Marta Salas hated flying, even in the luxurious surroundings of a private jet. She gripped the armrests, bracing herself as the wheels left the runway. It was a short flight, she told herself, no more than a couple of hours from Denver to Las Vegas. Maybe it was because she was brought up on an island, she loved the sea, or perhaps it was the knowledge that she was no longer in total control of her fate, but either way she hated it. Her husband was a frequent flyer; he loved it. He was vice-president of the company that owned the jet, and he spent days and weeks away from home, crisscrossing the country. It appeared to outsiders that they had the glamorous lifestyle of the super-rich, but she knew differently.
Ignoring the queasy sensations in her stomach, she distracted herself with the reason for the trip. She took the manila wallet from her bag and read the cover:
Ms Amber Duberville.
She flicked through the typed letter reports, copies of key documents and the photographs of a young woman, a tall leggy blonde with Barbie doll looks in her twenties. The private detective had been particularly thorough to include medical and dental records, misdemeanour rap sheets, job applications and CV, even the relevant sections of the high school year book. Most of the images included a much older man, stout and overweight with a dark Mediterranean complexion; the man was Marta's husband. They were pictured in restaurants and nightclubs; on a yacht in the Caribbean, in hotel rooms and corridors; and through the bedroom window of the villa in Forte Lauderdale. It was damning evidence of her husband's latest infidelity. Marta had had enough.
The jet cleared the low lying cloud and soared high over the Colorado Rockies. She had met him in Puerto Rico twenty years ago, where she had fallen for his brash, brutish charm. He was the son of a Greek magnate, looking to escape from the shadow of his father and the wreckage of his first marriage. She was the only daughter of a plantation owner, the apple of his eye, but she yearned for a world beyond the coastline of a small island. Her husband had always had a wandering eye, which for the most part she tolerated. Powerful men, like her own father, often had insatiable appetites. However, he no longer conducted his affairs with expected discretion and that she could no longer overlook. He needed to be taught a lesson in humility.
The plane levelled off and the seatbelt light went out. Marta unbuckled hers and stretched her legs. There was movement behind the privacy curtain as the cabin crew readied for service. Only one flight attendant had been booked for the short flight, indeed she had been requested. The curtain drew back and the young woman emerged into the main cabin. She was tall and blonde, like a Barbie doll, with long, slender legs that made other women jealous. The girl was easily recognisable, besides her name badge.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Salas, and how are you doing today?" Amber spoke with a thick Southern drawl. She grew up in Mobile, Alabama, the only daughter of Methodists.
"Fine." Marta placed the wallet back in her bag.
"Can I offer you something to drink?"
"A French 75 I think, with a lot of gin. I'm feeling adventurous." With chilled champagne, gin and lemon, this cocktail kicked like a stubborn mule. It was an acquired taste.
The girl returned shortly with her drink, a large one, and a small bowl of olives, which Marta pushed away as soon as she had left. She was sick of the sight of olives. She sipped her cocktail for a few minutes and then drained the glass with a flourish. Half-an-hour had passed since take-off. She rose and went to stand at the bar, where Amber was busy with some paperwork. The girl looked up and smiled.
"Can I get you another, Mrs Salas? Something to eat, perhaps?"
"Yes, another would be nice, the last one was perfect, and please call me Marta. Do you like champagne, Amber? I hope you don't mind if I call you Amber." The girl shook her head. Her grades at high school were above average, but she had several warnings on her record about wanton behaviour, and even a misdemeanour charge for possession from the local sheriff's office. In most professions she would have been red-flagged, but in this line of hospitality it was an advantage. Of course, Amber liked champagne, and a lot more besides, she was a party girl. She was easily led astray.
"We are not supposed to drink on duty, Mrs ... Marta." Amber replied, nibbling her lip.
"Well, I won't tell anyone if you don't."
Reaching over the counter, she took the bottle and poured the girl a generous glass. Amber drank it, hesitantly at first, but she grinned as Marta topped it up. After they had finished the bottle, Marta initiated the next stage of the plan.
"You know, Amber, this is the first time I have flown without my husband in a very long time. You know my husband, Nikolai, don't you? I am sure it will surprise you to learn that I have never been to Las Vegas in all my years living in America. I am looking forward to letting my hair down this weekend, catching up on the fun." She enjoyed Amber's discomfort. Her husband often took his girls to see the bright lights and the casinos in Nevada. Rummaging in her jacket pocket, Marta put the bag of coke on the counter. There was a couple of grams, of the highest quality, so the man had told her. Enough blow to last even the most jaded party girls an hour or two. Amber's eyes were like saucers. "My father would say '
de perdidos al rio
', but it makes little sense in translation, so I will say it another way. You may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. What do you think?"
"I don't understand," Amber said, suspiciously. It was naive to think she would not see a potential trap.
"Look, I see your worried," began Marta. It was better to hide a lie within the truth. "I have never done anything like this before. You can call it a mid-life crisis, but I need to do this, and if I don't, then I might as well just go crazy. I need your help."
"You want me to show you?" Amber perked up. It seemed that the girl did not require much persuasion. "I'll need money."
Amber went first, sighing as she threw back her long blonde curls. The girl rubbed her nose with pinched fingers then offered Marta the rolled up bill. Marta hesitated. This should not have come as a complete surprise to her, but it did. She had been around drugs before, there was not a fundraiser at the tennis club without any cocaine. But Marta never joined the other ladies in the restroom to 'powder her nose', always much preferring a clear head. However, she saw that Amber was still nervous. If the plan was to succeed then Marta needed to play along with it. She took the makeshift straw and snorted a single line. Her nostrils tingled. Without any real frame of reference it was difficult for her to know what she should have expected to happen or what she was supposed to do next. So to be sure she snorted another line and waited.
It began with a hot flush. Her heartbeat quickened, thumping against her rib cage as the adrenaline surged. It was similar to the feeling she got behind the wheel of her Porsche 911 convertible. She loved racing it through the twisty country lanes with the top down, the breeze whipping through her black hair. Marta accelerated, faster and faster, unable to slow down. A hot sun was beating down on the car from a clear blue sky, its warmth spreading over her skin like a brushfire. She saw the hitchhiker at the side of the road and opened the passenger door. The smiling girl moved closer. Marta welcomed her, eager for a companion to share the ride. The girl wrapped her arms around her and kissed her mouth. Marta's head fizzed like a Roman candle as she sank with Amber to the floor.
Marta had always been volatile, something to do with her Latin temperament. On first learning about her husband's wandering hands, she had flown into an incandescent rage. In truth she experienced every colour of emotion more passionately than most Americans she met. And now in a coke fuelled haze, her mind was spinning through the gamut of raw emotional contradictions like a roulette wheel. She had no idea where it would stop. Amber had wriggled on top of her and was trying to arouse her interest with all the subtlety of a common whore with little time to spare and bills to pay. It would have been easier at this point to give in to her piqued curiosity, to have momentarily forgotten, if not forgiven, the many injustices committed by Amber against her. She wondered if the girls threw themselves so wilfully at her husband that he constantly faced such a dilemma. She doubted it, sourly, as he always thought first with his cock and only afterwards with his head. Anger swelled inside her as she recalled the images of him and the slut in their love nest, his hairy ass jerking up and down as he fucked her. The roulette wheel came to an abrupt halt. Marta rose suddenly, shoving the girl aside and then slapping her hard across the cheek with the back of the hand. There was a stunned silence.
Time stood still as dread crept into her mind. The surprised girl fell backwards, landing in a heap, a fearful expression clouded her pretty face. Marta was speechless. She didn't know what to do or what to say as she searched frantically for a way back from her lack of self-control. She had promised herself a most terrible revenge on her husband, but now that seemed all in jeopardy. The girl was unimportant, anything that happened to her was only collateral damage. As the words of an apology coalesced in her addled mind, her self-recriminations were interrupted by sounds of mirth. Amber was giggling, hand covering her mouth. Marta joined in, a relieved laugh that together with Amber's became almost hysterical. Poking out her tongue, the cheeky girl suddenly raced away on all fours. Marta set off in pursuit and the cabin erupted in delighted squeals. Marta remembered the young and carefree child, who grew up on her daddy's plantation, and the simple joy of playing with other children. It had seemed back then that her kingdom extended only to the edges of the bay and the hills behind, and that the expectations, responsibilities, and the problems of the world beyond those shores were a million miles away. She wanted to feel like that again.
