But even his relationship with Andrew was a mess because his wife was always wanting Brad to screw her, and she wasn’t the first — a lot of his friends’ wives wanted him. Some he had obliged but it always ended badly.
His erection dispersed as he looked over his life. He had wasted it, he knew that. Even his attempt at writing a novel was futile. He had millions at his disposal, his vast charitable donations taken care of by trustees, but there never seemed any point. He hated what he had become: a dilettante, worse, a clone of his father.
Lorraine headed up Beverly Glen. She passed Brad Thorburn’s home, parking the car a few houses up, half hidden from the road. She then walked back, wishing Rosie was with her. The house looked peacefully silent, the faint sound of a lawn mower buzzing from somewhere in the grounds, and she pressed the intercom at the side of the gates. She rang again as the dog appeared. He barked and then stood looking at her through the gates. Brad answered. ‘Who is it?’
‘Lorraine Page.’ She was fazed when he laughed. He didn’t say anything else but the gates clicked open. He stepped out onto the porch and leaned against the door frame, a glass of wine in his hand. He was smiling, watching her as she walked slowly towards him. She was so tall and the sun made her hair seem more white than blonde. She wore high-heeled slingback shoes, a straight skirt with a slit to one side, revealing a fraction of her thigh. The jacket was ill-fitting, a little too large, and she had a white shirt beneath, open at the neck. She wore no jewellery and it didn’t look as if she had on any make-up. She carried only a clutch purse, in her right hand. As she reached the first white stone step on the porch, she tilted her head; even from this distance, he could see the scar on her cheek.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ he said quietly. She wasn’t expecting him to be so gentle, just as she didn’t expect him to hold out his hand to her. It felt strong, gripping hers tightly. ‘Do you know the police are looking for you?’ he said, not taking his eyes from hers, trying to see what she wanted from him, but her fine hair hid her face.
‘Yes, but I have to talk to you.’
He guided her towards the hallway, his hand now at her elbow, with a firm but not threatening hold. They walked into the drawing room. He remained at the door, finishing his wine, watching her.
Is your brother home?’
‘No.’
‘Are there any servants here?’
‘Just the housekeeper, she’ll be leaving at four.’ He ran his hand over his neck to the back of his hairline. The T-shirt moved aside and she could see part of his shoulder.
She was silent. She stared hard at him and his eyes slid away, as if embarrassed by her clear, direct gaze. She opened her purse and took out her cigarettes, flicked open the packet and placed one between her lips. ‘Do you have a light?’
He came in and put down his empty glass. She thought he was going to pick up a table lighter but instead he came close, took the cigarette out of her mouth and tossed it aside. He then slipped his hand to the small of her back and pressed her to him. In her high heels she was almost as tall as he was. He kissed her and let his hand fall to her buttocks, pulling her even closer to him. He kissed her again and she responded, her tongue traced his mouth and she moved back just a fraction, taking his free hand to place on her heart. She was trembling. He scooped her up into his arms — she was so incredibly light — and carried her with ease out of the drawing room and up the stairs. One of her shoes fell off, then the other, as she rested against him. She was crying, her head buried in his shoulder. He had never known such sweetness, and by the time he laid her down on his bed, she was sobbing. He just held her, rocking her, soothing her, kissing her hair, kissing the tears that poured down her cheeks. He looked up and saw himself cradling her as if she was a child. He was scared of his own tenderness towards this woman, who both excited him sexually and aroused emotions he had not thought himself still capable of having. His arms tightened around her, until the weeping subsided and she lifted her lips to him. This time his kiss was not gentle but passionate, hard and crushing, and she responded.
Steven Janklow walked into the house. He looked into the spotless empty kitchen. The housekeeper had already left. He picked up his brother’s empty wine-glass, took it into the kitchen, and put it carefully in the dishwasher. He lifted the lids of two covered dishes left out for dinner. He was hungry but he didn’t know what he felt like eating; nothing tempted him.
He started up the stairs and stopped. He saw Lorraine’s shoes, first one then the other. He held them in disgust, cheap shoes, and carried them up the stairs, turning towards his brother’s quarters. He was just about to put them outside his door — he’d done it before, not just with shoes, but brassières, skirts and, more often than not, panties — when, as he drew closer, he could hear a high-pitched moan, like a mewing. It made him cringe. They all sounded alike, all his brother’s whores — even his wives. Janklow had intended simply to leave the shoes but the door was ajar. He put out his hand to close it, averting his eyes in case he got so much as a glimpse of their writhing naked bodies. The woman moaned again, and even though he didn’t want to look, he couldn’t help himself.
Her face was tilted towards him, eyes closed, mouth half open. She was astride his brother, her body like a young boy’s rather than a woman’s — that, perhaps, was what had made him stare. As she moved, thrusting forwards, Janklow gasped, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. He didn’t shut the door; he didn’t dare make a sound as he backed away silently. Not until he was safely along the corridor did he turn and run. He clung to the toilet rim as he vomited, retching with terror, his whole body breaking out in an icy sweat. He couldn’t be mistaken, it wasn’t possible. There couldn’t be two women with that face, that scar. It was her — the woman he had picked up, the woman who had bitten his neck until he bled like a pig.
He ran cold water over his face to try to calm himself, but his hands trembled violently. His mind screamed out questions. Why was she here? How could she have got to him here, traced him here? He tried to control his breathing, stop himself panting. Brad often dragged back whores and cheap bitches but he’d never have believed he would have sunk this low, not with that woman — she was disgusting. He flopped on his bed, saying to himself it was just a coincidence, it was that and nothing more, just a terrible coincidence. He rolled over, clenching his fists, trying not to break down and weep with fear. It was then that he saw his briefcase, knew at a glance that it had been moved, and worse, that it had been opened.
A thought struck him. He got up and went to his mother’s room where he checked her jewellery drawer. He knew that the boxes had been taken out — they were all in the wrong order. Someone had been in here and into his own room, checking him out. Was it Brad? Or was it that woman? He returned to his bedroom and bolted the door. He had to get rid of her. If she was a call-girl, if Brad had done his usual, brought her back to the house, he would just have to wait. They never stayed all night. When he saw her leave, he would follow. It was simple. He would kill her as he had almost done before, only this time he would make sure. He looked at his bedside clock, it was almost five. If she was like the others, she would probably be leaving after an hour or so to start work at night. Walking the streets as she had been doing when she had picked him up. He remembered how she had rested her hand on the car door, asked if he needed her help. There hadn’t been a car in the drive, had she come by taxi? Or parked out in the street?