and she can’t keep her eyes off young men. If you don’t call that stupid . . . then what do you call it?’
Sheila drew in a long breath. If she had written the script or if Bromhead had written it, it couldn’t have been more word perfect.
Listening in his car outside the motel cabin, Bromhead decided he had what he wanted. He snapped down the stop button on the recorder, started the car engine, sounded his horn three times, in short loud blasts, then drove rapidly back to the Plaza Beach Hotel.
Sheila heard the horn blasts and she stood up. The first stage of the operation had been successfully completed, now came the more difficult stage.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘Let’s eat.’
She went over to the plastic bag that Patterson had brought, opened it and took from it two neatly packed parcels.
Patterson watched her. Why was he feeling uneasy? This woman had become so impersonal, so different from the moaning, thrashing woman who had clung to him, uttering little cries of pleasure as her fingernails dug into his flesh.
Well, if she was hungry . . . there was still plenty of time. He looked at his watch: 19.45. Yes . . . it would be an idea to eat, then make love again. He too suddenly felt hungry.
She went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of Chablis he had brought. He had already half drawn the cork.
She poured the wine into glasses.
He lay still, watching her, wished she wasn’t wearing the bathrobe.
‘Take that off, Sheila,’ he said. ‘I want to see you.’
‘Later.’ She opened the packets and put one of them beside him, then she sat away from him with the other packet on her knee. ‘Chris . . . have you seen the old lady’s will?’ She began to eat the smoked salmon sandwich. ‘Her last will and testament . . . that’s what it’s called, isn’t it?’
He was reaching for a sandwich, but his hand paused.
‘Will? Why bring that up?’
‘I asked you a simple question: can’t I have a simple answer?’
God! he thought, how remote she’s become, and he became aware that he was lying naked on the bed. He shifted a little and pulled the sheet across him. Instinctively, he felt that there would be no more love making. He didn’t know why except perhaps her calm remoteness told him this, but he was sure of it.
‘I know nothing about her will,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Does money mean anything to you?’
He began to get angry. There was a snap in his voice as he said, ‘Of course it does . . . doesn’t it to you?’
‘Yes.’ There was a slight pause, then she said. ‘You should know about her will.’
Patterson’s face hardened. He felt at a disadvantage lying on the bed, half hidden by the sheet. He swung his legs off the bed and sat upright and looked directly at her.
He got no hint as to what was going on in her mind. She had this maddening remote look and she was eating the sandwich as if she were enjoying it.
‘Sheila . . . just what are you getting at?’
‘You don’t know she’s leaving you a lot of money?’
‘Me?’ He stiffened, staring at her. ‘A lot of money? How do you know?’
She finished the sandwich and reached for another. She could see he had become tense.
‘She told me.’
‘She told you she had left me money?’ Patterson couldn’t believe this. Sheila had been with the old lady for only eight days. The old lady had never hinted she was leaving him anything . . . then why tell a new companion-help?
‘Are you sure she told you, Sheila?’
‘Why should I tell you if I wasn’t sure?’ She took another bite at the sandwich while she looked at him: cool, remote, the smoky blue eyes impersonal. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘Frankly . . . no!’ He knew now for certain love making was finished. He wanted to get into his clothes. He didn’t feel he could control this unexpected situation while he was naked.
‘Wait a moment.’
Holding the sheet around him, he grabbed up his shirt, underpants and trousers and
Sheila drew in a long breath. If she had written the script or if Bromhead had written it, it couldn’t have been more word perfect.
Listening in his car outside the motel cabin, Bromhead decided he had what he wanted. He snapped down the stop button on the recorder, started the car engine, sounded his horn three times, in short loud blasts, then drove rapidly back to the Plaza Beach Hotel.
Sheila heard the horn blasts and she stood up. The first stage of the operation had been successfully completed, now came the more difficult stage.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘Let’s eat.’
She went over to the plastic bag that Patterson had brought, opened it and took from it two neatly packed parcels.
Patterson watched her. Why was he feeling uneasy? This woman had become so impersonal, so different from the moaning, thrashing woman who had clung to him, uttering little cries of pleasure as her fingernails dug into his flesh.
Well, if she was hungry . . . there was still plenty of time. He looked at his watch: 19.45. Yes . . . it would be an idea to eat, then make love again. He too suddenly felt hungry.
She went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of Chablis he had brought. He had already half drawn the cork.
She poured the wine into glasses.
He lay still, watching her, wished she wasn’t wearing the bathrobe.
‘Take that off, Sheila,’ he said. ‘I want to see you.’
‘Later.’ She opened the packets and put one of them beside him, then she sat away from him with the other packet on her knee. ‘Chris . . . have you seen the old lady’s will?’ She began to eat the smoked salmon sandwich. ‘Her last will and testament . . . that’s what it’s called, isn’t it?’
He was reaching for a sandwich, but his hand paused.
‘Will? Why bring that up?’
‘I asked you a simple question: can’t I have a simple answer?’
God! he thought, how remote she’s become, and he became aware that he was lying naked on the bed. He shifted a little and pulled the sheet across him. Instinctively, he felt that there would be no more love making. He didn’t know why except perhaps her calm remoteness told him this, but he was sure of it.
‘I know nothing about her will,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Does money mean anything to you?’
He began to get angry. There was a snap in his voice as he said, ‘Of course it does . . . doesn’t it to you?’
‘Yes.’ There was a slight pause, then she said. ‘You should know about her will.’
Patterson’s face hardened. He felt at a disadvantage lying on the bed, half hidden by the sheet. He swung his legs off the bed and sat upright and looked directly at her.
He got no hint as to what was going on in her mind. She had this maddening remote look and she was eating the sandwich as if she were enjoying it.
‘Sheila . . . just what are you getting at?’
‘You don’t know she’s leaving you a lot of money?’
‘Me?’ He stiffened, staring at her. ‘A lot of money? How do you know?’
She finished the sandwich and reached for another. She could see he had become tense.
‘She told me.’
‘She told you she had left me money?’ Patterson couldn’t believe this. Sheila had been with the old lady for only eight days. The old lady had never hinted she was leaving him anything . . . then why tell a new companion-help?
‘Are you sure she told you, Sheila?’
‘Why should I tell you if I wasn’t sure?’ She took another bite at the sandwich while she looked at him: cool, remote, the smoky blue eyes impersonal. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘Frankly . . . no!’ He knew now for certain love making was finished. He wanted to get into his clothes. He didn’t feel he could control this unexpected situation while he was naked.
‘Wait a moment.’
Holding the sheet around him, he grabbed up his shirt, underpants and trousers and
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