I stiffen in my seat, feeling Becker looking at me. I bite my lip and face him, and he frowns, cocking me a questioning look, only briefly before returning his attention back to the road. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking I risked delaying our escape and had us chased down by London’s finest cavemen in order to retrieve that bag. And I haven’t got it. ‘I couldn’t find it,’ I whisper, for what reason I don’t know. I’m going to have to tell my rankled friend that sacrifices had to be made, and her bag was one of them. ‘You left your bag on the bar. It was gone,’ I say over my shoulder.
Lucy shoots forward, wedging herself between the two front seats. ‘What?’
‘Yes, what?’ Becker mimics, his head turning from the road to me.
‘I didn’t exactly have all the time in the world to crawl around searching the floor,’ I grate through clenched teeth. ‘Thing One and Thing Two were quite speedy.’
‘Oh, this is marvellous,’ Lucy cries. ‘My purse, my keys, my phone.’
Purse. Keys. Phone. Oh my God. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I swing around and nearly head butt Lucy. ‘My phone, keys and purse were in your bag.’
She huffs her displeasure, looking up at the roof of the car. ‘And your phone, keys, and purse.’ She adds my losses to her list like it’s a genuine inconvenience for her. ‘Why didn’t I stay at home?’ she asks the ceiling.
‘Because you’re a paranoid twat,’ I mutter moodily, throwing myself back around.
‘I am not.’
‘Yes, you are,’ I retort childishly, waving my bag in the air, unwittingly poking her.
‘Oh, so you managed to save your bag?’
‘It was still on the bar.’
‘And my make-up,’ she blurts out, another loss coming to her. ‘It was Chanel.’
‘Nothing could sort your face out right now,’ I retort. ‘Not Coco, not Estée, and probably not even Photoshop.’
Lucy gasps and launches forward that little bit more, dislodging some drops of foam from her hair that spray my cheek. ‘Why are you being such a heartless cow?’
‘Because you’re—’
‘Enough!’ Becker slams a fist into the steering wheel, abruptly interrupting our petty row. ‘Just zip it, the pair of you.’
We do. We’re not stupid. Becker’s anger is palpable, rolling off of him in waves. But something tells me it’s not me or Lucy who’s got him rankled. What the hell is Stan Price doing following me? ‘You just made me hit my car,’ he yells, smacking the wheel again before putting his foot down aggressively and flinging us back in our seats. Lucy, being far forward, almost sitting on the dashboard, has a greater distance to be flung than me, resulting in a shriek of shock as she catapults back. I know better than to laugh, despite it being hilariously funny watching her squirming around on the back seat, trying to sit up.
‘Super,’ Becker seethes. ‘So Lucy’s bag containing your phone, keys, and purse, are somewhere in that bar, assuming someone hasn’t stolen them?’
‘The barman might have picked it up,’ I say quietly, suddenly comprehending where he’s heading with this.
‘Your keys to The Haven and your purse, which I’m assuming contains your access card, are lost?’ He turns a tight look onto me. ‘And . . .’ He takes a breather before finishing, but he doesn’t need to finish. I mind read the rest. And Stan Price is loitering around.
I shrink in my seat. ‘Or maybe the barman picked them up,’ I repeat in an attempt to pacify him.
‘Fucking brilliant.’ He laughs coldly. ‘And I’m heading towards Lucy’s apartment, but she doesn’t have her keys to get in?’
Oh. I hadn’t thought about that little issue. My only concerns were the millions of pounds worth of Becker’s treasure at The Haven, my lost key card to his sanctuary, and the fact that Stan Price has clearly been following us. But again, why? Just because of Lady Winchester? I’m becoming increasingly suspicious.
Becker looks up to the rear-view mirror. ‘So what am I supposed to do with you?’ he asks Lucy’s reflection seriously as he takes a hard left, sending me and Lucy sailing clumsily into the side of the car.
I’m vehemently trying not to ask Becker why no keys to Lucy’s apartment would be a problem, since he managed to break into mine just fine without any. But that wouldn’t be smart, not even when he’s in a good mood, so it definitely wouldn’t be my brightest move now, when he looks like he could strangle me and bite my friend’s head off.
‘She’ll have to come back with us,’ I say calmly.
His horrified expression tells me what he thinks to that before he can vocalise it. ‘No.’
‘Then drop us off at a hotel.’ I realise the problem. It’s called Becker’s circle of trust and Lucy is not in it. ‘The Stanton will do.’ I chuck in his face in pure spite. There are millions of hotels in London, and I just named Brent Wilson’s. I’m deplorable.