A Fine Mess

Chapter 35

With things seemingly in hand, Myles wandered to the window and stared out at his garden. Manicured to within an inch for a hefty monthly fee, the sculpted yews surrounding the flagstone patio stood guard to the carpet of lawn that rolled away into a grove of birch and cedar trees several hundred feet away. A pair of finches performed a brief, aerial dogfight before swooping in to roost for a few short seconds on the stone planter by his steps, and Myles likened their acrobatics to the previous night and the supple, unresisting Moira. He smiled at the memory and wiped a finger under his nose.

The tall, thin figure appeared at his periphery and he cleared his throat and beamed a fixed smile at the tall, thin woman crossing toward him.

"Miriam, darling." Myles held out his arms and she moved right into them, offering her crisp lips for a kiss.

"Sarah wants to know if, instead of squash, she can serve sweet potato with the meal tonight."

Jesus, this is the reason for you, Moira! He assumed a contemplative pose and nodded. "Sweet potato will be fine, dear."

"I thought so too. Just wanted to check." She applied a perfunctory hug and pecked his cheek before backing out of his embrace like a newly christened ship. Stiff. Proper. Correct.

Always correct. Myles watched her leave and wiped at his mouth with the tip of his finger. He looked back out the window and reassembled his previous thoughts.

Would she be awake yet? Did she have any idea that her assumed power at WesCat was devolving into nothing more than a fantasy and that he, Myles Forbin, would emerge the new king and she the slave? He checked his watch and found it was almost noon then closed the library door and went back to the desk and picked up the phone.

"Moira, good afternoon. Did you sleep well?" His eyes sparkled at the raspy sound of her voice.

"I don't know, my head is pounding." It came out husky and weak. "What happened last night, I- my clothes are all over the room? What room is this anyway, and where are you?"

"I'm in my library admiring the serenity of nature through the window. There's a pool of sunlight on the lawn just beyond the patio and it's created a shadow that reminds me of you in the moonlight last night." He grinned smugly, listening to her breathe into the mouthpiece. "You are in Suite seventeen-oh-two at the Warren Arms. You're familiar with the hotel, right? All Barton's parties? That's where we had dinner last night, remember?" Her silence was leaden. "We both had a little to much to drink so I booked the suite. It was quite a night, darling." The line remained silent for another several seconds. "Moira?"

"You stayed too?" Her voice shrank to a hoarse whisper.

"Oh yes indeed." Moira groaned and Myles did a small twirl beside his desk, laughing silently.

"But when- why did you leave?"

He perched on the edge of the desk and rested his weight on his fingertips, tucking the receiver under his chin. "Actually, I had to. I don't have the luxury of taking time from work, particularly with so much to do. The vote takes place soon, my dear. By the way, Moira, the room was booked in your name so you can stay as long as you like. Why don't you go and have a nice hot shower, get yourself together and then call me later. I'll be right here at home... working. Come over if you like, Miriam has her bridge club at one of her friends today." He rang off, grinning widely.

With a freight train roaring through her head, Moira swore and dropped the phone, missing the cradle and fumbling dizzily until she got it nested then leaned unsteadily on one elbow, pinching her nose between the eyes with her free hand. His explanation set an alarm ringing somewhere deep in her beleaguered thoughts and she felt a sense of dread as some of his words began to gel. Moira stared across the room, her vision weaving like long ribbons in a breeze, finally settling on her feet at the end of a leather sofa.

As she tried to sit up her head began to swell inside and a dull, heavy pain moved up her neck, filling her ears. Grabbing the edge of the cushion to keep from tipping over, she lay still, mentally and physically gathering enough strength to sit and finally stand, supported by the arm of the sofa. In the large mirrored wall of the dining alcove across the room, she gawked in horror at the apparition facing her. The hair was loose and matted about her shoulders, her makeup was smeared around her eyes and her lipstick looked like it was put on with a plunger. What in God's name had they done?

Moira stumble through the debris of empty wine bottles and discarded clothing to the bedroom where she fell weakly against the doorframe for support. Bedding was strewn about as if from a hurricane. Food soiled the sheets that remained on the bed and large stains of red wine ran over the edge of the mattress and pooled on the carpet. The nightmare of confusion continued with another thud of rolling pain between her ears and she felt her way along the wall to the bathroom, switching on the light and moaning as the sudden brightness pierced her stinging eyes.

She felt for the counter and leaned heavily over the sink, afraid to look again in a mirror. A wet towel lay folded on the edge of the counter and beside it a used, disposable razor. Her face was puffy and the spoiled makeup displayed its own horror show; she cried at the sight, afraid and unable to focus her thoughts. At last she managed to stagger to the shower and turn it on, sitting down in the corner and letting the hot water pound away the pain and tears.

It took almost until dinnertime for Moira to do the best she could with her clothing to make it as presentable as possible and the effort only added fuel to her humiliation. Her hose was shredded so she had to go bare-legged and the creases in her dress, although dampened and hung to dry, were still noticeable when she emerged from the elevator into a busy lobby and made her way to the front desk, past the shameless stares of patrons who recognized the recent society pages celebrity.

The manager, a stern-faced, thirty something, presented the bill and waited while Moira produced her credit card and paid without giving the bill a look. She strode out to the taxi rank without a word, entered under her own steam and directed it to her home.

•••

She listened, chastened, as he scolded her for her behaviour when they were in the middle of such delicate negotiations. The shareholders were prepared to vote in their favour but if a whiff her carrying on reached them the game would be up. Moira pleaded her case, stating that it was because things looked so dangerous for a while and that they were only intending to celebrate the recovery of the material. Myles had taken advantage, she pouted. He was becoming a nuisance and a liability; she wanted something done. The explanation for patience was spelled out once more accompanied by assurances that it would all be over shortly and they would be sitting somewhere warm and exotic, laughing about the whole affair.

He had finally committed to some kind of future. Moira promised to be patient.

Peter cursed as he hung up the phone. Arnold had agreed to assign the trust account with suspicious ease but nevertheless, the money was there and Peter had access. Now he had to tap dance his way through the minefield that was Moira, Myles and the federal monetary watchdogs and get the money overseas into a secure account in bearer bonds. So close. He could hardly believe they'd done it. Miriam was definitely a genius.