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Me:Will do. Catch you later.
She sends me another photo of her blowing me a kiss.
Smiling, I slide my phone into my pocket and, hearing music start up in the main office, head off to the party.
*
A few hours later, I slip out of the building and walk to my car.
The party will continue for a few hours yet, but I’m not in the mood for festivities. Saxon has already left anyway, keen to return to his girl. We’ve left Damon there being the life and soul of the party. Hopefully he’ll stay sober enough to steer clear of the young secretaries who are all fluttering their eyelashes at him.
I haven’t drunk any alcohol, so I get in my Merc and head out to Oriental Bay, where Renée Garnier apparently lives, and where I’m assuming Craig is now staying. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to him yet. I just know that I need to talk to him.
It takes me about fifteen minutes to get there. While I drive, I play one of Alice’s podcasts. She’s interviewing a Kiwi author of a series of fantasy novels, an older guy, and it’s a great interview, with him chuckling constantly as she teases him and makes him laugh. I listen to her husky voice and imagine her singing that Joss Stone song to me in bed, whispering in my ear, pressed up against me. I want to see her again. I want to touch her, to make love to her, and listen to her sighs as she comes.
I refuse to accept it’s over. My parents brought me up to respect women, and I know they’d say I should come to terms with the fact that Alice doesn’t want to see me again, but I don’t truly believe that’s what she wants. She just can’t see an answer to her problem, and I’m great at problem solving.
I have more pressing things to think about than my love life right now, though, and I try to focus on Craig as I follow the GPS instructions to Renée’s house in a quieter part of the suburb, perched high on the side of one of the hills surrounding the city. It’s a big place, bigger than Craig’s. She doesn’t have children, and she’s a CEO, so she obviously has money.
I park outside, get out of the car, walk up the long flight of stairs to the front door, and ring the bell. About ten seconds later, the door opens.
It’s Renée, and her eyebrows rise as she sees me. I try not to think about Saxon’s description of her, but he was right—she is very short, she does have odd hair, and her eyes are too close together.
She looks at my glasses and says, “Kip?”
I nod. “Hi, Renée. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was wondering whether Craig was here.”
She hesitates, then gives a slow nod. “He is. But I’m not sure he’ll see you.”
Impatience flares inside me. “What is he, twelve? Not answering my phone calls. Calling in sick. Tell him to grow up and come and talk to me, please.”
Her eyes flash—she doesn’t like being challenged. “Wait here,” she snaps, and, leaving the door open, she walks down the hallway and disappears.
I listen and hear voices, slowly rising before dropping sharply as if one of them has warned the other to be quiet. I slide my hands into my pockets, wishing I was anywhere else but here. The sooner this is over, the better.
After about thirty seconds, she returns to the door. “Come in,” she says grudgingly. “And take off your shoes.”
I’m tempted to walk in with them on just to piss her off, but my mother would say you should always respect the rules in other people’s houses, so I toe off my shoes, leave them by the door, and follow her along the hallway and into the living room.
Clearly, Renée’s into minimalism. I thought I was too, but not like this. There’s hardly any furniture, and it resembles a show home, spotless and far from cozy, with modern art on the walls, lots of mirrors and chrome, and a black leather suite that looks hard and uncomfortable. It’s a stark contrast to Craig’s own house, which has a comfy suite you can sink into, books and magazines on the tables, baby toys everywhere, and in a few years will have finger paintings on the fridge and a carpet scattered with LEGO.
Craig is standing in front of the fireplace, hands in his pockets, stiff and unsmiling. I walk in and stop a few feet in front of him.
“Can you give us a minute, please?” I ask Renée.
“This is my house,” she states, sinking into an armchair.
I look back at Craig. “Can we talk alone?”
He glances at her, then back at me. “Anything you want to say, you can say in front of Renée.”
“Fine.” I only said it as a courtesy to him. I don’t care whether she’s there or not.
“How did you find me?” he asks.
“I contacted the FBI. They’ve had helicopters scouting the whole of Wellington the past few days.”
He glares at me. “No need to be sarcastic.”
