Getting Lost Page 7

  “Why does it matter? It’s standard medical advice in the instance of heat stroke. Call the hospital if you like.”

  Stella sensed the coldness surround Phoebe again. “I’m not questioning you.” She sipped the water. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask again.”

  Phoebe softened. “Are you always such a difficult patient?”

  “I don’t know.” Stella shrugged. “Are you always so distrustful of people?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “Even me? Even after Calais and after coming under scrutiny from the Police in Paris in an attempt to defend you?”

  “You give me no reason to distrust you,” confirmed Phoebe.

  “Exactly.”

  “You’ve given me no reason to trust you, either.”

  Stella let out a small laugh. “I could say the same for you.”

  “You should say the same for me.” Phoebe settled on the chair by the window, indicating with raised eyebrows the water Stella cradled. “Let’s not pretend you’re not thinking what you’re thinking.”

  Stella’s heart beat began to quicken. She was terrified to be talking about this. She quickly changed the subject. “Help yourself to the minibar.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “I’m only staying until I convince myself you’ve stopped vomiting.”

  “You don’t think I’ll call an ambulance if I need one?” Stella continued drinking, shaking her head. “Nope, we’ve got this covered; no trust issues in this room.”

  Indifferent, Phoebe shrugged again.

  Stella continued to sip the water until fighting sleep became impossible. Phoebe remained by her side, waking her intermittently to drink until eventually, she felt herself returning to a normal temperature. Any desire to vomit had faded completely.

  Not long after midnight, Stella awoke to find the lights off, the curtains open, and Phoebe asleep in the chair. She crept silently to the bathroom; all the water she had consumed was suddenly working wonders at flushing her system. Phoebe stirred, but remained asleep. Although Stella knew she should probably wake her and send her back to her own room to sleep comfortably in a bed for the remainder of the night, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to be alone. She recalled Phoebe’s arms embracing her earlier in the evening and wondered what it would be like to be beneath her, to have Phoebe lower herself onto her, naked and soft and wanting. She imagined what it would be like to ride her, be deep inside her and take her to the edge and back, time after time. Stella couldn’t name the connection she was experiencing, but it was becoming evident she had little control over her senses.

  Stella wasn’t sure what woke her, she hadn’t registered any movement or noise, but just before she allowed herself to slip back into unconsciousness, she cracked her right eye open the tiniest bit.

  “What the fuck?” A silhouette loomed over her, a hand close to her face.

  Phoebe stood next to the bed, her body silhouetted as the moonlight shone through the window behind her. Her reaction to Stella breaking the silence was nil. She simply lowered her hand slowly. “It’s just me.”

  Stella scrambled away from Phoebe, struggling to maintain composure. “I can see that. What the hell are you doing?”

  “I was about to check your temperature.” Phoebe stepped away from the bed. A defensive tone had crept into her voice.

  “My what?” Stella couldn’t calm herself down enough to consider Phoebe’s feelings, and although she recognised her flight or fight mode, she could do little to change her response. “Why the fuck would you stand over me in the middle of the night?”

  “I wasn’t standing over you. I had walked over to you and was about to touch your forehead.”

  Stella scrambled to switch on the bedside lamp. Phoebe the monster instantly transformed into normal Phoebe again. Although by normal, Stella could tell she was a little pissed off. “Sorry. I’d been in a deep sleep and I woke and there you were.” She held her chest as if she could calm her racing heart by doing so.

  “It’s late. I thought I should go and I just wanted to make sure your temperature was back to normal before I left.” Phoebe advanced toward the door. “Good night, Stella.”

  Before Stella could offer any protest, Phoebe was gone.

  “Well, that went well.” Stella spoke to her reflection in the mirror when she went to the bathroom. It was nearly four in the morning and besides being hungry, she felt surprisingly better than she had the previous evening.

  Stella closed the curtains to darken the room in the hope of returning to sleep, but all she could do was lie awake and think of her reaction to Phoebe standing over her. She hadn’t meant to insult Phoebe, but she woke genuinely startled. Okay, perhaps her response could have been a little less dramatic, but regardless of who it was standing there, she would have been startled. The fact that it had been Phoebe just complicated things.

  Chapter Seven

  It wasn’t the aftermath of the heatstroke that left Stella feeling uneasy when she woke, but the altercation with Phoebe. Janet’s PA had sent through some more information. She read the e-mail but discovered nothing new. There had to be more to this story than Stella imagined. Who exactly was Phoebe Lancaster? It was apparent who Rebecca Dean was, or perhaps, how privileged she had been growing up, but it was naïve of Stella to believe everything she read. Some articles talked about Oscar embracing his daughter’s life choices, others said he condemned her relationship with Phoebe. One minute they were out of the closet, the next they were in it. There were umpteen photographs of both Rebecca and Phoebe with other women and men, but there was nothing to suggest these people were more than innocent friends. It was becoming apparent that the Internet was useless to in any way assist Stella in concluding that Phoebe was untrustworthy or alternatively undeserving of her loyalty and friendship.

  A thumping great knock on the door startled Stella, propelling her back to the present.

  “Stells, you all right in there?” Russo sounded worried. “Stella, I’m gonna knock the door down. Let me in!”

  “All right, all right. Hang on. I’m coming!”

  Stella swung open the door to find Russo flustered on the other side. “Jesus,” he said. “The coach leaves in five minutes, babe.” Russo gripped his muscular chest. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought you’d slipped into a coma or something. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. You barely gave me a chance to get to the door.”

  “And the heat stroke thing? You all right to carry on?” He affectionately touched her cheek. “You look pale.”

  “Jesus, Russo, you’re scaring me. Keep on like this and I’ll think you’ve gone soft.” All the bravado in the world couldn’t hide the fact that Stella felt a little off. She didn’t doubt she was pale. Reading about Phoebe like she was a stranger, a celebrity lesbian, left her feeling like she didn’t know Phoebe at all. And that was true. She didn’t.

  Russo’s breathing was returning to normal. “I’ll see you on the coach in five, okay?” He gently squeezed Stella’s shoulder. “You sure everything’s fine?”

  “I’m sure, honestly. We’ll talk later.” She hadn’t seen Russo in person since yesterday morning. “Now scoot. I have to pack.” Her phone rang. “And I have to talk to Janet.”

  Janet, as expected, began yelling immediately. No polite greetings were required with her. Stella listened patiently, albeit with numerous eye rolls and a persistent frown before Janet finally exhausted her rather lengthy repertoire of expletives and hung up. Stella’s ear hurt.

  A paper bag containing a broad-brimmed sunhat, sunscreen, water, juice, and a banana sat resting on Stella’s seat on the coach. A little note in the bag read: We thought you could use these. Heath and Emma. Stella smiled. It was these kind gestures that made her job worthwhile and the group cheered as she modelled the hat and took a bow.

  The bright sun shone through the expansive windows of the coach, and quiet music played in the background allowing those with sore heads to catch up on sle
ep. To her great relief, the group had enjoyed the previous day in Barcelona, surviving under Russo’s guidance, although according to Matt, Russo wasn’t much to look at. The atmosphere on the coach was relaxed, and the drive to the Cote d’Azur was tedious, but worth it. Everyone seemed to be looking forward to the glamour of Monte Carlo. There was no sense of urgency, and again, given her absence the previous day, Stella worked the coach chatting to anyone not catching up on sleep. As usual, Phoebe sat alone, engrossed in a book this time, her MP3 player resting on the empty seat beside her.

  Other than Stella’s untimely hospital visit, there was some other rather juicy gossip gripping the coach. Sisters, Claudia and Eva, from Peru, were apparently spotted, by Matt of all people, entering Russo’s room at the conclusion of dinner. This revelation, rumour or not, would certainly require further investigation. She waited patiently for the right time.

  Stella was hungry after talking with the group for over an hour and settled into her seat to snack on her banana. She glanced toward Russo. He appeared wrecked. For safety reasons, Russo was not permitted to drink late if he was required to drive the following day. Had Stella not been ill, it was she who would have accompanied the group to Port Olympico and directed the group to the bars with the cheapest drinks and best music.

  In Stella’s absence, Russo, who had given the group instructions and left them to it, was last seen by many perched at the hotel bar with an orange juice, deep in conversation with Claudia and Eva. Matt had returned to his room for some headache pills, although, when excitedly relaying this story, he animatedly used quotation marks as he spoke the words headache pills, leading Stella to assume he meant something a little stronger. As Matt rushed from his room, he caught sight of Russo ushering the girls into his room. This sort of information wasn’t something Stella could leave alone. If Russo had scored two girls at once—and sisters at that—she wanted to know all about it.

  After three hours solid driving and only one person reaching for the plastic vomit bags, Russo pulled the coach into a services stop for food and fuel. With everyone on the coach wide awake from the booming wake-up song, which had changed to Mumford and Sons’ “Little Lion Man,” the group rushed from the coach, desperate to be first in line for either food or the toilet.

  Russo and Stella relaxed on the grass in the shade of the parked coach. Russo was the brawn to their pairing while Stella provided the brains. But today he promptly gave Stella a dressing down about looking after herself. He was desperate to hear about Phoebe, although Stella suspected he was simply digging for information to validate his stance on why she should stay away from her. She didn’t mention that Phoebe visited the hospital or the subsequent mess in the hotel room. Something told her to keep that to herself for the time being. She hoped to God that decision didn’t come back to haunt her.

  “Do you know what I think, Stells?” asked Russo, stretching flat on his back.

  Here we go. Words of wisdom.

  “I think she’s damaged goods. I mean, how does anyone recover from being accused of murdering their lover?”

  Stella sighed. “Who says she’s recovered.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Just imagine what that would be like.”

  Stella had imagined it, probably a million times since meeting Phoebe. How long could you suffer the stares, the snide remarks, the special treatment, and the not so special treatment? How long would your resilience survive? A year, maybe two at the most. It was now five years on. Surely such stressful and relentless circumstances had shaped the Phoebe she knew today.

  Or, Stella shuddered at the thought, maybe she was a manipulative, scheming, murderous bitch.

  Excellent options, Stella. Well done.

  Stella was eager to change the subject. “So, it was a good night last night?”

  “Yeah, not the same without you, of course, but we all got along just fine.”

  “And everyone went down to the port after dinner?”

  “I suppose. I don’t really know. There were a couple of people who stayed behind.”

  “Were there?”

  “Yeah. The sisters from Peru didn’t go. Said they were tired.”

  “Did they, now?”

  “Uh-huh. I suggested they lie down.” Russo’s tone oozed smugness.

  “How very thoughtful of you.”

  “I might have mentioned they could lie down in my room, actually.”

  Stella sat bolt upright. “So it is true?”

  Russo was fit to burst his seams, he was so eager to tell. “I’ve been dying to tell you all morning, but you never came to breakfast.”

  “I want to know everything.”

  “Can I be frank here, Stells?”

  “Please do.” If Stella hadn’t known Russo so well, she would never have believed half the stuff he told her. Neither of them would ever tell anyone else, especially in the group, about their liaisons, but they almost always told each other. Russo was the only one who’d had anything to boast about recently.

  “Well, they were like professionals. A double act. A threesome’s never coordinated, just a bit of fun, right?” Stella nodded. “Well, this was something else altogether. And sisters as well. Christ, I’ll need a cold shower after telling you.”

  “Just get on with it, eh? We haven’t got all day. If you hurry, you might fit in a quick wank before we head off.”

  In great detail, Russo described what transpired between him and the sisters. “Honestly, Stells, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. They were into each other as much as me.”

  As Russo flopped back, flinging his arms out with a long, deep sigh, reliving his achievement, the group began slowly wandering back toward the coach, revived and jovial.

  While everyone remained perky and refreshed from the stop, Stella handed out information sheets for Nice and Monte Carlo, providing a brief rundown on the history and some celebrity gossip. Although she encouraged everyone to soak up the scenery during the long drives, her own intentions were to remain hydrated and rested for the evening ahead. Dinner was at the hotel, but beyond that, the group were free to do whatever they pleased.

  Three years ago, Stella had stumbled upon a quirky little bar called The Orange Velvet, a twenty-minute stroll from the hotel. Since then, she had attended on every tour, dragging at least half the group with her. The music was always fabulous, the beer and cider even better, and because she guaranteed patronage, the drinks flowed free for her all night long. Tonight, while advised not to consume alcohol by the doctor and Phoebe, she was looking forward to relaxing.

  Stella was beginning to understand the difference between wanting to know something and then actually finding out. She’d never lived in denial concerning her sexuality, and denial had never really been a part of her makeup. Until now. The struggle between being sensible and staying away from Phoebe was difficult when she harboured such strong feelings for her.

  On some level, she wished she could boldly come straight out and ask Phoebe if she murdered her girlfriend. But what a ridiculous question. Of all the questions to ask a prospective lover, or friend for that matter, the simple fact that it even included the word “murderer” should be enough to suggest she should walk away. And if Phoebe did murder Rebecca Dean, she was hardly going to come right out with it. “Yep, sure showed her who’s boss. You wanna be next?”

  It was an impossible question to even contemplate. The question, the answer, it was all swimming around in Stella’s mind, never reaching a conclusion she could grasp.

  Chapter Eight

  At dinner, Stella sought out Phoebe and spotted her alone in the corner reading a book that rested beside her relatively untouched plate. Phoebe was wearing a sleeveless black shirt and faded jeans. Even in such casual attire, she looked stunning.

  Stella had spent the best part of the last hour pacing her room, struggling with a growing need to be near Phoebe. It was madness, she knew, but when she wasn’t working, her thoughts were consumed by her. With the exception of a heat stro
ke crisis, Phoebe had never really laid a hand on Stella, certainly nothing sexual, but Stella’s growing infatuation was already causing her heart to race and her mind to wander. She inhaled deeply and purposefully strode toward her.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Phoebe didn’t look up. “I’d prefer to be alone.”

  Stella didn’t detect a harsh tone, which provided only slight relief, but the refusal took her aback. “Sure. Sorry to interrupt.” She turned to leave.

  “No, Stella.” Phoebe smiled, almost in spite of herself. “I’m being rude. Bad habit. Please, join me.”

  It wasn’t the most gracious of invitations, but Stella didn’t need to be asked twice.

  “How are you feeling today?” Phoebe closed her book.

  “Better, thanks.” She nodded toward a huge glass of water. “Keeping hydrated.”

  Phoebe smiled and nodded. “And is there anything concerning last night we need to discuss?” Her gaze was intense but calm.

  “I don’t know. Is there?” Stella winced. Answering a question with a question was usually a dead giveaway.

  Phoebe studied her long and hard, and when Stella began to crumble under the scrutiny, Phoebe said, “Well, I guess it comes down to trust.”

  Stella began shifting a cherry tomato around her plate. Trust. Phoebe had left before things went too far. Last night was history. She had nothing to gain from rehashing something she preferred to forget. Stella cleared her throat. Her desire for reassurance came a poor second to her growing desire for Phoebe. “It’s a free night tonight, and as you know, I’m heading to a bar.”

  Phoebe grinned and visibly relaxed at the change in subject. “Yes. I know.”

  “Well, I’ve obviously invited the group, but I wanted to invite you personally.” Stella could feel her cheeks redden. “Would you like to join me for a drink?” She straightened. “With everyone else, but mostly with me.”

  Phoebe remained impassive. “You shouldn’t drink.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m not. I’m on water. Believe me, I have many ways of looking like I’m drinking. Some nights I don’t touch a drop—trick is to look like I am.”