What They Do in the Dark by Amanda Coe Page A

unselfconsciously followed Quentin into her cramped room. It was really dusty, although since most of the people she’d seen since she arrived also appeared dusty, she was beginning to think this was a British thing. The receptionist had mentioned a shower, but Quentin, remembering her previous European trip, held no illusions about its prospects. This didn’t prevent her using it as her excuse to hustle Katrina out without causing offence.
    ‘Twelve hours on the plane … need to freshen up …’
    Katrina obligingly made for the door. ‘Just give me a knock when you’re ready. Two two five. Then I’ll run you along to Hugh.’
    ‘That’s OK, Katrina – I’m sure I can find him myself.’
    Quentin caught the fall of the woman’s face as she pulled the door after her. Thwarted ambition? Being the mother of a kid actor was all about that. Get close to the rep from the studio. Or was she hoping to buddy up with Quentin so that she could bitch some more about Mike? The garrison mentality of location shoots guaranteed relationships were as overcharged as they were overdiscussed. Or maybe, Quentin realized, the woman was just plain lonely. She was a mom. She spent her day hanging around a place where everyone else was incredibly busy and focused. That was it; the poor bitch probably just needed a friend. With that thought she felt guilty. And the guilt led to the other thoughts about what she might procure to bring about a more insulated state of mind. She took herself to the shower.
    The unit uncertainly grouted to the tiling above the bathwaited a couple of seconds before drooling lukewarm water from its rectangular head, tickling unsatisfactory pathways over parts of Quentin’s skin. Even so, when she got out, she had to admit she felt better.
    Without swabbing herself with the thin hotel towel, Quentin lay on the bed. She goose-pimpled and cooled, bobbing in and out of consciousness the way, as a kid, she used to tread along the shallow end of their pool with her head almost submerged, alternating between the heat and chatter above the water and the soundless, cool isolation of the world beneath. At some point she must have drifted under completely because suddenly she jolted back into the room. A man was staring at her. She yelled. Instinctive pervert-response.
    ‘Good God – I’m so sorry.’
    He erased himself with the closing door, and it wasn’t until she met him down in the lobby, twenty minutes later, that Quentin was entirely convinced that he didn’t belong to her dream.
    ‘Well, it’s one way to break the ice,’ said Hugh.
    Urbane. Quentin had never before met a man to whom this word truly applied. Although appropriately and convincingly apologetic about their encounter (Katrina had told him where to find her, he’d knocked and, getting no answer, tried the door), he was also utterly unembarrassed. Not even a token peek down her cleavage, either, although let’s face it the sight of her from soup to nuts should have been recent enough.
    ‘Maybe some sort of producer’s prerogative?
Droit de seigneur
? Could try to convince you it was some quaint custom we have …’
    Already, Quentin could tell that Hugh was the real deal. If she could have popped, snorted or smoked him, he could hardly have permeated her so instantly and so blissfully.
He’s the man. He’s in charge. He can handle it all
. He led her through the dingy hotel corridors like an astringent washcloth cutting through years of accumulated grime; she felt cleansed in his wake. Everythingabout him looked extraordinarily alert, even his skin. Although it was poreless and fresh, perfect, in fact, the perfection it emanated was the accomplishment of maturity rather than any residue of childishness. Still, it made him look wholesome, despite the urbanity, incorrupt. He was of that indeterminate middle age that turned women invisible but made men look as though they were wearing a good suit. Which, in fact, he was. She didn’t want to