewhat guilty. She forwarded the selection to
find the evocative title, Hurts by
Johnny Cash and played the first few bars. Someone had put a message within an
album sleeve of Aretha’s, Lady Soul ‘to the Adonis of Notturno.’ Vince’s first taste of
success, Nancy recalled: a model for men’s cologne before launching a brand of
his own. He had then conceived Nexus nightclubs, beach resorts, hotels and a
record label. Vince had grown notoriety for his playboy lifestyle which would
appear to conclude with his engagement to Honor Palance, a bond-like female
lead in action movies. The pap wagered on wedding bells before Vince dumped
her, allegedly by text. He had dalliances with models, a diplomat’s daughter a
baroness and countless respectable hopefuls.
That
look, that sidelong leer.
Nancy
closed the door to appraise the photos on his gallery wall: parties, yatchs,
entourages, resorts. Leon toasted the viewer in one shot. A rare photo of Vince
sitting alone arrested her. The lens seemed an intrusion to one who stared
fiercely, his hair slicked back, his brows arched in condescension. Ruthless
intelligence lurked behind that look; torment beyond his supremacy where few
could get past. What did he think about when he was alone at night? A draught
fondled her cheek. She glanced aside. Light from the foyer etched out his form,
imposing yet encumbered by the crutches. Nancy lowered her gaze, abashed he had
caught her looking at his picture. Sunlight shimmered on the wall as his
crutches clunked. His shadow slid into view before stopping. She pinched her
lip. ‘You don’t stay here much, do you, Mr. Jonas?’
His
tone was quiet. ‘It’s where I entertain guests.’
Nancy
made a retreat for the music room. His crutches started up behind her.
Discomfiture coloured her cheeks to assume a casual pace, as speedy as casual could
be. His tempo fell in with hers. Photos and casements glided past. Her Oxfords
got smart, as though between duties. The fig tree neared ahead. His crutches
creaked, his crutches clacked. Air caressed her knees and Vince leveled up.
Light and shadow, light and shadow, as a passenger on a carriage. From casual
to brisk, her toes arrowed ahead. To her left, she glimpsed his crossbar within
his grasp. She knit her jaw and extended her palms to bounce against the glass
at the end of the gallery. She twisted neatly to face him.
Vince
stopped before her, his breaths steady and his pallor fresh, like the
toothpaste on his breath. Nancy lifted her chin and realised defiance likened a
prelude to a kiss. Her throat opened out and her pulse drew his eyes. Shackled
to his crutches, he would have to explore her by mouth. Her top button
fastened, he would have to taste both cotton and flesh. But he had the liberty
to push his tongue beneath her collar and fill the depression at her throat.
Without
taking his eyes from her pulse, he rested his crutches on the wall either side
of her. He then planted his hands upon the doorframe to fence her in. Nancy
kept her eyes on his; her fingernails pinching her palms. He leaned in. A fresh
dressing enclosed his throat, which twitched when he spoke. ‘My legs,’ he
uttered. ‘They don’t hurt so much…I can keep up with you.’
Nancy’s
crisp tone wavered. ‘That’s good, Mr. Jonas. It shows what a good night’s sleep
can do.’
His
eyes hooded over. He gathered his crutches and retreated from her. Nancy
kneaded her hands as Vince disappeared into the foyer. He would await her in
the drawing room to receive a fresh dressing. She would cloak herself in nurse
to cleanse his legs with the rigor he should now expect from her.