A Fine Mess

Chapter 18

The plush carpet of the penthouse living room shaded from light beige to dark grey from the scrape of her shoes as Moira Weston paced, wringing her hands and finally shredding the piece of tissue she'd been worrying. She shoved the remnants into the pocket of her satin robe and snugged the belt tighter about her waist. Doubt came in the form of an upset stomach and a sour taste filled her mouth as she stared vacantly out at the black night.

The call to Brian had been a smashing success; he was baffled, angry, threatening-everything she needed to capture on tape and as arranged, it had been picked up and taken to the technician for dubbing but now, on the critical day, her erstwhile partner/lover was letting down the side. It was almost midnight and she still hadn't heard.

Below, the city bustled with the lights and sounds of its denizens playing out the endless struggle to be king of the hill. The pendulum wall clock struck eleven-fifteen and she emitted a tiny groan, hurrying to the bar that curved out from the glass wall beside the doors to the expansive balcony. The phone call she expected was already three and one quarter hours late. Barton would be home by midnight and she needed to have the finished tapes when he arrived or the carefully planned scheme would be all for naught, not to mention the degrees of humiliation she had let herself endure. The liquor burned her throat on the way down and she set the glass down, coughing and hastily pouring a second just as the unregistered cell phone rang. Still trying to clear her throat, she grabbed it up and answered.

"Moira?"

"Yes. Yes! Where the hell are you? Why haven't I heard?"

"Oh, you sound funn-"

"Tell me!" She rudely cut off the caller.

"He didn't come home did he?"

"No, thank god. What the hell is happening?"

"Nothing, everything's fine. You should hear any second now. Our man picked up all the material."

"Thank God! I expected this call hours ago." The line went dead and Moira shut the phone off, slowly sinking onto the leather sectional sofa and trembling uncontrollably. The telephone on the marble-topped coffee table jangled and Moira froze, one hand on her throat the other hovering over the receiver. The machine answered and she gasped aloud as she heard the message playing down the line. It was perfect-so perfect she couldn't believe it wasn't real.

She stood over the phone, fascinated as she listened to the edited version of her original recording and then when it stopped, she quickly rewound it, put it in the desk with the other one and reloaded the machine. She was ready. It was happening just the way he said it would; her worrying, while unavoidable, was unnecessary. It was now in motion she could do nothing but see it through to the end. It struck her with a sudden frightening clarity that what had been a wish fantasy was now an event moving at lightening speed, carrying her forward to its inevitable conclusion.

Calmer now, she made herself another drink and went back to the window, observing not the city below but the reflection of a surprisingly smug woman who tossed her stylish hair back and drank with a confident abandon. It was almost unbelievable how the events of the past weeks had eluded Barton. Moira snorted at the idea of having three separate yet simultaneous affairs in such a short time and not once having her husband suspect. If she had known how easy it was she might have gone that route years ago. Face it Moira, it's the lure of money and power; without such a major incentive you would have been caught first time out. She threw back her head and laughed, covering her mouth as the elevator bell sounded outside in the hall.

•••

Moira heard the key in the lock and hastily composed herself for her husband's entrance. The tapes were in the drawer and although she would have preferred hearing them all again before confronting her husband, she mentally crossed her fingers that they would sound as good to him. The moment had now come for her most important deceit, notwithstanding the affairs.