One Night Stand Page 2

  ISABEL, WITH HER HYPHENATED last name, could have been fodder for magazines’ society pages. She could have been gracing social events as a young débutante, but she wasn’t the sort. Her lifestyle had not been clichéd even from an early age, in that she didn’t live it the way she had been expected to.

  She was more Caine than Fairbanks. Her older brother, however, was more Fairbanks than Caine. Little surprise then that she worked at Caine Insurance on a monthly salary that didn’t pay for a Louis Vuitton luggage, hence she’d gone with a backpack. Meanwhile, William Andrew Fairbanks-Caine jetted around the globe, living it up in hotels and chateaus. Now, that was cliché.

  If not for a two-bedroom art deco apartment at Nob Hill she inherited when she turned twenty-one, she would have had to shell out nearly three thousand dollars a month in rent, almost half of her after-tax salary.

  Her mother, socialite Elsie Fairbanks-Caine, frequently complained that her life had been one rebellious choice after another. She could have hobnobbed with progenies of mega-wealthy families with hyphenated last names longer than an Amtrak’s rolling stock. Instead, she was friends with postmen and clerks.

  After high school, she applied for an entry-level position at Caine Insurance in the Claims and Fraud Investigation Department, much to her father’s chagrin.

  ‘What in the world—?’ Charles David Fitzgerald Caine asked when he first heard of it. He stopped in time and thought the better of it. She was his child after all—a chip off the old block.

  A week later, she boasted with an inflated ego that she’d been hired on merit, having applied using a fake name. She told her Dad, the Chairman of the Board, that it proved just how easy it was to commit fraud.

  So, at eighteen, she started as a Data Entry Clerk while studying online to become a certified fraud investigator. It was all to her mother’s eternal shame and her brother’s horror.

  ‘You could enrol at any Ivy League university!’ Her mother said in a dramatic fashion when she found out. ‘Why, for Heaven’s sake? You can be a lawyer, anything but that!’

  Isabel shrugged. Fraud investigation was what she wanted to do. She liked the challenge and wanted a career path out of left-field.

  She could have had a rich boyfriend, too, had she gone out with any of her brother’s friends or one of their neighbours. Instead, she’d chosen an ambitious middle-class guy with a law degree who turned out to be more heel than a hero.

  STUCK AT A SET OF TRAFFIC LIGHTS, Isabel had a rethink. No, she wasn’t going back to the Caine’s mega-mansion at Pacific Heights. That hadn’t been her home for the last year; her half-renovated art-deco apartment was her home.

  AS SHE PULLED INTO her on-street parking spot, she noticed a tall man whose hair colouring seemed identical to the mysterious American she’d met on Red Beach. Freaked out, she nearly slammed into the car in front. The guy turned to look as her car screeched to a halt a paper’s depth away from the Saab.

  He jogged over, looking furious.

  Oh, oh.

  He checked the back of the car, which obviously meant it was his. As he flashed her a dagger look, she knew instantly it wasn’t her Mystery Man. He hadn’t had a mono-brow.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, faking a grimace.

  ‘Yeah, you ought to be. If you had hit my car, you’d be eating sardines for ten years,’ he said as he huffed away.

  You wish.

  She made a face at his back as the cranky-pot walked away, then fell deeper into her seat. Her nerves were frayed. She stayed awhile to simmer down and took a moment to reflect. San Francisco, with all its quirky hilly streets and its vibrancy, seemed staid compared to the culture and antiquity of the South and Central Americas, the drama and the colours of Morocco, the noise and bustle of Delhi, the congestion of Hong Kong, the madness of Shanghai’s street scene, the enormous and expansive vista of Australia’s Red Centre and the freshness and flair of New Zealand.

  But regardless of all that was exciting out there, this was home.

  The dashboard clock caught her eyes. It told her it was two in the afternoon—time to batten down.

  She hauled her backpack up the steps to her second-floor apartment and fumbled for the keys. Fetid air, trapped for six months, escaped as soon as she opened the door. She dumped her pack on the hardwood floor to open all the doors and windows. Then, she proceeded to wipe the dust off her furniture maniacally. She briefly thought that she should have asked a friend to house-sit, but on second thought, she could have been coming home to worse.

  She vacuumed, scrubbed and deodorised. Then changed her bed sheets.

  A couple of hours later, she paused in front of the sink. With her head bowed, she braced against the countertop. She admitted to herself for the first time that she had been damaged far more than she was willing to accept. This can’t be normal.

  This maniacal chasing around the world, and now around her house seem to suggest one thing; she wasn’t dealing with her issues, but merely trying to escape them. The problem was she couldn’t outrun them no matter how hard she tried. She felt adrift like she had lost her anchor. Empty, like a hollowed shell. Frustrated with herself, she mumbled, ‘What the heck, I’ve got a party to attend.’

  She ran a hot bath, lit some aromatherapy candles and soaked her travel-wearied body.

  Her mind drifted to that day she met him. He, who she christened Mystery because he was nameless to her. Not asking his name was her big regret. She closed her eyes and let her mind take her where it would. She tried to imagine if he was a Harry or a Jonas or a Jason. But none of the names she thought of suited him, so he remained Mr Mystery.

  Half an hour later, she rose out of the cold bath. Water dripped onto the tiled floor, pooling at her feet. Instead of drying, she rubbed organic coconut oil all over her face and down to her legs. That was her moisturising ritual done.

  She walked out of the bathroom in her glistening nakedness, opened her wardrobe and donned a cute baby doll lingerie. She shut the bedroom windows, drew the curtains, crawled into bed and allowed fatigue to take her to slumberland.

  She woke up to her phone’s persistent ringing, sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp. The ringing stopped, then started again a few seconds later. Confused, she paused to listen. It was coming from the floor. She got up and picked up her discarded jeans, fished out the phone from inside her pocket. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘It’s nine?’

  ‘It’s ten! Hurry.’

  ‘Okay, give me fifteen minutes,’ she said.

  She hurriedly donned an Indian sari, piled her hair on the top of her head and clipped it with faux crystal-encrusted crown, bought for five hundred rupees. She headed out the door in a pair of beaded flat shoes and a small clutch to hold her house key. In fifteen minutes, she was at Susie’s, whose apartment building was just four doors away.

  It was an intimate party of just twenty, guests came and went throughout the night. The evening ran into the wee hours of the morning until she was the only one left.

  Susie picked up two glasses of champagne and offered a toast.

  ‘Welcome home, Izzy.’

  ‘To home,’ she said with a smile, but with a heart that felt empty.

  SOMEWHERE IN NEW ZEALAND, Mystery Man received a call as he was packing his holdall for a return trip to the United States.

  ‘Change of plans, buddy. Head for San Francisco. We’ve made the arrangements, but the plane is departing in an hour. Can you make it there in thirty?’

  ‘Sure can,’ he said.

  He closed his phone and smiled. San Francisco was all he remembered about her, yet he couldn’t forget any of her.

  3: Missed Connection

  HE WAS CASUALLY DRESSED in a long-sleeved Rodd and Gunn black turtleneck shirt, light blue denim jeans and a pair of lace-up trainers. He overlaid his chosen attire with a stylish, button-up woollen blazer to keep the New Zealand winter cold at bay. He packed quickly, throwing essential items into his holdall that
consisted mostly of miscellaneous items. There wasn’t a lot to take to his next destination, just a couple of shirts, pants, running shorts, shoes, and socks. They didn’t fill his military canvas bag.

  He carried it down to the sitting room to await his lift. Setting it down on the settee, he walked towards the floor-to-ceiling French glass doors to survey the handsomely landscaped garden. It was replete with deciduous trees that now stood proudly nude of their leaves; climbing ivies and statues standing sentinel.

  With his hands in his trouser pockets, he turned around to gaze up at the ceiling to admire its detailed, artistic pattern of roses and leaves. This was where he’d spent his formative years until he was sent to Eton, that bastion of British learning to complete his high school through to his A-levels. College had been Oxford and Princeton.

  Visits to his mother’s birthplace were becoming rarer. The last time before this was three years ago, and much had changed in that time. He only managed to visit for a couple of weeks at a time, mostly to see to this, his ancestral home situated on Herne Bay. It was a responsibility he had taken seriously since his mother’s passing.

  ‘Going already?’ a voice asked.

  The owner of the voice was the silver-haired house matron. She was coming forward in haste, her Kim Kardashianesque hips swaying. Her long white hair was tightly pulled back and arranged in a bun, putting on display a weathered brown face. He called her Goldie. No one knew why. He just did, and it stuck. She had been with his family from his birth twenty-five years ago.

  ‘Yeah. Please look after yourself and stop fussing about the house,’ he reminded her.

  She huffed.

  ‘If only that bloody gardener would do his job properly.’

  Just then, they heard a car horn. He grabbed his sand-coloured holdall, smiled, gave Goldie a quick kiss on the head, and said, ‘See you again–whenever.’

  She called out to him as he walked out of the elaborate double doors carrying his holdall, ‘Preferably before I’m dead.’

  He shook his head with a smile, hurried out and climbed into the passenger seat of a black-out sedan. The chauffeur eased the car out of the driveway. He sunk back into the leather seat and enjoyed the ride, grateful for the prearranged company hire car and its no-nonsense driver.

  Without being told where to go, the driver took him to the Auckland International Airport. He was dropped off right outside the signage for Air New Zealand.

  With long strides, he walked towards check-in, in the priority queue, and handed over his American Passport for scrutiny. He was through in a heartbeat.

  Several heads turned to look casually at the 6’2, athletic-looking man, who was walking with single-minded purpose towards the gate. Auckland Airport was small-scale by international standards and uncomplicated, so although his plane was boarding in fifteen minutes, he didn’t feel compelled to run. He would be there in no time at all.

  He observed a man walking towards him. They acknowledged each other with the briefest of nods. This suited man extended a brown briefcase. ‘Study notes,’ he said.

  He accepted it without slowing down, the exchange completed in one swift move, in time with their steps. The other man continued to walk towards the exit; he followed the sign to the boarding gate.

  He settled down on his seat on Business Premier, Air New Zealand’s flagship Boeing 777-300 business class. He got direct aisle access, a seating formation that had no impediment if he wanted to answer the call of nature. The wide seat also flipped over to create one of the best beds for sleeping in the sky. The downside was it didn’t recline far enough when being used in seat mode.

  Bonuses included an NZ wine selection, not that he was inclined to help himself to it. He opened the briefcase to start with the study notes, completely ignoring an elegantly dressed brunette seated just in front of him.

  WHILE MYSTERY MAN WAS cruising over the Pacific Ocean, asleep in business class, Isabel and Susie were having breakfast at an outdoor café.

  They occupied their usual table by the window. It was laden with untouched food, a smorgasbord of delicacies, and a pot of Earl Grey tea. They had been talking in whispers until suddenly Susie blurted out, her voice an octave higher, ‘You had unprotected sex?’

  Isabel simultaneously glared and kicked her best friend under the table. The waitress glanced back at them, overhearing the sex bit. Susie noticed and waved her off to mind her own business before returning her attention to the conversation.

  ‘Izzy, what if he was sick?’

  She shrugged resignedly, smirked and said, ‘Too late to worry about that, isn’t it? I’ll have a blood test in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Was he gorgeous?’

  She answered dreamily.

  ‘Very. He had dark blue eyes—the only time I’ve seen that colour was in the Aegean Sea in Santorini. One clear day, I was sitting on top of a cliff, watching the water ... it was like glass, indigo glass.’

  She sighed softly as she recalled this detail and remembered how they intimately stared at each other through the glass door as they made love.

  Susie broke her trance by asking, ‘What’s his name?’

  Isabel frowned a little and shook her head.

  Susie protested, ‘Come on; I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Isabel said. ‘I don’t even know his name.’

  She had to laugh at Susie’s shocked facial expression.

  Isabel covered her face with her hands and said, ‘I know, it’s stupid. I had unprotected sex with someone whose name I didn’t even know.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to refer to him as Indigo from now on, in lieu of a name.’

  Indigo.

  She thought for a split second. Yes, that’d be an appropriate pseudo-name for her Mystery Man.

  Not much later, still jet-lagged, she said she wanted to go home, ‘I need more sleep.’

  They walked back to their respective apartments and promised to catch up again soon.

  THE FIRST THING ISABEL noticed as she stepped into her apartment was her answer machine blinking. It could only be her Daddy, who still had her obsolete landline on speed dial. She had long wanted to cut this utility service off but couldn’t since her father insisted on calling it.

  She pressed the button to retrieve the message.

  ‘Honey,’ he said, sounding somewhat clipped and abrupt. ‘Hope you’re still keen to work for me. We have a problem in London; I’m hoping you’d go sort it out.’

  London, she thought for a moment. Why not?

  She called him back and left a message.

  ‘I’ll see you about the London assignment tomorrow.’

  She slept like a baby and woke up the next morning refreshed and raring to go. She bumped into her Daddy in the elevator and commenced their conversation right there and then.

  ‘So, what’s in London?’ she inquired between sips of flat white.

  ‘They suspect insurance scam, art insurance. I need you there until the issue is resolved.’

  ‘How long do you think you’ll need me there?’ she asked, knowing it was an open-ended assignment.

  Mr Caine shrugged.

  ‘For as long as it takes.’

  They had agreed to the terms of her transfer before the elevator car reached the top floor of the Caine Insurance building.

  It pinged ever so softly when it arrived at their designated floor. The doors opened. They entered the plush office of Mr Caine, Chairman of the Board. Understandably, they were the only ones around since it was only eight in the morning.

  ‘When do you want me to leave?’ She asked as she admired her father’s newly refurbished workplace. She particularly liked Ken Done’s kaleidoscopic painting of the Sydney Harbour she’d sent him as a present. It was an appealing riot of colours!

  ‘Yesterday,’ was his reply.

  She smiled.

  ‘In that case, I’d better pack. Since I’ll be there for a while, I’ll see about leasing my apartment this
time while I’m gone. Bye Dad,’ she stood on the tip of her toes to give him an affectionate kiss.

  FIFTEEN HOURS AFTER it left Auckland, the Air NZ Dreamliner was taxiing down the runway of the San Francisco International Airport.

  A tall, handsome man was last to disembark, preferring a calm exit to elbowing his way out. At any rate, with his long legs, and no baggage to collect, he was out of the building ahead of everyone from his plane.

  He hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the Grand Hyatt, where he had a night booking. He smiled as he thought of the possibility of bumping into her, that mysterious woman whose eyes had bewitched him. It was as though she had burrowed into his soul.

  The one thing he would always remember about her was the colourful little butterfly tattooed just below her navel. He remembered passing his hand over it as they made love; his palm on her abdomen, he had felt her quiver.

  4: Whirlwind Start to a Wicked Week

  THERE WAS A TONNE OF THINGS TO DO before leaving for London. She gave herself a week to depart, even though the Chairman of the Board needed her across the Atlantic yesterday. Considering that her life here would be on hold for months, it seemed only reasonable to take her time.

  First, she phoned a real estate property manager to check out her apartment.

  ‘I want a tenant while I’m away, preferably someone prepared to sign for three months at least.’

  Just ten minutes into their initial conversation, they had set an appointment for the agent to drop by her place the following day. This was, indeed, a good day to be pro-active.

  THE AGENT SHOWED UP on the appointed time. She had mixed feelings about the potential listing and said so diplomatically.

  ‘It would be easy to rent out considering the location, but the quality of the renovation isn’t up to scratch.’