Read Online A Wayward Game by Pandora Witzmann - Free Book Online

depression
steals further over me with every step. I am no closer to solving
the riddle of Diane’s disappearance than before; but a seed has
been sown. Someone, somewhere, I am convinced, knows more than they
have ever told. If I can only find that person, I might just grasp
the key that will unlock this mystery.
     
~
     
    “Of course,”
the estate agent, Lorraine, says as we get into the lift, “it’s a
very exclusive development. Residents pay for, and get, a
high level of service. A concierge is available twenty-four hours a
day. Communal areas are cleaned daily, and any maintenance problems
– electrical faults, problems with the plumbing – can usually be
dealt with within a matter of hours.”
    “Very
impressive,” I say, and on a certain level it really is. Lexwood
House is a yuppie’s playground, a monument to the particular
pleasures of the young, wealthy urbanite. There’s a gym in the
basement, free Wi-Fi access, and an optional laundry service. Each
individual apartment is protected by polished wooden doors and
intercom, and boasts balconies and terraces. The communal areas –
the lobby, the corridors, and the lifts – are minimalist, and
almost ruthlessly neat and clean, decorated with potted palms and
abstract paintings. It’s a perfect place for those, like Sallow,
who are rich in money but poor in time. I do not really belong in
this world, but I’ve been amongst its citizens for long enough to
imitate them, and I doubt that Lorraine believes me to be anything
other than what I have told her I am: a successful businesswoman,
fiercely independent and frequently exhausted, who is willing to
pay for comfort and convenience.
    The lift begins
to glide down to the ground floor, and Lorraine clutches her
clipboard more firmly to her chest, and crosses one leg in front of
the other. She’s young, certainly no more than thirty, and
well-spoken, but curiously timid. I guess that, like me, she’s
essentially an alien in this rarefied universe, and is nervous. The
difference between us is that she has not yet learned to disguise
her nerves, and her soft brown eyes frequently betray her panic.
When she showed me around the apartment on the ninth floor, she
could not quite hide her awe of its glacial, spacious calm. I
affected near-indifference. I hadn’t yet made up my mind, I told
her as the viewing drew to a close; I had to think about it.
    “If you have
any further questions,” she says now, as the lift nears the ground
floor, “then please do call me.”
    “I will.” A
last, desperate push for a sale, but I don’t hold it against her.
Seeing such values as these in their proudest and most obvious form
could hardly fail to make an impact on her, and she no doubt spends
a lot of time plotting her own career trajectory and measuring it
against these impossible standards. I smile. “I wonder, might I be
able to speak to the concierge on duty? There are a few things I’d
like to know about. Practical issues.”
    Lorraine’s
bright smile falters slightly. “I’m sure that if you’ve any
questions, Miss Hollis, I can answer them.” Her tone is
aggrieved.
    “Oh, I don’t
doubt it,” I say soothingly. “You’ve been very helpful and
informative. But, you know, the concierge is surely something of an
authority on the day-to-day running of the place. And these
practicalities can sometimes be of great importance.”
    Lorraine
considers this for a moment, and then nods, though her eyes are
full of reproach.
    “I don’t
suppose there can be any harm in it,” she says.
    “Thank
you.”
    The lift jolts
slightly as we reach the ground floor, and the doors slide open to
reveal the cold, airy lobby with its veined marble surfaces and
floor-to-ceiling windows. The duty concierge – a young and rather
shy man, with fluffy brown hair and the remnants of adolescent acne
on his cheeks – looks at us as we get out, and then looks away
again. Looking without seeing, listening without hearing –