by Rumer Haven
Chloé’s eyes widened. With the global news Chicago—and US gun crime in general—was making lately, she probably thought Margot herself was packing heat right now.
“The place I’m talking about, though,” Margot said to get off the grisly subject, “is a coffee shop kind of like this. The Bourgeois Pig. It has a similar vintage scheme, and I composed more ads there than I can count, usually on the second floor—which is, wait, the first floor here? Anyway, I’d camp out at this one window with my little pot of jasmine tea, sticking my nose right above the cup so I could smell spring blossoms even when it was negative ten outside. Sorry, I don’t know what that is in Celsius. Let’s just say pretty effing cold.”
Chloé listened without interruption as Margot’s focus departed the café to stare off into the past.
“I loved being there at an off-time, when hardly anyone else was upstairs. I’d pretend it was my house, but back when it was more recently built—probably the early 1900s—and that those same chandeliers and bookcases were there when I invited guests into the parlor or gentlemen came to court me.”
Returning attention to her friend, Margot thought Chloé looked entranced. Or maybe she was zoning out, bored from Margot’s boozy babble.
She decided to open the conversation back to two-way. “Have you ever done that before? Been inside an old place and imagined what might’ve happened there in another time? Picturing the people who walked where you walk and stood where you stand, in that same space, seeing some of the same things, wondering if maybe they felt the same things you feel?”
Chloé didn’t speak readily but held her eye contact. After a moment, she pinched the stem of her wine glass and twisted it clockwise then counterclockwise a few times before raising it to her glossed lips. Margot second-guessed whether Chloé understood that it wasn’t a rhetorical question until her classmate swallowed, exhaled at length, and caught up her breath as if to speak. A hesitation followed, though, and Margot detected a change of mind in that space.
What Chloé was originally going to say would remain unknown. With that impassive expression on her face, she instead replied, “No, I haven’t done that.” She squinted her eyes. “How unusual.”
Margot shrugged. “Just one of my quirks, I guess.” She emptied her glass to cue Chloé to pour another.
“Well, your country is so new. When you grow up anywhere else, the old is just part of everyday life.” Without another word, Chloé looked down and started unbuttoning her cardigan.
Finding these responses so dismissive, Margot decided where to slot Chloé in her life: Study Partner. Maybe Drinking Buddy if no intimate conversation was involved. With her boundaries thus established, she regained some sense of control to put her at ease again.
Until Chloé arched her back to slip off her cardigan, revealing a tight white T-shirt with no bra beneath. Unable to help noticing the pert nipples straining against the sheer fabric, Margot might’ve taken a second too long to look up and meet Chloé’s eyes. The woman leveled an intense stare as one corner of her lips twitched upward.
Margot coughed into her hand and said she had to use the toilet.
When she returned to the table, she let Chloé lead conversation for their remaining hour there. Uneager to venture out on a limb again just to be left hanging, she was also concentrating too hard on keeping her gaze eye level.
Once outside the café’s carved wooden door, Chloé paused to light a cigarette. Margot lingered a minute, then excused herself under the pretense that the wine had made her drowsy and she’d better fill her stomach with some leftovers she had back at the flat.
Chloé pursed her lips to the air and blew a stream of smoke above Margot’s head. Then she grinned. “The ‘doggy-bag,’ as you say.”
Margot forced a corny chuckle. “Yep. You know us Yanks.”
She was debating whether to give a departing hug or handshake when Chloé stepped up to plant two tobacco-incensed kisses to each of her cheeks—which caught Margot off guard, so she fell out of sync and almost kissed Chloé on the lips.
On that inelegant note, the women parted ways with promises to meet again in time.
III
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
~ William Wordsworth (1807)
Interlude
Phantom of Delight
19th-Century London
MY FIRST YEARS as Victor’s bride were peaceful, happy.
Heartbreaking. Indeed, whenever I found myself with child, I was soon after absent of child. My personal sadness was beyond measure, and Victor shared in this, encouraging his pretty bride that we only needed tend to additional practice.
When “practice” failed to bring about an heir yet another time, however, I was humiliated beyond repair. All ladies in our circle of similar age to mine had successfully begotten their offspring, their insurance of fertility and worthiness as Lady of the House; and yet, there was I, sitting about my well-appointed home amongst our crystal chandeliers and exotic carpets with nothing to busy myself “that the servants should not do to earn their pence,” trifling about with my “silly poetry and watercolors,” as Victor said. The watercolors had been a sympathetic gift from Victor himself on the first occasion I had not delivered a living child, intended to help release my mind from the more immediate woes at hand, yet after the third occasion, what I produced with my natural yet uncultivated gift began to meet with ridicule over my “artless eye.”
“Why do you not receive Mrs. ____ for tea?” Victor would ask to break the silence of our torturously long dinners together.
“How could I possibly do so when I have not called upon her first?” would come my reply, the same response to the same question in which the only variable of alteration was the particular lady’s name—the constant being that she be of upstanding reputation and outrageous arrogance, the sort who always feels it necessary to impress upon one that her very presence is a favor.
When prompted as to why I no longer initiated calling on anyone else, here I would speak nothing and thus reconcile our dinner sounds to the clinking of silver on china. It was then only a matter of time when Victor would consult his silver pocket watch, muttering some obligation that required him to leave the table. His silver watch, the one of his bachelorhood. No longer did he wear the golden one I had given him on our wedding day.
As I increasingly felt less of a woman, I did little to help Victor feel more of a man. And so it came about that I dismissed my second lady’s maid. The first servant had resigned to be married, you perceive. This second, alternatively, had been so careless as to mistake my husband’s bed for her own when she sl
eepwalked down the stairs (Victor had since taken to occupying the smaller bedroom on our second floor, understand). She had even blamed a ghost for those wails I would hear behind the wall.
Ghost, indeed.
My third lady’s maid arrived at our doorstep the subsequent afternoon. Mama desired that I waste no time restoring our household to domestic equilibrium, and so that day she had brought help in tow, accompanied by a lecture as to how I might make myself more attractive and available to my husband, as respectable lady’s maids were so difficult to come by. She had discovered this one whilst hat-shopping in Leicester Square, and so charmed by the clever little “hat girl” was she that she brashly enquired into her earnings and promised this advancement in station. The poor girl could provide nary a character reference from previous employers of relevance to this role (outside a proficiency in sewing and quilling, which is admittedly quite exemplary), though I presume due diligence is a significantly lesser priority when the thought of having to dress myself and fashion my own hair was too dreadful for Mama to bear.
“Please, address me by my Christian name,” I heard myself say to my new maid upon Victor quitting the house the following morning. “I shall not suffer to hear myself addressed as ‘Madam’ a minute longer.”
If you will allow an inadequate explanation for this audacity, there was something in her eyes upon that first encounter that struck lightning through my veins. I understood her, somehow, and, more surprisingly, she understood me. In view of my upbringing, it is not so unusual that I should relate to all of our servants to some degree; their economic hardship was not so foreign to me as they must have imagined, yet any empathy I was willing to offer for some warm civility among them was shunned. Indeed, one would have thought our roles reversed in the pompous disdain their faces expressed towards me whenever I attempted to traverse social boundaries. Such terrible snobs the serving class can be.
In view of this, imagine my perplexed astonishment when, pursuant to my entreaty, she replied, “If you desire it.” She then articulated my name so naturally, so sweetly, my initial shock—even though I had been the one to request it—soon dissipated into familiarity. I could have embraced her forthwith.
Propriety, however, bid me show her promptly to her apartments on the third floor and acquaint her with my bedroom, in particular the wardrobe of which I expected her to maintain consistent inventory. If I were pleased with her service, I should be glad to offer her those garments I wished to discard.
Her manifestation could not have been more aptly timed. Feeling dried, inadequate, I found fresh breath in her that I could no longer reap from Wordsworth and his yellow daffodils alone. It was not by virtue of her youth—we were nearly equals in age, which I feel left me all the more eager to overcome any disparities in position at once.
She was already a grown woman, thus, except that she in so many ways resembled a child. I do not say it condescendingly. Aside from a petite stature, there was something readily alive about her, something raw and untamed despite the manners she worked diligently to affect at the outset. It was not me she needed to impress then, but, even so, she respected Victor and our domestic staff of which she humbly accepted to be a part.
In the beginning, it was so.
Chapter 6
Cemetery Gates
21st-Century London
RAND’S APPEARANCE was priceless first thing in the a.m. No better a morning person than Margot, it wasn’t until after showering that he’d snap out of sleep and assume his usual zest and vigor. Until then, with eyelids droopier than normal and the disheveled hair of a cowlick-covered guinea pig, he looked like he’d just crawled in from the pub.
The two of them stood before the large bathroom mirror, scrubbing their teeth as Margot mused at his reflection and how one blow of air—maybe from one of the hurricanes spiraling all over his scalp—might truly tip him over. Taking turns spitting and rinsing in the sink, he stooped over the counter as Margot toweled off her mouth.
“So—” spit “—it was a friend from uni, was it, that you were out with last night?”
“Yeah, my Parisian project partner.”
“Bloody French,” he said with mock vengeance, then spat again. “No doubt she surrendered to your charms, my dear.” He walked to the towel rack to take his turn wiping toothpaste off his lips.
She shook her head, then her gaze fell on the electric toothbrush he’d replaced in its stand. Pointing to it, she asked, “Why’s that blinking now?”
“It’s charging.” He watched Margot set her manual toothbrush down on the counter, then added, “Ah! I have something for you.”
“Is that right.”
He scratched his head with an uninhibited yawn and fumbled through his toiletries in the lower cabinet.
“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before. Here you are.” He presented Margot with an unused brush head. A band of yellow wrapped around its base, distinguishing it from Rand’s green.
“For me?”
“I won’t watch you brush another day with that primitive tool. Once I went electric, I couldn’t go back.”
She was tempted to make a clichéd jab at British dentistry—he’d made it too easy, really—but curbed herself with sarcasm of a different tack.
“Hmm, among your other toys in the nightstand, I’m sure.” She made a show of eyeing him up and down like so much meat, the svelte muscularity of his physique not going unnoticed since he was wearing only pajama bottoms.
“Cheeky.”
Margot had happily stored away her brush head when she checked her enthusiasm. “Wait a minute. What would Gwen think? You aren’t using the spare up on me, are you?”
Rand spoke as he yawned again. “No, there’s a pack. Hers is pink.”
“But still, doesn’t this kind of impose on girlfriend benefits? Haven’t I crossed the line enough?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m serious. It’s got to be a little weird for her that I’m here.”
“I see how it could be, but Gwen’s not like that.”
“Then why do I never see her? She isn’t ever here, and you don’t spend many nights at her place.”
“I’m allergic to her cat. And she works a lot of evenings and weekends to show properties around people’s work schedules.”
“Shejules?” Margot teased. “Speak American.”
Rand shook his head. “Divided by a common language,” he muttered, then rubbed his eyes. “You might see Gwen round during the day, by the way. But I gave her your timetable, if that’s all right, so she knows to give you privacy.”
Prih-vacy, he’d pronounced it. Like vih-tamins. She was loving this.
“Tell her that I was almost engaged,” she said, “the breakup was horrible, and I’m not looking to throw myself at anyone, especially not another girl’s guy, and—”
“She knows. Don’t obsess.”
“Sorry. I love your kind gift of dental hygiene. Thank you.”
“There, was that so difficult?” He reached an arm around her waist and bumped hips with her.
“Yeah, ya see? I might’ve stabbed James in the nut sack with his own toothbrush if he carried on like this with someone else while we dated.”
Rand raised his hands and backed away as if at gunpoint. “Fair enough. Though I don’t trust you with that electric brush now. Don’t force my hand to issue you an ASBO.”
“Azbo?”
“An order against antisocial behavior.”
Mimicking his pronunciation again, she said, “I am not an-tee-social. I was just out last night!”
Rand smiled. “It also means disruptive or threatening behavior. Anti-society. And I was joking.”
Margot slumped but grinned, reassured he didn’t know what a hermit she was without him around. And missing the feel of his hand on her. Maybe what Gwen didn’t know after all…
She wouldn’t complete that thought. What was she thinking anyway?
“Are we finished with the English l
esson, Professah ’Iggins?” she said in a bad Cockney accent before turning and starting up the steps. When he called after her, she readily backtracked with a smile.
“Mind turning the light on?” he asked as he plugged his shaver in beside the cord to the toothbrush charger.
Her smile fell a little. “Oh. Sure.” She climbed back up and flicked the switch just outside the door.
“In case you haven’t discovered, that has to be switched on for this particular outlet to work.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks.”
With that unexciting service rendered, she closed the door behind her to give him some prih-vacy. But now that she thought about it, with all the daylight let in by the windows—the sun was rising as early as five those days—she hadn’t even noticed the bathroom light was off.
Waaait a minute. She turned on the ball of her foot and hopped back down the stairs to knock at the door. “Hey, Rand?”
“Yeah?”
“If the light has to be on for the outlet to work, then how was the toothbrush blinking?”
Silence. The door opened, and his eyes were wide awake without the aid of his shower. “You’re sure it was?”
“Well, yeah, that’s why I asked about it. It’s the first time I noticed it.”
He looked from her to the toothbrush to her again. “Oh, brilliant. You know what this could mean.”
She thought of how his computer monitor also had the tendency to come out of its hibernation in the middle of the night, interrupting her dreams with its blue glow as if something—someone?—had touched the mouse or keyboard. She held her breath.
“More faulty wiring. One more expense to deal with fixing up this place. Bloody hell, I already installed new fuses last year.”
Smirking with a relieved exhale, Margot tried to cheer him, suggesting it could’ve just been the toothbrush’s battery signaling it was low.
And, sure enough, his high spirits returned once he was cleansed, shaven, and clothed. He gave Margot full clearance for the loo, bidding her adieu as he would likely be gone before she resurfaced.
