Up until this chapter I had built up Selina as what you could call a reliable (indirect) narrator, the level-headed girl with good judgment who never loses her cool. Which could only mean one thing: when she does lose it, she does so in pretty spectacular fashion. After spending most of Chinese Boxes poking fun at Bruce's jealousy, it was only fair to let her fall into the same trap, as it were ;)
.
The fury does not hit her at once; instead it slowly builds up, like a wave gathering momentum. Her first reaction is a sort of numb shock; of all the things she might have expected Bruce to do when her back was turned, cheating somehow never occurred to her. Meanwhile, the pair take their seats two rows behind her; the high seat backs hide her from their view, but they are close enough for the stomach-churning conversation to be heard, at least while the plane is still on the ground.
She has spent half her lifetime pretending to be people she wasn't, and can spot a fake in ten seconds flat; and this girl is as fake as it gets, and shallow as a puddle in a drought. She answers the revolting flirtatious platitudes Bruce showers upon her with equally inane encouraging remarks, interspersing them with silly giggles.
"How long are you staying in Singapore?"
"A few days, maybe a week. I'll have to see how it goes."
Presumably, how it goes in bed with her. And her next question will likely be where he is staying at.
"Where are you going to stay?"
Bingo.
"Haven't decided yet. I'll just go to the information desk at arrivals and ask them to suggest a good five-star downtown."
Either he is fishing for an invitation into her bed right away, or he has changed his mind about staying at the same hotel as Selina, for obvious reasons.
If it had not been for the disguise, Selina would have confronted them. She feels like doing it anyway, but an attention-grabbing scene is not what she wants when she is supposedly travelling on a secret mission. Airline crews tend to take a dim view of on-board altercations, and the last thing she wants is being handed to the police when they land, or before they have a chance to take off, for that matter. She'd love to see him and his cooing dove handed over to the cops, but unfortunately, there are no arrests for flagrant cheating in most parts of the world – except perhaps, ironically, Saudi Arabia. She takes advantage of the pre-electronics-warning stage to look up the Singapore criminal law and gets a momentary flush of satisfaction to see that cheating is illegal there... before realising that she cannot even expose the fucker without blowing her cover. She is either a married Saudi heiress, and her pretend husband, Theo "Al-Juhani", is somewhere outside Kuala Lumpur in blissful ignorance of this travesty; or a married Tamil terrorist, and her husband, Mr Sivaparan, is in jail already.
She reaches inside her handbag for the pocket mirror and, kicking herself for being a spineless fool, angles it to get a sliver of a view in the gap between the seats; at least both the seat next to her and the two seats behind her and in front of them are empty so her spying goes unnoticed. The body language alone makes her nauseous, the way they sit turned in their seats to face each other, hands almost touching on the wide leather armrest. Selina can see why he has picked her up; as he said, tall, dark and handsome must be his thing. No telling if the girl has good legs, but he clearly has a thing for exotic partners; Selina remembers his story of spending a few days in Shanghai in the company of an upscale call girl during his incognito travels, and of all the deliciously obscene things she taught him, which the two of them really enjoyed replicating on many occasions. This girl may sound like a New Englander, but she looks at least half-Asian, with dark glossy hair, delicate features, and skin the colour of old ivory. And she looks no older than early twenties, which explains the silly giggles but gives Selina little comfort. The only jarring feature in an otherwise seductively sultry image, apart from the manner best suited to a college cheerleader, is the colour of her eyes. Instead of a darker brown, it is a striking golden-yellow, making her look oddly predatory instead of alluring – not that it bothers him, apparently.
For a few seconds she thinks about putting on her music player to drown out the conversation, but her resolve does not last and morbid curiosity prevails. Instead, she reaches for the bag again, gets out her tablet, and tries to distract herself by reading the weapons specs; there is no need for it now that her arms dealer credentials have been established, but she hopes it can take the edge off her anger. No use; instead, she ends up imagining pointing some of the more destructive weaponry at the lovebirds two rows back.
When did he have time to pick up this airhead, anyway? Did he spend the day not just buying diamonds but trawling the red light district to boot? She could almost understand him cheating if he were really fascinated by someone, but it is clear that he knows exactly what sort of target he is dealing with here, and has no shame casually courting her with the stupidest tricks in the book and the shallowest flattery. So much for thinking that he appreciated mutual trust and an equal partnership. For once in her life Selina resolved to be totally honest with a man and has stuck to the resolution, only to get a slap in the face. This is what it comes down to; for all the protestations of jealousy – what breathtaking hypocrisy! – the moment he thinks she is out of earshot, he goes for a newer and more exotic model.
She should have known better, really. He may have lived the last few years in Gotham as an eccentric recluse, but stories were rife of Wayne's wild parties and a long succession of one-night stands, all the while pining for an unattainable beloved. It was a convenient excuse, for sure. Perhaps this Rachel was right in rebuffing him. What the fuck was she thinking of when she married him? Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham, king of supermodel orgies more like? They have been together for more than a year; should she be surprised that his eyes have started wandering and other body parts would follow suit? He may have changed his name but she'll be damned if he changed his habits. Oh, he did, for a bit, while he was weak and hurting and lonely – and the moment he felt free from the torments of his past, the moment he no longer felt broken, he must have figured it's time to have fun, like old times. Was she just the rebound girl? Enraged as she is, she is less angry at him than at herself for being such an idiot as to have thought that theirs was a trusting relationship. Serves her right for being a stupid sucker.
She waves away the in-flight drinks and snacks and tries unsuccessfully to numb her brain with playing games on the tablet. She cannot concentrate enough to play well, and a string of losses only adds to her anger. Finally she opens Minesweeper and, after several miserable failures, ends up restarting the game ad nauseam and just clicking the field at random to be presented with a succession of images of an exploding minefield. She finds it oddly soothing.
The two in the back row, in the meantime, won't shut up. The engine noise drowns out chunks of their discourse, but what Selina hears is enough to inform her that the companion du jour is indeed half-American, half-Thai, the daughter of an airline pilot father and flight attendant mother, long since divorced, and is spending a few months in Singapore writing a thesis in political science for her master's course at Georgetown. Apparently she was in Bangkok on a short break visiting relatives and is now moaning about having to go back to the horrors of statistical sampling and tutor meetings. Bruce helpfully offers to take the edge of her suffering by taking her out in the evening while he is in town; Selina curls her fingers into tight fists and wonders whether the CIA should, indeed, have put him in Guantanamo.
The girl is only too happy with the suggestion, of course.
"Oh wow, thank you! That's an awesome idea, and so nice of you! So, are you going to Singapore for business?"
It looks like he is mostly going for pleasure, sweetie.
"I should say so. I need to meet with a few people. There's an old business partner I must talk to."
What is he babbling about?
"What sort of business are you in?"
Apparently they have not had much of a chance to talk before boarding, what with exchanging basic info now. Or maybe they were too busy ogling each other.
"Asset management."
"Wow, that sounds really serious. I thought you were from Hollywood."
He has the indecency to be pleased. "Why did you think that?
"You totally look like you could be in the movies."
Yeah, or in the gossip columns, which is probably where she saw him in his younger wilder days when she was in her early teens, and forgot who the face belonged to.
"You're flattering me."
"Well, you're an Italian guy who speaks, like, perfect English and has lived in the States, what else could I think? It's either Gotham or LA, and you said you've only been to Gotham for, like, a few days."
She wonders why he bothered to lie about that, and to pretend to be Italian to boot.
"No, I lived in New Jersey for a few years."
How thrilling.
"It's such a shame that you've moved back. Where are you now, Milan?"
"No, further south."
"I thought most financial companies were in Milan."
OK, so she knows that much.
"No, I'm in Calabria."
Yeah, right, asset management in Calabria. So we're going with the 'Ndrangheta Rocco De Stefano persona, are we? Well, that explains the need to see an old business partner – see as in shoot, presumably, and the New Jersey sojourn. Hate to break it to you, tesoro, but even with the drivel you've been spouting, you don't sound dumb enough. Compared to the real guy, this version of Rocco is an eloquent, impeccably-mannered Einstein. But then the seduction objective takes priority over authenticity. Still, if the bimbo knows anything about Italian politics, this should be her cue to find a convincing reason to scamper.
Either she doesn't know or she doesn't care.
"Oh wow, that sounds awesome. I've only been to, like, Rome and Florence. Calabria must be really beautiful."
Asking for an invitation already?
"It is. You should visit it sometime."
"I'd love to. Maybe when I finish my thesis I can go to Europe for, like, a couple of months."
"Sounds like a great idea."
What about promising to be her personal escort for the duration?
"Maybe we can meet when I'm there."
See, the sweetheart is pushy enough to make up for this apparent lack of commitment.
"I hope so. If I can get away for a few days I'll be very happy to."
Ah, we are being realistic and trying to make allowances for real life, like being married.
Shallow as she is, the girl has her gold digger senses well attuned.
"I really hope we manage to meet... I guess there's a Signora Rocco?"
If he says no, Selina will walk over and punch his lights out, to hell with the disguise.
"In the interests of full disclosure, yes."
Don't sound so heartbroken, darling. Marriage does not have to be forever.
"I see." The girl does not sound disappointed enough. "Where is she?"
"Back in Cosenza. She mostly stays at home, doesn't like to travel."
Well, fuck me. She never knew that about herself.
"If I were her I wouldn't let a husband like you out of my sight."
To quote the girl, oh wow. The cutie is already setting her sights on being the next wife.
"I'm sorry to ask too, but is there a Mr. Kitty?"
Despite the shitty situation, she struggles to suppress a snort. Kitty, seriously?!
"No, I'm totally free."
And very, very available.
"Lucky you."
Don't worry, you'll be enjoying the single life sooner than you think.
xxx
Somehow she survived the rest of the flight without choking with rage, though she certainly felt like choking him when he suggested to Kitty that they go grab a bite for dinner right away on the way from the airport. But the moment the doors open and they are allowed to disembark, she jumps out of her seat, unable to withstand another second of this farce. She grabs her carry-on and practically storms off with barely a nod and a word of thanks to the flight attendants while the happy couple are still in their seats discussing the choice of dinner venue. She is aware of Bruce staring at her, and after her, but is way past caring.
Singapore is even hotter and more humid compared to Bangkok, and she is happy to be the first in line at the taxi rank. She gives the driver the Swissotel address, sinks back in the seat, and closes her eyes. For all she knows, Singapore may be a beautiful city, but she does not give a damn right now. She has to hold it together at least until Saturday without flipping out or fucking up the mission; Bruce may have forgotten about it in his renewed lust for sexual escapades, but she has an outstanding conviction at stake – after all, the CIA may still try to tag her with it, and besides, she is not one to back out of a tricky task. She'll just need to get hold of Theo – perhaps she can call him room-to-room, or catch him at breakfast – and ask him to arrange their meetings so that she and Bruce are never at his suite at the same time. He'll probably tell her she is overreacting, but he'll definitely also have a few choice observations left for Bruce regarding the admirable wisdom of letting his dick make decisions for him.
In the end it won't matter much; assuming she can get to the database and nab this Brian guy on Saturday or soon after that, she is getting out on the next flight. She won't retaliate with scandals or lawsuits or highly visible affairs of her own, she will just leave, take only what is hers and serve him with the divorce papers the next day. To hell with his money, she won't embark on the slippery slope toward being a long-suffering, cheated-upon trophy wife, and can perfectly well make a living on her own. She won't even need to steal, she can just take a full-time job in Lyon like they've been begging her to. But before then, she'll go back to Rio... for a few months. She'll steal Armando away from his sulky girlfriend, and have fun going to fancy restaurants and frolicking on the beach. She'll learn to fly the hang-glider – who knows, maybe she'll run into Bruce and kick his ass at some European event… a girl can dream, but it should not matter anyway whether she sees him or not. She gets out her phone and buys herself an open ticket to Rio before switching it off.
xxx
The Swissotel is appropriately posh but also quite sleek, its 70-storey tower sticking out like a floodlit spike into the cloudy sky; she tries not to dwell on the inevitable phallic parallels. She likes her room, spacious and modern, with two balconies offering vertiginous views of the skyscraper forest around her. On the downside, the hotel does have Onity locks, but she does not have anything obviously incriminating in her luggage, and will put her camera- and bug-encrusted jewellery, and her night vision goggles, in the room safe anyway. It is almost midnight, and under normal circumstances she would order room service and take a long shower before it arrived, but she does not feel all that hungry, despite the fact that her last meal was about twelve hours ago. Maybe she should just raid the minibar.
She stops herself from doing anything as sentimentally self-destructive as that and calls the reception asking to transfer her call to Mr Renner's room. No such guest; how about Mr Al-Juhani? This gets her the call forward. Even if Theo has finished his dinner, he may be willing to keep her company for a drink and a snack at the top-floor bar. No luck; the room phone does not respond and she does not feel like making a big deal of her stupid situation by calling his mobile if he is dining out. Her best option, she decides, is to vent her anger at the gym; she changes into her workout kit and heads down, grateful for the gym's round-the-clock availability.
Predictably, it is almost empty at this hour, its only occupant a vaguely Nordic-looking, presumably jetlagged Westerner trudging along on the treadmill. He pays little attention to Selina at first; this changes when she puts herself through a succession of increasingly complex martial arts moves, to the point when he is so distracted he almost falls off the treadmill. Whatever; she is here to tire herself out and numb her brain, not to provide entertainment, but if he wants to gawk, she has no problem with it. It would be more fun if she had someone to practice against, but she doubts that her fellow gym visitor will be a willing victim, er, partner. A few minutes into her workout she spots a boxing punching bag in a corner, and a peek into the storage closet a quarter of an hour later rewards her with a pair of boxing gloves. This is more like it; the punching bag is a passive target, but gives her the satisfaction of feeling her fists dig into it, even though the person she would most like to repeatedly punch is not Bruce or even Kitty but her stupid self.
After an hour of this, her knuckles hurt and her knees are getting wobbly but she is both physically exhausted and blissfully brain-dead. She drags herself to the elevators and stumbles back to the room and right into the bathroom, shedding her soaking gym clothes on the floor and stepping into the shower. This is bliss, or as close to it as she can get on a day like this. She'll need to do this every evening until she can fly out of here, mission permitting. By the time she steps out, she is almost human again, and pleasantly relaxed.
All of which changes when she walks into the room itself, washed in the ambient glow from the windows.
Bruce, who clearly has no concept of shame or decency – or danger, for that matter – is asleep in her bed. He does not even stir when she walks up to it, looking for all the world like a perfectly innocent visitor who has every right to be here. How the fuck did he get in here, anyway… and when? She is pretty certain that she would have noticed him slipping in while she was in the shower – she had not even bothered to close the bathroom door – and her room being on the 63rd floor of a 70-storey building makes climbing over an unlikely proposition. She glances over at the two balconies anyway, but cannot see any signs of dangling ropes.
No matter; instead of wondering how he got in, her priority for the moment is throwing him out – because if he thinks for a single second that she is going to let him stay, he is an even greater dickhead than he gave her reasons to believe earlier today.
She could, of course, drag him out of the bed – or at least try to – but while she would have an initial element of surprise on her side, she is not sure if she would succeed, especially after he woke up and assuming he would have opposing ideas about staying in bed. No; best to wake him up and order him out by virtue of moral rather than physical superiority, but she does not have to be subtle about it. She still has her bath towel hanging around her neck; she takes it off, gathers it up into a doubled-up roll, and swats him sharply across the face.
The effect is every bit as dramatic as she hoped; he sits up, or rather jumps up into a sitting position, and stares at her in momentary incomprehension.
"Get out."
"Selina..."
"Get..." She raises her hand and swats him again. "Out."
Unfortunately, he manages to catch the other end of her weapon on the backswing and snatches it away. She is momentarily nonplussed as to why he is ogling her before the belated realisation that she is standing there stark naked. Whatever.
"You heard me. Get the fuck out of here."
"Why?"
This makes her hit the ceiling, figuratively speaking. "Why?! You dare ask why? What sort of an idiot do you think I am? You think you can fuck around as you please and come back here and expect a welcome? Go back to your new girlfriend, she'll give you all the welcome you need and all the welcome you'll ever get."
He raises a hand as if to object, but she won't let him.
"Go on, run back to your dinner companion. Pussy, isn't it? Ah sorry, Kitty. You two seemed so eager, I was surprised you didn't run to the airplane toilet for a quickie. What, she had enough already? Oh, let me guess: she stood you up."
"Selina, listen..."
"Why the fuck should I listen to you? I've heard all I needed on the flight here. I heard way more than I ever wanted to."
For an instant, he looks about to laugh and she ponders a quick dash into the bathroom to get the other towel, but then, incongruously, he speaks as if he were offended.
"Did you seriously think I was interested? Did you seriously think I could risk my chances of being with you for the sake of sleeping with her? Is that what you believe of me?"
Either he is even more of a bald-faced liar than she thought, or something does not add up. "I believe what I heard," she insists, before making her counterattack. "And do you seriously think I'll believe you now? The moment, the second you're on your own you pick up the first young female you see. What am I supposed to believe of you after this?"
"Selina… just listen."
She heads for the door instead. "I'm going downstairs to call hotel security. If you aren't out of here by the time they arrive, blame yourself." She steps toward the bathroom to grab a robe...
"OK, if you don't believe me, just hit me."
She stops, turns, and stares at him.
He repeats the invitation. "If you won't listen and think I was cheating, hit me. I'm right here and won't fight back." He puts up both hands for greater emphasis.
And that, of course, is the really low blow. She may be seething furious at him and capable of causing grave bodily harm in general, but hitting him is another matter, and inconvenient as it may be under the circumstances, she has a bad enough mental issue with it to stop her from lifting a finger. It isn't that she wouldn't know how to hurt him – she knows exactly where and how she could hit him and make it hurt really bad – but the nightmarish vision of the fight in Bane's hideout, with her a helpless spectator, having just delivered him to a monster, is seared into her mind too vividly to allow her to hurt him, now or ever. It is a somewhat different matter if the two of them would fight, or rather wrestle, on equal terms; but she cannot do this when he sits there deliberately defenceless. It borders on ridiculous; when he asked her to slap him in the midst of pretty vigorous bedtime antics a few months back, she could not even bring herself to do that... not that it mattered in the end as she soon found other, less immediately painful and much more enjoyable ways to indulge his occasional masochistic cravings and submissive urges. Thinking about that right now, though, was a big mistake. Good luck staying angry.
"Get out." Even to her own ears, she lacks conviction.
He has obviously caught on to it. "Make me."
She could, in theory, carry out her threat and go call security. In theory being the operative words; it would be shooting herself in the foot secrecy-wise. Well then, here is her chance for a bit of competitive wrestling. With a bit of luck, she might just manage to kick him out of bed and out of the room and drift to sleep on the reclaimed bed to sweet dreams of seducing Armando in Rio.
She circles the bed to gauge the best approach vector, watching him; from what she sees, his eyes keep tracking her in a sort of reciprocal cat-and-mouse. She figures out a good landing spot in the middle of the mattress that will bring her next to him and give her enough momentum to push him off the bed – and jumps… but the instant she lands, he flings himself on top of her. It becomes a bona fide wrestling match, no holds barred – well, almost – to the point when the bed creaks and they crash against the headboard and try to snare each other with the duvet and swat at each other with the assorted pillows, and it's so much fun… except that she is nowhere near her goal and he is still very much on the bed. A silly little miscalculation on her part, and she is dragged down and pinned under his body, his hands on her wrists and his leg between hers. Damn, he is strong; her only option by now would be to bite him, and she won't stoop to that, so she just glares at him, and he stares back at her, and it is going in a very different direction from what she intended. She has no idea what he intended, but now that they are pressed together she can tell that she is not the only excited one. And then, as if sealing his total victory, he presses his lips to hers and she knows she should not but still lets him kiss her, and it soon stops being sweet and tender and becomes hungry and passionate, and he lets go of her wrists and she drags her fingernails down his back and they both moan in unison…
...at which moment there is a sharp rapping at the door and a screechy voice demands that they open "or Ah'll call the caaaaps."
They freeze and turn their heads in the direction of the door, though it is not in their line of sight. There is a second or two of silence, then the knocking continues.
"She's got to be kidding me," she breathes. "Cops, really?"
"We're in Singapore," he mutters back. "They have prison sentences for pornography and fines for outrages on decency. This probably counts as both."
"Fuck." Talk about a total fail on the low profile front.
"Maybe you… you could talk to her," Bruce suggests, rather sheepishly. She might have asked why he won't volunteer, but it is pretty obvious to her in her position that he is in no condition to do so. She shakes her head in silent wonder as to how things ended up at this juncture, then grabs her wet towel from the nightstand where he left it, and drags herself to the door.
Her unbidden visitor is a hefty fiftysomething matron of, judging by the accent, American provenance, standing there with an air of someone whose decency has been very thoroughly outraged, with a tall, thin presumably-husband hovering behind her, looking like he'd rather be many miles away – until he sees Selina, after which he has trouble peeling his eyes off her.
"What's that aaawful noise you're making?" is his wife's greeting.
Like you don't know. To be fair, they were actually fighting for a few minutes… and in any case she'd better act sheepish and scared and apologetic to make sure the calling the cops never happens.
"I'm so terribly sorry, I had absolutely no idea you could hear us…"
"Hear you? I could feel the walls shaking!" the lady declares.
"I do apologise. Please, don't call the police, please… we're both married." It might fail to appeal to the woman's sense of compassion but it's worth a try; at least her check of the Singapore penal code and the unlawfulness of cheating has told her that it is a valid fear for the guilty parties.
Her accuser does not seem much placated by her admission, but then her scowl slackens rather abruptly – and Selina notices, at the edge of her field of vision, that Bruce has managed to sort himself out and has walked up to the door wearing a pair of slacks, though little else, and is making puppy eyes at her nemesis.
"You should- should be- " It is clear that the woman likes what she sees, whether she wants to or not; if her sudden stuttering were not a sufficient indication of it, her furious blushing certainly is. The husband behind her back shakes himself to life and tries to mumble something, but she is too deep in trouble of her own now so she decides to save herself further embarrassment and, after regaling Selina with another scowl, saunters off, with a dismissive wave of her hand and a theatrical shrug, in the direction of her suite, husband in tow.
The moment they are back in the room with the door shut behind them, they fall into each other's arms, crying with silent laughter.
"Liar," he mutters in her ear in between kissing the earlobe.
She catches her breath enough to speak. "I told her nothing but the truth. We're both married, aren't we?" And maybe she'd rather keep it that way, after all.
"But not the whole truth," he counters, pulling the towel away from her. "Now let me explain what the deal was with the girl– "
She pulls him next to her and half-kisses, half-bites him. "Just shut up." Explanations and apologies and warnings and recriminations can wait until tomorrow; she'd rather not waste time on those now.
He eagerly responds to the kiss, so much so that they end up sinking on the floor. At this rate, the matron may be back before long.
"You know, I think we'd better go to your room and hope your neighbours are more understanding."
"Or harder of hearing."
"Exactly. Either way I'd rather not have to give a repeat performance."
"You have my vote." He looks like the cat that got the cream.
"How did you get here, anyway?" she asks, pulling her black jersey dress and a pair of flats out of the bag.
In response, he produces what looks like a felt-tip marker out of his slacks pocket.
"Ah, the famous Onity lockpick." She snatches it out of his hand; it looks like she will have a use for it, and probably not only to get into Theo's suite. "And here I was, thinking you were happy to see me," she teases.
"Couldn't you tell I was?"
Could she ever. "How did you get it?"
"Saw Theo in the lobby, was lucky to catch him when he came back from dinner."
Which explains why she did not catch him. "What time are we meeting tomorrow?"
"After breakfast. About ten, we said. If that's OK with you."
"Sure." So long as it leaves them enough time to get some sleep after they've fucked each other's brains out.
They sneak out of the room like cartoon burglars and slowly creep toward the elevator bank amid silent snickering. "Shame about this woman showing up," he complains quietly as they wait for the lift to arrive. "Your room's nicer and has a bigger bed than mine."
"It'll do. Shame she was so pissed off. You know normally I don't mind public settings."
"Not in Singapore."
Which reminds her of his surprisingly detailed knowledge of local laws regarding outrages on decency. "Been here before?"
"A couple of times."
"Ever been caught?"
He rolls his eyes. "Yes. I was 24," he adds with a shrug, as if to explain the mistake. "Got away with a fine."
"At this rate we'd better keep a stash of cash handy," she comments.
When the chime goes off and they step inside, she is surprised to see him press the lobby button.
"Which floor are you on?" she asks him, a bit bewildered.
"60th," he says, completely deadpan. She is on the 63rd. "We're taking the scenic route." The moment the doors close, he pins her against the wall. "How's this for a public setting?"
xxx
She drifts awake to the realisation that the low noise she has been hearing in her sleep is, in fact, a vibrating phone alert. Bruce reluctantly unwraps himself from around her side and rubs his eyes. "It's seven fucking thirty," he grumbles, squinting at the clock radio on the bedside table as he reaches for the phone. No wonder she is so sleepy; by the time they were too tired to move a finger, some time after three, she realised that she was starving so he had to call room service and she had to hide in the bathroom when it arrived… but all the early morning snack did was make them hungry for more in a figurative sense.
She squints at the phone he is holding and is momentarily surprised at seeing a Swiss prefix followed by a number she does not recognise. Must be a client; but then it is midnight over there, kind of late for a client call – unless it is an emergency, which is really great timing when both company bosses are a twelve-hour flight away. Judging by the way Bruce is frowning, he must be thinking the same thing.
"Hello?" he says tentatively. "Yes, this is Brandon." This is said with more confidence but with a round-eyed look. "Hi, Tim."
OK, at least the Swiss number makes sense now. Theo must have got a new SIM card to go with the Renner identity. He is probably calling to suggest a later meeting time, which, all things considered, would be great.
"Sure, what sort of favour?"
Apparently not. She listens to the rest of the conversation with an increasing sense of uneasy wonder.
"Can it wait a couple of hours? I'm... Oh, OK. I don't have that kind of money in cash on me, I used up all our cash in Bangkok, I just have a couple of thousand US left and I'll need to exchange those. I can try see if I can get an advance at the reception against my card. If not, I'll have to wait till the bank opens at 8:30. Where do I bring it? 3-9-1 New Bridge Road... What is it, is there a sign or something? What?!" He gapes at the phone before slapping a hand on his forehead. "Are you telling me you're in jail?"
.
TBC
.
I disappoint readers again here by chickening out of the smut. I suppose my real issue with avoiding writing explicit sex scenes involving characters I really like is some sort of weird respect for their privacy (yes, I know they are fictional :P) I can perfectly well imagine them having the steamiest, kinkiest sex in minute detail… I just can't bring myself to describe it for readers' eyes :( Apologies again.
…but I can offer you a delightful bribe, even if I say so myself ;) The release of the Nolan trilogy special edition and the publicity tour for Out of the Furnace has prompted a couple of Christian Bale interviews, and if you have not seen/read them, they are a must, not to mention great fun. He has interesting comments, both serious and humorous, about the Batman character and the way he approached it in the films, and talks about the rationale for that gravelly voice and the perils of pissing in the Batsuit. For all his usual grumpy public persona, he is hilarious here.
[http www] mtv*com/news/articles/1717617/christian-bale-batma n-audition*jhtml
[http www] theguardian*com/film/2013/nov/19/christian-bale-be n-affleck-batman-not-pee-in-batsuit