NOW
Marianne rings the man on the intercom again. The conversation is short. She hangs up.
‘So?’
‘He says Hap is still too busy.’
‘Maybe he is?’
But Marianne is shaking her head. ‘No. Hap is a friend, but he’s also this building’s manager, and my publishing company is the single biggest tenant in this building.
If this was a legitimate emergency, he would be on that phone right now reassuring me.
’ Marianne’s breathing seems more under control than it has been.
It’s almost as though having something to be outraged about is calming her down.
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
‘Something is going on here. Someone is doing this to us.’ Marianne looks at me. ‘Well, maybe just to me. I don’t know. Do you have enemies?’
‘What do you mean, enemies?’
‘You don’t know what the word enemies means?’
‘I mean, who has enemies?’
‘When you’re powerful and work in an industry for a long time, you make enemies. You’ll understand when you’re older.’ Her eyelids flicker like she’s going through a list of possible suspects.
‘But if someone is doing this on purpose, the real question is why,’ I point out. ‘They haven’t asked for money. They haven’t asked for anything. Suffocation in a lift is not an efficient way to kill someone.’
The panic on Marianne’s face tells me I shouldn’t have mentioned suffocation. ‘What do you think they want from us?’ she asks.
‘I don’t even know who they are. Or if they exist.’
‘If they’re targeting me, it could be anyone,’ Marianne says. ‘Writers. Editors. Publishers. Maybe two of my ex-husbands. No, three. No, Josh would never.’
‘Jesus.’
‘The next question is, what are we going to do about it?’ Marianne looks up at the hatch above our heads. ‘I hate to say it, but I think it’s time to open that.’
‘And do what?’
‘You’re young and strong.’
‘I’m not climbing into a lift shaft,’ I say. I mean it.
‘Let’s just take a look and see how close we are to the nearest set of doors,’ Marianne says.
‘I’m not climbing into a lift shaft.’
‘We’ll only open the hatch.’
‘How? Do you have a screwdriver in your handbag?’
‘I think I … have … something.’ Marianne goes through her bag and comes out with a nail file.
Well … shit.
Even on her tiptoes, Marianne’s not tall enough to reach the hatch.
She gives me a look that makes me briefly sure she’s going to ask me to be her stool.
But no, Marianne kicks off her shoes, grabs the metal rail that runs around three walls of the lift and, with more grace than I would have anticipated, pulls her body up to balance her feet on the rail.
‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ I say, grinning despite it all. It’s an understatement: who is this action hero and where has her hyperventilating alter-ego gone?
Marianne lets herself smile. ‘Ten years of Pilates.’
With one hand, she grips the handle on the hatch, while her other hand uses the nail file to turn one of the screws.
It’s not easy work – the file doesn’t fit perfectly into the screw, so it moves reluctant millimetre by reluctant millimetre.
I can’t watch, not because it’s boring, but because, if I do, I can see straight up Marianne’s skirt to her full-coverage knickers.
Instead, I ask, ‘Do you think they can see us? The guy on the intercom. Can he see what you’re doing right now?’
‘What is he going to do about it? If he wants to drag us out of here, please, be my guest.’ The last three words are delivered loudly towards the camera in the ceiling.
I can think of a few things that somebody in charge of a lift could do to the people trapped inside, but I don’t mention any of them. I’m still dealing with Marianne’s transformation from panicked claustrophobe to Furiosa.
‘Can I help?’ I’m not sure how, since there’s no way I’m getting up on that bar without spraining something, flashing everything or both.
‘No,’ Marianne grunts. ‘But keep talking, distract me. What happened next? And what about Elena’s brother, the new, hot one? He sounds suspicious.’
‘Michael?’
‘Yeah. He doesn’t want you and Patrick poking around into Felix’s death. Plus he sounds too hot and charismatic – that’s a red flag.’
‘Is it?’
‘Prove me wrong, then. What happened next?’
I don’t need to be told twice.