Fractured(71)

I almost told the cabbie then that I’d changed my mind, but that was before I looked out through the rain-speckled window and saw Matt’s car discreetly parked to one side of the forecourt in a private bay. OK, so he was here. That still meant absolutely nothing. Nevertheless, my hand, which had been hesitating over the door latch, pressed down on the lever and I climbed out of the cab.

My resolve wavered slightly as I looked up at the tall, red-brick and glass building. How stupid was I going to look when all this turned out to be nothing more than a wild goose chase? Not to mention paranoid. No doubt this would give me something else to have to work on with Dr Andrews at our next session.

Yet still my feet continued to walk towards the building. Even knowing that Matt could have any one of a hundred valid reasons for going home in the middle of the day, reasons he chose not to share with his secretary, I still couldn’t ignore the impulse that had set me off on this journey after that phone call to his office.

But for the first time it occurred to me to question if I really wanted to go through with this. Even though I had tried not to listen to the warning voice in my head, I wasn’t completely stupid. I knew that whatever was about to follow from this point on could very well end badly. But the secretary’s words had planted a question in my mind, which screamed out now for an answer. The taxi gunned into life behind me and sped quickly away from the forecourt, eliminating my last chance of escape. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked up to the building.

The large glass-fronted entrance was manned by a uniformed doorman, who politely held open the plate-glass doors to allow me to enter the building. It wasn’t until I was inside that it occurred to me that I didn’t have the slightest idea which flat was Matt’s. The only details I had were the address of the building. The bank of locked mailboxes to the left of the foyer showed that there were twenty or so flats in this block: Matt could live in any one of them. The obvious solution would be to ask the uniformed concierge at the reception desk which apartment was Mr Matt Randall’s. But if I did that, the protocol would probably be to call up to the apartment and let the owner know they had a visitor; it stands to reason that you don’t have this kind of security on the ground and let any old person simply walk in off the street. Clearly, if I went via the doorman I would lose the element of surprise, so the only solution was to somehow get past him and then try to locate which flat was Matt’s.

In a flash of inspiration I pulled a blank piece of paper from my bag and pretended to consult it as though it was confirming my validity to be there at that time. If I just walked past the security man with confidence, perhaps I could pull this off. Luckily, the telephone on the reception desk rang at that moment, and as he busied himself in answering the call, I seized my opportunity. Keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the bank of lifts at the rear of the foyer, I strode purposefully past the desk. I was quick, but not quick enough.

‘Excuse me.’

I ignored the voice. Walk with purpose, as though you have every right to be here, I told myself, not allowing my stride to falter.

‘Miss, excuse me.’ His voice was louder that time, and despite myself I hesitated. There was no one else in the foyer. His comment was clearly directed at me. I considered proceeding regardless but it was impossible to ignore the sudden unwanted image of me being frogmarched from the building between two burly security guards. I turned towards the desk with what I hoped was an innocent-looking smile. A second security guard, who I hadn’t even noticed until then, looked up with interest from the pile of paperwork that was before him: the forthcoming interlude clearly promising to be more diverting than his current task.

The first man, the one who had hailed me, made a small beckoning motion with his finger for me to approach the desk. Oh, this was beyond embarrassing. I gave a quick glance towards the entranceway, still being securely guarded by doorman number three. The possibility of making a run for it was clearly not an option. Feeling guilty, and hoping I looked anything but that, I tried to keep smiling as I walked towards the reception desk on legs that felt like jelly. As I got closer I could see that what I had taken for an angry glower was actually a fairly pleasant smile.

‘Yes?’ I enquired, hoping no one but me could hear the wobble in my voice.

‘Have you forgotten something?’ the man prompted.

I blinked back at him stupidly. Forgotten what exactly? Forgotten to report to reception? Forgotten that I don’t live in this building? Hell, I could do way better than that: I’d actually forgotten the last five years.