Chapter 2

Siobhan sent Mike back to his room with a warm (but not passionate) thank you kiss on the lips. He navigated there on auto-pilot, performed his usual bedtime routine and got himself into bed, all in a daze; partly due to his lack of sleep the previous night, but mainly due to the emotional overload of a day spent in Siobhan’s company, rounded off with that kiss. A good night’s sleep and the challenge of getting Siobhan away without alerting the media focussed his problem-solving abilities and in the morning he trotted downstairs to have a quiet word with Mrs. Dunn. Between them, they came up with a plan which they thought had a fair chance of success, and Mike returned upstairs to explain their ideas to Siobhan, after which he packed his bag, took it downstairs to reception and went to breakfast to eat alone; Siobhan was, discreetly, served breakfast in her room.

One of Mrs. Dunn’s sons was a taxi-driver – using one of the ubiquitous ‘black-cabs’ (of which there are so many unless you desperately need one); his actually was black – and she’d explained the situation to him.

When both Siobhan (in her room) and Mike (in the dining-room) were ready, she made a call and shortly after, the black-cab drew up outside. Mrs. Dunn spoke to Mike, loudly enough that other guests could hear, telling him his cab had come; he left the hotel, climbed into the cab and was driven away. Out of sight of the hotel, he ducked out of sight and the driver took a devious route back to the back alley behind the hotel. There were a couple of watchers at the end of the lane, but that had been anticipated. Siobhan, dressed as a waiter in a dark suit, her hair tucked out of the way in a Homburg, left the hotel and sauntered down to the cab, climbing in with as masculine a manner as she could. It wouldn’t have convinced a serious watcher, but the two at the end of the lane were not taking their job seriously; they were tired, bored and sceptical that Ms. Siobhan O’Callaghan would deign to leave the hotel by the staff exit. Which was all to the good, of course.

A suitcase or bag would have been a flare-lit-tip-off, so her basic necessities were in Mike’s bag. Removing the dark suit revealed an unflattering pair of slacks; black shoes and several thick pairs of socks were replaced by her flats. The white shirt, removed, revealed a t-shirt that did hint at her figure, but she covered that with a baggy hoodie.

Removing the hat revealed her dark hair piled up on her head. Mike looked at her and frowned.

“I ... you seem familiar, somehow...”

She shrugged. “It wouldn’t be surprising if you’d seen my picture ... in an advert, or perhaps a glamour pose...”

“Maybe...” Mike didn’t sound convinced, but he knew he’d let his mind free-wheel and it would come up with an answer ... if there was one.

She unpinned her hair, shook her head and ran her fingers though the strands; then gathered it into a pony-tail. A pair of plain-lensed glasses and a slouching posture completed the picture. To a casual onlooker, she was ... a student, maybe. The suit and shoes they left with Mrs. Dunn’s son to be returned to the hotel.

At St. Pancras they sat over coffee, waiting for their train. With encouragement, Siobhan talked about her job and the world of modelling; her excitement and pride when she had her first opportunities, her pleasure in the compliments, the dates, the expensive restaurants and film premières, meeting celebrities...

Her story was interrupted by the announcement of their train; they boarded and found seats. Leaving London mid-morning, the train wasn’t crowded. When Siobhan re-commenced her story, her voice was flatter, subdued. She spoke of constant travel, tension and pressure. She’d sampled drugs, but made a deliberate decision to stick to a little wine, and coffee. She spoke of other girls she’d known and what she’d seen happen to them. Eventually, she got to her relationship with Casey Sharp; he’d seemed to be charming and sincere. She’d been flattered that such a popular and well-known character had been interested in her; intensified when he’d proposed. How he’d begun to change once she’d slept with him, and how he’d begun to hint at threesomes and ... unconventional ... sex. Finally, the last straw of the encounter in their hotel room when he’d turned up with another woman.

Mike didn’t know what to do, so he said nothing. After a moment, seeing her, head down, unable to interpret her expression, he took one of the hands she was clasping together in her lap and held it in his, just holding it. They sat like that for most of an hour until Mike suggested sandwiches for lunch. When he began to withdraw his hand, she held on to it and turned and lifted her head to look at him, her expression pensive. He thought for a moment, correctly, that she was about to say something, but she changed her mind and just squeezed his hand.

Once they’d got their sandwiches – with a glass of white wine for Siobhan and beer for Mike – the remainder of the trip was spent chatting about nothing in particular, occasionally commenting on the country or urban areas they happened to be passing. At the approach to Sheffield, however, Siobhan commented, “I’ve never happened to visit Sheffield.”

“It’s got an image as an industrial city,” Mike replied, “but since the Clean Air Acts in the early sixties, it’s actually been very clean. Mrs. Thatcher did for the sprawling heavy industry in the eighties. There’s still a lot of special steel made, but most of the foundries are gone. It’s quite compact ... population over half a million, though. Noticeably ... well, it’s said to be a collection of villages, and it’s possible to identify distinct areas within the city. A friendly place ... well, mostly ... very popular with students. Two universities. Sports and art facilities. Shopping ... the Peak District ... I like it. Of course, I was born and brought up here.”

Sheffield Midland Station is old, but like many others has been renovated and is clean and attractive. The concourse is light and airy, the approach attractive with stone paving, a stainless steel feature with water and, at night, lights. Siobhan was pleasantly surprised as Mike escorted her to the taxi rank. She hadn’t known what to expect of his house, which turned out to be a tall Victorian terrace, the front door approached by steep stone steps.

Ushering Siobhan inside, he dumped his bag at the foot of the stairs.

“First on the right, the lounge, then the dining-room, and at the back the kitchen. Above us, the bathroom and above these rooms, three bedrooms. Then above those there’s a large attic room I use as bedroom, office and study...” He opened the lounge door and followed Siobhan in.

Mike had been so used to the presence of the photo on his wall he didn’t give it a second thought until he noticed Siobhan’s eyes fixed on it; then he blushed and stammered out an apology, not seeing the faint smile on her face. More importantly, not seeing the resemblance of his guest to the picture. Perhaps he could be forgiven for that. She was currently blonde courtesy of a bottle, and how many men in his position would expect to find the object of their admiration standing in their lounge?

“Mike,” Siobhan said gently, laying a hand on his shoulder, “there’s no need to apologise. As it happens, I have seen that picture before and I consider it to be a particularly fine piece of art. I am not offended at its presence on your wall, I promise you.” At the same time, she was very surprised that he hadn’t recognised her. “Suppose you show me where I can sleep,” she went on.

Mike waved at the door and she went ahead of him.

“Upstairs,” he said. At the top of the stairs, “The smallest bedroom is in front of you. That and the one to the right will be the quietest. The door between is a toilet. At the front is the master bedroom and next to it, the bathroom. Have a look while I put the kettle on and think about something to eat. Choose, and I’ll sort out linen for you.”

“Don’t you mind which I use?”

“Nope. I’ll be in the attic.” He turned and ran downstairs.

She curiously examined each room. They were austere, but each had a bed with a duvet and pillow (no covers, though) a chest-of-drawers and a wardrobe. The small room had a single bed, the middle and master bedrooms, doubles. She was interested to see the doors had rim-latches (not that she knew what they were called) on the inside face of the door, not concealed within the stile, and each had a small bolt to lock the door for privacy. If she’d had any reservations about Mike, she wouldn’t have been there, but she thought it reassuring that she could lock the door. She looked out of the window of the master bedroom and for a few minutes watched the traffic moving up and down the hill. There appeared to be some congestion where the road met a roundabout at the bottom. There was some noise, but the window had secondary double-glazing so there wasn’t much. The room was a little stuffy and she opened the secondary glazing and slid up the sash, a little surprised at how easily it moved. The noise was greater, but she was used to city life and didn’t think it bad. However, there was a definite hint of fumes from the traffic, so she went to the middle room which overlooked a small garden; rather drab, just grass and stone paving. That window, too, opened easily. She went downstairs and found Mike in the kitchen.