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“This way, sir,” she said with a wink.
Her moan was muffled and in the side-on reflection Alex could see that she bit her lip to keep from crying out. He looked away again; he had no need to see them reflected. It was, after all, a scene that he’d played myriad times before – different flights, different girls and different first class washrooms. Even in first class, room was tight, but nonetheless there was enough space for him to bend the attendant over, her tight skirt pushed up and gathered around her waist. He’d regretted it almost as soon as she’d led him in here. The grateful look of excitement had grated on him. His hands tightened on her bony hips and he thrust into her hard, his hand drifting around between her thighs to stroke her roughly, drawing her own wetness to her clit which he pinched gently. The loud moan that burst from her told him he was getting her off.
“That’s so good.” She practically squealed the words as she came, contracting around him like a vice, tipping him over into his own orgasm. He slumped over her with a grunt and then as his breath slowed, he eased himself out of her. She turned around to face him. Slowly she reached down between his legs, peeling off the condom which she’d provided. Almost lovingly she wrapped it in a tissue and dumped it in the bin. With a wink she smiled at him. “Like I said, if there’s anything you need, you just have to ask.” Alex gave her a small, tired smile. In the cramped space their bodies were crushed together, almost chest to chest, as she adjusted her blouse, rearranged her stockings and then straightened her skirt, smoothing it over hips as slim as a boy’s. “I’d better get back to work.” She pushed out of the bathroom, leaving him alone in the cubicle and Alex was filled with the sense that he’d just helped her tick something off a list she had somewhere. Fuck a movie star – Check.
He stared at himself in the mirror, noting the tired lines around his eyes and the beginnings of stubble. He glanced at his watch – only an hour till they landed. At least the diversion with the hostess – her name had already escaped him– had kept him from dwelling on what lay ahead.
CHAPTER 9
Helena Golden glanced at the understated Piaget watch wound around her slim wrist and clapped her hands together in a burst of irritation, the sound ringing out harshly in the silent room.
“I can’t bloody believe him.” The words snapped out of her, even as the anger behind them seemed immediately to dissipate. With a sigh she dropped her hands down by her sides as she tried to hold in the frustration building inside her. She stood still in the middle of her grandfather’s sitting room, taking long deep breaths, as she tried to calm down. She smoothed down the sleeveless black Lanvin dress that she wore, which was typical of her style, demure and understated and yet elegantly classic. There was something regal about her bearing, men often thought her remote, but as she caught a glimpse of herself in the large gilt mirror above the mantelpiece, Helena paid little attention to her appearance. Looking out on the grey day through the Juliet balcony in the sitting room, which opened onto a glorious view of Hampstead Heath, Helena’s eyes were drawn to the black hearse that waited outside the house, the hearse that carried her grandfather’s coffin. A tear gathered in the corner of her eyes but she wiped it away angrily as once again her eyes were drawn to her wristwatch. Alex was late. Helena turned as she heard a sound on the stairs and moments later the sitting room door opened.
“Tal,” she greeted her best friend with a weak smile, relieved that for now at least she didn’t need to put on a brave face. Like her, Talia was dressed in a sombre black dress and dark tights teamed with flat ballet pumps. Talia moved across the room and engulfed her in a hug and suddenly Helena felt the tight control that she’d been keeping on her emotions start to slip away.
“How are you doing?” Talia asked the question as they pulled out of the embrace and Helena knew that her friend was asking the question seriously, that she really did want to know how she was doing. Helena shrugged.
“The hearse has been round the block three times. Mother is not here and Alex…” Helena trailed off, swiping away tears with the back of her hand, still careful not to smudge the subtle eye make-up that she had applied that morning. “Alex…isn’t here, I can’t believe he’d miss Gramps’ funeral.”
“He won’t. He’ll be here.” Talia said the words firmly, even as inside she felt a spurt of anger at her friend’s brother. Helena glanced once again at her watch and then she turned to Talia with a small frown.
“We have to go.” Slowly Talia rose and, arm in arm, they walked towards the door.
Across London at Heathrow Airport, Alex emerged to a shock. He had forgotten how in England summer was simply a word to collectively describe the months of June to August and often had no bearing on the actual weather one might encounter. The grey day that met him seemed to mirror his mood and he buttoned up the casual Jil Sander blazer that he wore and strode, passport in hand, towards the fast-track aisle that awaited VIPs and movie stars. The immigration guy gave him a broad smile, glancing only cursorily at the passport, before saying, “Welcome home, sir.”
Alex acknowledged him with a small nod, aware as he walked towards the arrivals hall that all eyes were on him. Keeping his eyes fixed in the middle distance, never making eye contact with anyone, Alex stepped onto the escalator that would take him past the baggage carousels, towards the exit. As he approached the exit into the main arrivals hall, with every swish open and then closed of the sliding doors, a barrage of snapping flashbulbs would ring out. The paps were waiting. Alex stopped; he was unused to emerging into the throng without an entourage and he continued forwards cautiously, moving through the automatic doors which brought him out directly into a melee of photographers.
Usually he would have Shay on hand to lead him towards some waiting car but, still feeling the effects of the alcohol from the plane and the onset of jet lag, Alex was momentarily disoriented as the flashbulbs started up. Suddenly he was surrounded: voices rang out, even as the click and flash of rapid snaps blinded him. Alex spun round and in his head he cursed Avital, who no doubt would have had a hand in leaking the news of his arrival at Heathrow.
“This way, sir.” Alex gave a smile of relief as several burly Heathrow security men stepped between him and the wall of photographers. Slowly they left the braying group behind, eventually emerging from a side exit where a Mercedes with blacked out windows waited for him. As he settled into the back seat, Alex leaned his head back against the headrest, the beginnings of a hangover making his head pound.
“Where to, sir?” The driver turned back to him and waited expectantly. Alex glanced at his watch with a sigh; he was late.
“St Luke’s Church in Hampstead, please.” Ready or not, he was going to have to face them now, all those faces he’d left behind.
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