‘Hear what?’ Fran said. After a fruitless search for Red, she was in the staff kitchen, dangling a tea bag in a mug of boiling water. Living life to the full as always, Fran knew how to make the most of an evening off.
‘About the fight?’
‘What fight?’
‘Between two of the guests. They were in the gardens, punching hell out of one another. Some of the other guests broke them up. Apparently, they were really going at it.’
‘Who was it?’ Fran asked, only mildly interested.
‘Not sure. I didn’t see it. Harry says they were definitely Brits, but other than that he didn’t know any details, either. Annoying,’ Penny added, wrestling the top from the biscuit tin,and selecting a couple of digestives. ‘I’ve been trying to work out who it might have been from our current supply of guests, but the only group of men I’ve come up with are the ones on your table six. Johnny Taylor’s group.’
Fran frowned. She hadn’t processed her feelings about the day she’d spent with Johnny, hadn’t managed to make sense out of what had – and what hadn’t – happened. Either way, it didn’t sound like something Johnny would do. But then, what did she know? She hardly knew Johnny well enough to gauge his reactions.
‘Why would they be fighting?’ Penny asked.
‘I have no idea.’ Which was the truth. Fran seemed further away than ever from understanding anything to do with her life. Or maybe life in general. People remained a mystery.
On the other hand, cats were straightforward. If they wanted something, they came and sought it out. Otherwise, they did their own thing. She supposed it was a good sign that Red hadn’t been hanging around, waiting for her, when she’d returned from her afternoon out. Perhaps that meant he wasn’t so desperately hungry any longer.
With nothing to add to Penny’s haul of gossip, Fran had ended the evening under the assumption she wouldn’t ever know anything more about the brawling guests.
However, the following morning Fran was on housekeeping duty without Penny. She was taking care of the west wing, doing the whole round solo for the first time since she’d arrived at the hotel.
Reaching the final room on her list, she left the trolley full of clean towels in the corridor, knocking hard on the honeymoon turret door, then opening it with her master keycard. Before she ascended the turret staircase, she raised her voice to herald the arrival of ‘housekeeping’ in case Johnny was still in the room.Not that she was concerned about seeing him, as such, but she didn’t want to burst in unannounced.
When there was no reply, Fran loaded up with fresh towels, deciding to carry them up first and then return for the box of cleaning equipment.
The uppermost curve of the stairs led directly into the bedroom suite, and Fran got no further than the top step, hovering there as she took in the scene. The debris. The bedsheets were a twisted mess, wardrobe doors swung wide with the contents piled haphazardly on the dresser. Johnny’s grip bag was out and open, a tie slithering from its belly like a snake. On the table was the remnants of half-eaten room service – presumably ordered the previous evening and needing to be cleared. An empty bottle of red wine stood next to a single glass, dregs clinging to the curve of the rim. And seated beyond all of that, with his back to the room and staring out of the window, was Johnny.
Fran drew closer, breath hitching as she took in the burgeoning bruising on one side of his jaw. Penny had been right after all; the fight had involved Johnny.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
Johnny pulled in a hard breath, seeming to notice her for the first time.
‘Not really.’ He held her gaze for a beat of time, then turned back to the window as a glint of moisture gathered at the corner of his eye.
Had he been crying? Fran floundered for what to say. The overriding desire to drop the towels she held in favour of hugging him was strong, but wildly inappropriate. What the hell had happened?
In the end, Fran opted for discretion.
‘I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave you alone.’ Unlike their first meeting, this time Fran didn’t worry about taking the towelsinto the bathroom, instead she piled them on the edge of the unmade bed and headed for the stairs. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘No. Fran, don’t. Please don’t go.’
Chapter 18
Ignoring the logical, self-preservational side of her brain, which suggested she should walk away, Fran slid into the chair across from Johnny. It was a very modern spin on a classic tub chair design. Comfortable and stylish, if a bit soulless. She watched as Johnny scrubbed at his face with his hands, then rubbed at his eyelids with his fingers. He looked exhausted. His actions those of someone trying to get rid of something unpleasant, a thought or a feeling he couldn’t cope with.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she suggested, fully aware she had no real idea what ‘it’ might be.
‘I was going to just leave first thing this morning. Get the hell away from everything.’ He exploded to his feet, pacing for a while. ‘Then I realised that it won’t solve anything because it’s only going to follow me. Wherever I go, it’s never going to go away.’
‘Johnny, what happened?’
Johnny’s face creased; he looked dangerously close to tears as the pacing picked up in intensity. Abruptly, he stopped, turning to face Fran.
‘With my brother, of all people. She could have chosen anyone else. It would still have ripped us apart, but anyone else, anyone in the world would have been easier to deal with than this.’ He laced his fingers together behind his head, arms folding around to cradle his skull.
