She checks for the hair. It's still there. The powder dusted around the knob will be gone, but the perimeter is still secure.
She avoids looking at the thing lashed to the knob. It's just a dolL A doll. She uses the German keys.
Inside. Locking and chaining the door.
The phone rings.
She screams.
Answers on the third ring. "Hello?"
"It's Hubertus."
"Hubertus…"
"Yes. Of course. And?"
"And what?"
"You've slept on it."
She opens her mouth but nothing comes out.
"You've signed off on Heinzi's logo," he says. "That's a wrap, then. Congratulations."
She can hear a piano in the background. Lounge stuff. What time is it in New York?
"I'm packing, Hubertus. Car to Heathrow, first flight home." Exactly what she most wants to do, now she hears herself say it.
"That's very good. We can discuss it when you arrive."
"Actually I was thinking of Paris."
"I'll meet you there tomorrow, then. I've the use of a client's Gulf-stream. Haven't taken them up on it yet."
"Really there's nothing to discuss. I told you that on Saturday night."
"You got over your difficulties with Dorotea?" He's changing the subject.
"You're changing the subject, Hubertus."
"Bernard said you looked ill, when she first showed you the design."
"You're changing it again. Will I work for you to determine the source of the footage, the identity of the maker or makers? No. I won't."
"Why not?"
That stops her. Because she has an acquired and highly generalized dislike for him? Because she absolutely doesn't trust him? Because she doesn't want to know what the footage is, is about, where it's going, who's behind it? This last is a stretch, because she really does want to know all these things, and has spent a huge amount of time discussing them with other footageheads. No, it's more that footage plus Bigend just seems such a bad idea on the face of it. Not Bigend the man, wearing his cowboy hat wrong, but Bigend the force behind Blue Ant. Bigend the genius at what he does, of these new ways of doing it. Any junction of the two seems dire, to her.
"There's someone I want you to meet," he says. "I had him come into the office, this morning, and Bernard was arranging lunch for the two of you, but you left so quickly."
"Who? What for?"
"He's American. His name is Boone Chu."
"Bunchoo?"
"Boone. As in Daniel. Chu. C-h-u. I think you could do something together. I want to facilitate that."
"Hubertus, please. This is pointless. I've told you I'm not interested."
"I have him on the other line. Boone? Where did you say you were?"
"Outside Camden tube," says a male voice, cheerful, American, "looking toward Virgin."
"You see," says Bigend, "he's right there."
Hang up, Cayce tells herself. She doesn't.
"Parkway, right?" The American voice. "Straight up from the station."
"Hubertus, this is really pointless—"
"Please," Bigend says, "meet with Boone. It can't hurt. If there's no chemistry, you can go to Paris."
Chemistry?
"A vacation. On Blue Ant. I'll have the office arrange the hotel. A bonus for vetting the H and P job. We knew we could rely on you. The client is going to the new logo for the spring line. We'll need you then, of course, to check each intended implementation."
He's doing it again. She realizes that it might actually be easier to meet this man, this Boone, and then go to the airport. She can always avoid Bigend in New York. She hopes.
"Is he still on the line, Hubertus?"
"Right here," says the American voice. "Heading up Parkway."
"Ring twice," she says, and gives him the street number and the number of the flat. Hangs up.
She goes into the kitchen and gets Damien's brand-new German paring knife and a black bin liner, as they call them here. Unlocks the door. It's still there, on the knob. She grits her teeth and bunches the black plastic around it, hiding it. Uses the knife to cut through the black cord. It falls into the bag. She puts the bag on the floor, just outside the door, closes the door, returns the knife to the kitchen. Back to the door. She takes a deep breath, steps outside. Takes the black keys from around her neck and carefully locks the door. Gingerly picks up the black bag, the thing deep within it now, like a dead rat but not as heavy, and descends to the landing, where she stuffs it down behind the stacked fashion magazines waiting to be carted away.
She sits down with her back to the wall and wraps her arms around her knees. The knot is back, and now she realizes, to her considerable annoyance, that her period has arrived.
Back upstairs to deal with that, and things barely under control when she hears the doorbell ring, twice. "Shit. Shit. Fuck…"
Forgetting to relock the door, she goes down.
This will take one minute, if that. She'll apologize for Bigend's having pushed their meeting, but she'll be firm: She isn't going to embark on any Bigend-financed search for the maker of the footage. It's that simple.
