He thought of that night at the farm, Orla pulling the knife out of Rory’s throat. He’d never have dreamed she was capable of such violence, but after the things she’d been through, who could blame her? She’d never have survived otherwise. There had been the same wild look in her eyes that night she left the Islington flat to deal with Annie Carter. When she got that way there was no stopping her…
But something had stopped her, because the hit had failed: Annie Carter was still alive. Whereas Orla…
No, she wasn’t dead. She’d gone back to Ireland, as planned. She still wasn’t answering his calls – he’d phoned the farm every day since she left, but no one answered. Most likely she was angry with him for not sticking to the plan, for hanging around in London. All the more reason not to show up at the farm empty-handed. She’d soon forgive him when he showed up with a little souvenir for her, a little token to remember Annie Carter by.
Meanwhile, he had a girl or two on the go here: just for sex, though there was one who was proving useful in other ways too. But it was Orla he loved.
He phoned the farm again.
No answer.
But she was there, waiting for him. He was convinced of it.
‘OK. Let’s see what we have here.’ Precious had scrubbed Layla’s face clean, slicked it over with moisturizer, then placed her in front of the brightly lit dressing-table mirror. Layla sat there like a prize dog at Crufts while Precious tipped her head this way and that. ‘Right. What we have is good skin. Flawless, actually. Well done for that.’
Layla said nothing. If she had clear skin then it was down to genes: her mother’s skin was good, too.
‘Also we have a good face shape, very defined cheek bones. Those eyebrows are a bloody disaster though. Hold still.’
Precious got busy with the tweezers.
‘Jesus!’
‘Shut up and hold still.’
Layla yelped a lot, but by the time Precious had finished, she looked in the mirror and saw that she had nicely shaped, finely arched black brows.
‘Good lips,’ Precious went on. ‘Got a proper little cupid’s-bow mouth there, and very nice oval-shaped eyes. What’s that colour? Brown?’
‘Sort of a dark green. Like my mother’s.’
‘Actually, with the big hair you look a lot like her.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘You do.’
‘No way. She’s…’ Layla paused.
‘She’s what?’ Precious leaned over the dressing table, started pulling tubes of flesh-coloured gunk out of her make-up bag.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Layla on a sigh. ‘Absolutely bloody stunning.’
Actually Layla thought that Annie was more than that. In addition to her amazing looks, she had balls, real authority. Layla had seen the way grown men jumped when her mother snapped out an order.