Читать книгу The Honey Trap - Mary Baker Jayne - Страница 14

Angel staggered to the VIP lounge toilets, blinded by tears that wouldn’t now be held back.

The club became a blue mist as the stinging saltwater seeped out. She lurched past the queue for the champagne bar and felt her way through the door marked Ladies, gripped the cold porcelain edge of the sink hard and gave in for a moment to convulsive sobs.

Oh God, what had made her do it? Interviewing Seb had been the single worst experience of her life. The way he’d looked at her; that hard, biting dislike…

Struggling to regain control, she looked up at herself in the mirror. The face glaring back seemed hollow, somehow catlike; the peppering of freckles standing out against ghastly white skin, a feverish spot of pink on each cheek. The green eyes were bleared and lined with red.

She splashed some cold water over her face, experienced a surge of blessed relief as it revived and healed her.

A noise came from behind and in the mirror she saw the lock of one cubicle was drawn to the red engaged position. Fantastic. So someone had heard her little meltdown.

The noise came again: a strange, strangulated gurgle. Sounded like whoever it was had knocked back one milk bottle too many…

Turning around, she thumped on the door. ‘Hey. Are you okay in there? Can I call anyone for you?’

There was no mistaking the noise this time. It sounded like someone trying to speak with a tongue too thick for their mouth.

‘Hey!’ She banged harder. No answer, just that odd strangled sound again, something between choking and dry heaving.

This was seriously not her night.

Leaning her weight against the cubicle door with one shoulder, Angel gave it a couple of firm, hard shoves. The lock couldn’t have been drawn all the way across. It snapped back with relative ease and the door swung open.

She recoiled in shock. The scene in front of her could have come straight out of a horror film. A woman was slumped in one corner, her skin so papery-pale as to be almost transparent and her lips tinged with blue. Her eyes had rolled back into her skull so only the whites were visible and the face was smeared with make-up. Blood from a nostril had dried into a trickle, staining the peacock-motif white chiffon dress that hung by one strap from her shoulder.

It was Carole Beaumont.

‘Jesus Christ! What the hell have you taken?’ Angel hurled herself forward and shook the lifeless figure. A stab of fear slammed through her as Carole’s head lolled on her shoulders.

She moved her face to the actress’s mouth and felt hot, shallow breaths against her cheek. Once again, she heard the strangulated sound gurgling from the back of Carole’s throat.

She needed an ambulance. Right now. Angel turned to the mirror, which flashed her own frantic, horror-struck face back to her. Where the hell was her handbag? Did she leave it back in Seb’s booth?

Then she spotted it, under the sink where she’d dropped it when she first came in. Snatching it up, she fumbled for her mobile. Oh God, what if the ambulance didn’t get there in time? This woman needed medical attention right away!

Should she run outside, call for help? Someone there would be bound to know first aid. But there was also the room full of press just behind the velvet rope, all on the lookout for fresh scandal. In her mind she could already see Carole Beaumont’s blood-caked face on every front page…

Seb. He’d know what to do. Surely he must have dealt with something like this before. But how could she fetch him without drawing attention to them both? And she didn’t want to leave Carole alone.

With a sudden thought, she rifled through the contents of her bag. She’d given herself a mental slap at the time for being weak enough to hold on to it, but yes, there it was still, tucked into her purse behind her Visa card. The note from Seb telling her what a great time he’d had with her that night at the hotel. The one with his mobile number scrawled underneath.

Thank God she’d kept it! She tapped out the digits, hoping to heaven he’d answer. He certainly wouldn’t if he knew it was her, but of course he didn’t have her number.

She listened to the phone ring, once, twice… come on, come on! Finally she heard it click as Seb picked up, answering with a crisp ‘Yes?’.

‘It’s Angel. Listen, you have to get to the ladies’ loos behind the champagne bar right now. I’m with Carole. Jesus, Seb, hurry, can you? It’s an emergency.’

Without waiting for an answer, she hung up and threw the phone back into her bag.

She shot a panicked look at Carole, wondering if she should put her in the recovery position and then what the recovery position was. She had a vague idea tongues were important and stopping unconscious people from choking on them, but that was about the sum total of her first-aid knowledge.