He releases me. ‘I wish you’d stay,’ he says.
‘Sorry. Thanks for this, anyway. Laid a ghost to rest. Cheers.’
I can’t believe my last word to him is cheers, but I can’t think of any others, so I wave awkwardly and dive for the door.
The vision of him, half-naked and oddly vulnerable, his hand reaching out uncertainly, imprints itself on my memory.
Why would I feel sorry for him? For such a long time, all he had to do was ask. It’s his own stupid fault.
Anyway, pity is one thing. Love is another.
I lean against Chase’s suite door and speed dial Lloyd.
His phone is switched off.
Chapter Eleven
Huffing, I stomp towards the lifts, resolving to call a cab from the lobby.
Will Lloyd be at home? What if he’s still in the gambling den? With his phone switched off, that seems the likeliest possibility. I have no desire to re-enter that atmosphere of suppressed evil and dissipation. But I feel I have to see Lloyd, now, more urgently than I have ever needed to.
I have no idea, looking at my strangely-not-me reflection in the mirrored lift, what I’ll do when I find him. Part of me wants to slap him for putting me in that position with Chase. Part of me wants to hold on to him for grim death.
I examine the dishevelled girl in the long shirt and tux jacket more closely. Those bite marks will take time to fade. All my lipstick is kissed off and my mascara has smudged below my left eye. I look like a really, really low-rent Sally Bowles.
I’m halfway through singing a drunk-sounding version of ‘Mein Herr’ when the lift door opens.
I strut across the marble singing ‘You’re better off without me, Mein Herr’ until the night receptionist looks up at me and says, ‘Sophie Martin?’
‘That’s me.’
She nods over towards the cocktail bar, which must surely be closed at this hour. I turn away from the desk and teeter towards the smoked glass dividing the darkened bar from the low-lit lobby. Damn these heels.
I peer around the doorway, into the gloom. In the corner, I can just make out the silhouette of a man. He has a drink on the table in front of him, a tumbler, and he’s staring down at it, his shoulders low.
‘Lloyd.’
He looks up and leaps to his feet. ‘You … you’re here.’
‘Why the fuck did you turn your phone off?’
‘I didn’t! I …’ He grabs it from his jacket pocket and stares at the screen. ‘Oh. Sorry. Battery’s flat.’
‘Just as well Chase didn’t try to kill me then, eh? Jesus, Lloyd! What were you thinking?’
‘I really thought it was charged up.’
By now we are facing each other, inches away, in the centre of the deserted bar.
There’s a weird quality to the air between us; it seems thick and swirly, like a fog. His eyes are brimming with something – not tears. Something else.
‘I would never have put you in danger. Did he do anything to you? Are you OK?’
‘I’m OK. Can we go?’
‘Sure, I’ll call a cab. Or rather, you can.’
‘No, it’s not that far. I want to walk.’