Prologue
It was an ocean liner come to rest in the heart of London, its glittering, prow-shaped facade jutting towards the Thames. From its terraces and balconies, the view was unparalleled: the beautiful curve of the Playhouse Theatre with its glowing lights, the flow of boats along the wide river, the sprawl of the South Bank beyond, London’s bounty spread like a fabulous offering of endless possibilities to the gilded, privileged guests who occupied the penthouse suites.
However, the young woman who was climbing out of the black cab outside the hotel entrance on Whitehall was in no mood for relaxing on a private balcony with a glass of champagne, resting her arms on the rail, gazing down over the glittering city as she made plans for that evening. Her jaw was set determinedly, her eyes hard. The liveried doorman, reaching into the cab for her two suitcases, asked if she was a guest at the hotel, to which she responded curtly that no, she had a booking at the spa and needed to check her luggage.
If the doorman thought it was strange for a day spa visitor to arrive with a pair of large, battered suitcases, there was not a hint of that reaction on his face; his demeanour remained entirely polite and neutral as he carried them inside. Privately, he speculated that, judging by the airline tags on the cases, she had come straight from the airport. Her deep tan, together with the dark shadows under her eyes and her air of jet-lagged exhaustion, were clear indications that it had been a long-haul flight. Perhaps she was heading for the spa to restore herself after a taxing trip; but then, he asked himself, why did she look like a woman on a mission, rather than one who couldn’t wait to float in the swimming pool, gazing up at the flickering, hypnotic waves reflected on the dove-grey ceiling, after sweating out the stress of the trip in the steam room?
And then, as he handed her the cloakroom ticket for the suitcases, the doorman looked her directly in the face for the first time and realized who she was. It took all of his professionalism not to acknowledge that he had recognized her as he wished her a pleasant visit to the spa.
‘Was that—’ the other doorman asked under his breath.
‘Yes!’ he said, just as quietly; any public discussion of famous hotel guests was grounds for instant dismissal.
The second doorman shook his head.
‘That was rough,’ he said sympathetically. They were standing side by side, no guests needing assistance with doors or luggage; it was a perfect moment for a swift exchange of gossip. ‘Going through that on live TV – everyone watching you get totally shafted—’
‘She got no sympathy from my missis, I can tell you,’ the first doorman said. ‘Thinks it’s no more’n she deserved. Practically threw a party to celebrate.’
His colleague grinned.
‘Yeah, the wives’re bound to feel that way, eh?’ he said. ‘All things considered!’
Upstairs in the spa, the young woman was explaining that she had rung an hour ago to book a day pass, and the receptionist, a very attractive Eastern European called Irina with a strong accent but perfect command of English, was asking if she would like to add on any massage treatments. Irina found the young woman just as brusque, as oddly determined, as the doorman had done. As Irina explained to her that her day pass, costing a hundred and forty-five pounds, included full gym access and a light lunch, the young woman seemed entirely uninterested in what she was purchasing for that considerable amount of money, apart from the spa access itself.
That was unusual enough. Even more so was her indifference to the elegant foyer, with its open line of flickering flames set into a curving black glass surround, its white walls and even whiter floor, polished to a glossy, mirror-like sheen. Guests almost always commented on the fireplace, or at least glanced around, appreciating the sheer luxury of the surroundings. This one, however, might have been standing in a council gym smelling of chlorine and gym bags.
Irina, however, was far too professional to show a flicker of surprise at the visitor’s unusual affect; she processed her credit card, showed her to the lavish women’s changing room, handed her a robe and slippers, and left her with a smile, wishing her a relaxing visit to the spa. When Irina returned to reception her colleague Karen was on the computer, staring avidly at the details that had just been entered about the recent guest.
‘Do you know who that was?’ Karen babbled. ‘She must just have got back from Australia! She looked weird, didn’t she? Like, really wound up?’
Irina shook her head. She recognized the internationally famous guests – film stars and athletes – but rather than watching British television, she spent her free time either at the gym or studying for her personal trainer certificate, and as a result she rarely knew who many celebrities were. If anything, this was an asset, as it meant that she could deal with them in an entirely professional way, without any temptation to blurt out that she was their biggest fan.
‘She’s actually prettier than I thought she would be,’ Karen said, very excited. ‘Wow, I wonder how she’s coping with – oh my God, Irina!’
Karen clapped her hands to her mouth, a reaction she would never have permitted herself if anyone else had been present.
‘Do you know who else is here?’ she blurted out. ‘She came in a couple of hours ago! Oh my God, should we do something?’
Irina stared at Karen, baffled, as the latter started to spill out a flood of information about the guest who was already in the spa and the one who had just entered.
‘But there are four floors,’ Irina broke in, trying to reassure her. ‘They maybe will not even see each other! So one gets her nails done, or is in the steam room – even if they are both in the thermal spa, it is dark in there, they could be very close by and still not recognize the other one—’
‘No, you don’t get it!’ Karen interrupted. ‘I think she’s here deliberately! That’s why she looked so weird!’
‘Oh.’ Irina finally understood. ‘Oh no, that is not good. What should we do?’
‘I don’t know!’ Karen said, picking up the phone. ‘I’m going to check!’
The young woman, meanwhile, had stuffed her creased, travel-stained clothes into her locker, and donned the hotel robe over her bra and knickers. She hadn’t bothered to retrieve a swimsuit from her suitcases: she had no intention of actually using the lavish facilities. As the receptionist had guessed, she was searching for another guest. She hadn’t realized how dark it would be inside the spa; black floors, black walls, soft lighting. Irina had been quite right: it was possible for two people to pass each other without any flicker of recognition.
The young woman stopped just inside the entrance, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Her gaze was caught by the flames set into a black glass wall to her right. The image was like something from a dream, beautiful and hypnotic. No wonder it was placed in front of a row of white marble loungers, clearly the final resting place where spa visitors, having completed the circuit of all the steam rooms and pools and saunas and whirlpools that the huge floor could offer, arrived at last, worn out by sheer physical pleasure and ready to collapse happily, probably lulled into sleep by the sight of the flickering fire, the sound of the water jets bubbling in the pool beyond . . .
And there she was: the person the young woman had come to find. It was that easy. Her target was stretched out on the far lounger, her black hair flowing over the white towelling cushion, her eyes closed, her breath slow and even. The young woman looked round for a water dispenser, but spotted something even better at the far end of the gigantic space, beyond the space-age sauna: a huge, curved stack of flaked ice piled in a coppery bowl the size of a fountain, gradually replenished by more ice slowly dropping onto the sculpture from a slanted tube above.
Marching over as fast as she could in the hotel slippers, she dug both her hands into the ice, heaping her palms as full as possible. Then she stalked back to the lounger area. There were only a few other visitors to the spa, and they were all much too happily focused on their own relaxation to notice one young woman on the warpath.
Her target was asleep, or at least in a deep trance. The young woman stood over her, quite unaware of the cold biting into her palms, the ice dripping slowly to the marble floor as it started to melt. So many emotions were roiling inside her that she could not have said which one was uppermost. But as she lifted her hands and dumped their contents into the sleeping woman’s face, she felt a rush of wild savagery that was as hot as her palms were freezing.
The ice tumbled onto the woman’s eyes and nose and mouth, a series of brutal shocks: first the impact of the sharp slivered edges, then the cold burning into her skin. She shrieked in fear and panic, scrambling to sit up, not yet realizing what had happened. Her hands flew up to her cheeks, scrabbling frantically to push the ice away; she screamed again as she realized what had cascaded onto her face.
Just then, the main door of the spa swung open, and the manager entered, followed by a very excited Karen, whose head was turning back and forth as eagerly as a Labrador trying to spot a rabbit. They stopped dead at the sight of the woman on the lounger, her hands working on her face as if she were trying to fend off an invisible swarm of bees.
‘What the fuck?’ the woman blurted out, her eyes finally opening now that she knew it was safe to do so, that it was only water that had landed on her, nothing more dangerous; but her lashes were wet and heavy, her vision blurred, and she couldn’t make out the features of the woman standing over her.
She recognized the voice, though.
‘You bitch!’ the young woman hissed. ‘You’ve completely ruined my life!’