Sweat pooled between Lindsay’s breasts. One hand shielded her eyes against the nor’wester, the other pinned her dress to stop it flipping up and exposing her underpants.
Almost there.
It was unseasonably hot and dry for October. She was overcome by a sharp urge to drop the whole thing. To turn around. She could be at Newcastle Beach in less than a block, wading into the white-capped, wind-whipped surf: floating over the breakers, dodging zinc-covered kids on boogie boards, and leathery old women in baggy swimsuits – instead of walking headlong into this fucking wind tunnel.
And now – finally – here she was, outside a four-storey sandstone office. She examined the list of the building’s occupants on the silver and gold nameplates. Lawyers. More lawyers. Psychologists. Archaeologists, strangely enough.
And then, there it was.
Davis Investigations.Her heart thrummed. Fuck. Was she doing the right thing? Through the glass, the interior appeared cool and inviting. Lindsay blinked sweat from her eyes, glad she hadn’t bothered with mascara. Not that she ever really bothered. The five-year-olds in her kindergarten class didn’t mind and her principal cared more about Lindsay’s teaching ability than her skill at wielding a mascara wand, thank God. Today, however, she had applied foundation in the staff toilets before she left work.
She imagined it melting away in the afternoon sun, sliding off like one of those sheet facemasks, leaving her blank and smooth beneath. A new person.A part of her quite liked the sound of that.In the lobby, there was no air conditioning. Heat draped over the space like a blanket, thick and heavy. The air smelled of furniture polish and men’s aftershave, but underneath something funkier lurked. Davis Investigations was on level four with a psychologist, a law firm and a chartered accountant.
The ancient lift bounced and clanked all the way up, and Lindsay emerged into the high-ceilinged corridor with relief. A sign on the immaculate black door opposite the lift read Davis Investigations in a font so serious it almost made Lindsay get straight back in. Above the door, the rounded opaque eye of a security camera watched her like a cyclops.
At shoulder height, to one side of the door, was a sleek intercom. Lindsay hesitated.
This was it. Pressing that button meant she didn’t trust Mark. That she actually thought he might be cheating on her…
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