chairs or lying flat and spread open like grounded birds. The room smelled of her, a sweet mixture of perfume and skin spiced with unwashed female laundry. Like a room that had been lived in by the same woman for at least a week. But they – he – had only checked in yesterday. He didn’t like the thought, so he pushed it from his head. He had to find out who she was.
How do you start a conversation like this? An unpleasant thought was occurring to Ryan, that his new friend might be crazy, or some kind of scam-artist. What other woman just gets in bed with you and pretends you’re old friends?
He didn’t get a chance to phrase the question. She was doing something with his hand, prising his fingers apart, looking at them. ‘Where’s your ring?’ Her voice was concerned.
‘Ring?’ At the moment, the word meant nothing to him. She might have been speaking Cantonese.
‘You didn’t lose it? Ryan!’ Panicked now. She sat up, refusing to let go of his hand.
All right, she’s crazy, then.
‘What ring?’ he asked carefully.
Her eyes went wide and her mouth tightened. What would have been humour a moment ago was now sarcasm and hurt. She held up her right hand, her long fingers spread and wriggling. A plain platinum band rode on the fourth.
Oh, my God. My God. She thinks we’re married. He had to break this to her easy. Gently. But firm as well. He had to be very firm with her.
‘I … I just took it off for a while. It was … hurting.’
Her shoulders lowered, eyes went soft again. Mercurial. Her temper came and went. That’s why you fell in love with her, a voice whispered to him. He ignored it.
She seized his hand, covered his fingers with soft kisses. ‘I told you we would get it resized. It’s not that much money.’
‘Yeah … yeah.’ He began disengaging himself from her embrace, which was accordingly tightened.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Just … bathroom. Back in a minute.’
She let him go and leaned back on the covers, pouting. ‘OK, but don’t be long. We’ve both got to shower. We’ve got a plane to catch, don’t forget. And you know what a nightmare security is these days.’
Nodding and smiling, he made his escape.
‘Oh, and be careful! Your clumsy princess spilled the mouthwash.’
The small rug in the bathroom was, in fact, soaked green with mint-smelling liquid. A pair of nylons hung over the shower rod. Ryan found her wallet resting on a fat paperback behind the toilet. He tore it open and found her driver’s licence.
Under her smiling, happy-looking picture was the name IRENE CARSON.
Ryan sank down onto the toilet, feeling sick. She had his last name. The DC address on the licence was his. If this was some kind of scam, it had been planned well in advance, though for what purpose he had no idea.
Fingers rapped on the door.
‘Darling!’ The woman’s voice – Irene’s voice – called gaily. ‘Done yet? I have to tinkle!’
* * *
Ryan left while she was in the shower. He moved fast, snatching up his laptop and shovelling clothes into the suitcase. He didn’t stop to put on anything but jeans and a T-shirt and his running shoes.
He shut the door gently behind him, then ran for the elevator, the sound of the shower fading to nothing as he barrelled down the hallway. He’d tell the front desk that some insane woman had broken into his room. Let them deal with it. He had a plane to catch.
But as he waited for the elevator, he began feeling the plan was basically unsound. She – Irene – had his address. And a Washington, DC driver’s licence that as good as said she was his wife.
And there was the little matter of the sex. He could see the concierge nodding sympathetically, then, with an ever so slight creasing of his brow, inquire why, since Sir was so put out over the strange woman in his room, Sir had, with such evident enthusiasm, fucked her cross-eyed?
He told himself these things, but there was something else he couldn’t quite escape, that he couldn’t quite face.
He didn’t want to leave her. Even though he was on the move, walking with great determination to a particular destination, the world around him seemed oppressively quiet without her sexy chatter. Less colourful without her clothes thrown everywhere. It was as though time moved more slowly without her.
Dear God, he couldn’t possibly be missing her?
Ryan turned as the elevator opened and began walking quickly back down the hall. He would face her. Sit her down and explain the whole thing to her, even if she ended up screaming. It would be the right thing to do.
As he approached the door, he realised he couldn’t hear the shower. Something was wrong. She couldn’t possibly have finished so soon.
Strange thoughts fizzed up in his head like bubbles in a glass of cola. She wouldn’t have finished so soon. She likes her showers. Anything with hot water. After a shower she’ll fill the tub and splash around like a little girl, singing. It drives you crazy when you have a plane to catch …
Ryan opened the door with the key-card and smelled nothing. He stepped inside, moving slowly and carefully, reminding himself of a detective. The absence of smell pervaded the entire room. No flower-scent of perfume, no sweet-stale smell of her laundry. No shoes or magazines on the floor, or loaded shopping bags. He went into the bathroom and there was no spilled mouthwash soaked into the bathroom carpet. No dog-eared romance novel, no wallet. The room was empty, without any sign of Irene Carson.
Exactly as he had left it the previous night, when he’d turned in, still single, still alone.
Ryan thought perhaps he had entered the wrong room. The solution was wonderfully appealing in its simplicity. He ran eagerly out into the hall, but the numbered plaque beside the door read 414. His room – theirs?
Either way, it was empty now, and Irene was gone.
* * *
Ryan ended up missing his plane, and he didn’t think that was entirely an accident on his part. He got to La Guardia in enough time to make the gate, but he couldn’t seem to make himself move with any purpose.
He kept thinking about Irene. During the cab ride to the airport he had managed to convince himself that the whole episode had been some kind of elaborate hallucination. You’re overworked, Carson. Seeing things. Need a vacation. By the time the cab had arrived at La Guardia he had convinced himself otherwise. He just wished he had thought to pocket her driver’s licence. Even a pair of her panties.
Because women didn’t just disappear, not without leaving some token of themselves behind.
At the airport Ryan finally found himself sitting outside a fast-food restaurant, staring at a couple making a display of feeding each other bites of breakfast sandwiches, snickering
