One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night by Christopher Brookmyre Page B

the bloody thing getting heavier with every pace, and headed for the allegedly functional door on the far left.
    ‘You with catering?’ the receptionist mumbled as she approached the desk, more by way of statement than question. ‘Kitchens are through that door on your right, then down the stairs, but nothing’s working yet, obviously, because—’
    Simone dropped the overnight bag on the tiled floor with a loud slap, and began rubbing her reddened palm. ‘No, I’m not with “catering”. I need the keys to the Orchid suite, please.’
    ‘The Orch …’ He looked perplexed. ‘But that’s Mr Hutchison’s suite.’
    ‘Yes, and I’m
Mrs
Hutchison.’
    This seemed to worsen the confusion. ‘You’re Mrs … Oh.
Oh
. Right. Orchid suite. Orchid suite. Right. Here you are, Mrs Hutchison.’
    The receptionist passed her the plastic keycard with the rapid over‐
eagerness of passing a buck, handling it as though it was hot. He looked suddenly terrified, and not, she understood, of her.
    Gavin had been screwing
her
here. The bastard had been using the place as his own private, five‐
star love nest, and the skeleton staff on duty, keeping an eye on the place and taking out the empties, had assumed she was his wife. Simone gave a short, bitter laugh and stared upwards at the ceiling, calming herself so as not to take it out on the unwitting and undeserving lackey. Besides, she didn’t want any ire going to waste. Drink back the gall, she thought, all the more to spit in his face.
    ‘W-would you like a hand with your bag, Mrs Hutchison?’ the receptionist asked with a jumpy disquiet and a north‐
east English accent. ‘The suite’s on the top floor, and because the electricity’s down, the lifts—’
    ‘It’s all right, Jamie,
I
’ll see to our ever‐
beautiful hostess.’
    Simone turned around to see where the voice had suddenly come from. Timothy Vale was standing not three feet behind her, at presumably the spot Scotty or LaForge had beamed him down. It warned her how immersed she’d become in her wrathful thoughts that she hadn’t noticed his approach, not even footfalls on a tiled floor.
    ‘Mr Vale,’ she greeted, resourcefully finding a smile several hours earlier than she’d anticipated managing one. She offered a hand, which he clasped between both of his as he gave a small bow.
    ‘At your service, madam.’
    Her next smile came easier. ‘Well at least someone is. It’s nice to see you again. But I thought you were supposed to be on holiday. A shooting trip somewhere in the highlands, wasn’t it?’
    Vale picked up her bag and led her towards the stairs, placing a light hand against the small of her back. The gentility of his touch defused any awkwardness – or indeed thrill – to such unaccustomed familiarity. To say Vale had always struck her as the perfect gentleman was to illustrate how devalued that expression had become, so far short did it seem to fall. There was something of the man that belonged to another era, an effortless, unaffected charm that allowed him to say things like ‘our ever‐
beautiful hostess’ or ‘at your service, madam’ without sounding like a complete tit.
    On first sight, her impression of him had been that he looked like either James or Edward Fox, a notion she in time revised to conclude that he resembled both of them plus at least a good half‐
dozen other male relatives they might have. Other than that, he was an extremely difficult man to get a measure of. He was no taller than she (five‐
six at the most), and appeared as slight of frame as he was light of foot, yet up‐
close his arms struck her as taut rather than skinny. There was restless, mercurial energy about his aristocratic features, a mischievous, almost incongruous geniality to his face, which possibly took years off an accurate estimate of his age. At the same time, his skin had a deeply sun‐
weathered tint and texture that suggested greater exposure than an annual fortnight on the