A Thousand Doors

by J. T. Ellison

  Beth

  That was close, too close.

  I hurry through the hotel lobby and into the open elevator, frantically pushing the button for the twentieth floor. The doors close as I lean against the wall with a sigh. Stupid. I kick the elevator door in frustration.

  I have to believe I turned my head just in time.

  It wasn’t my fault she almost spotted me. I couldn’t turn away from the sight of their arrival: Mia stepping out of the Mercedes, Tom holding her hand. It was like watching myself a few years ago. But that place by his side, my place, has been taken. I smooth my hair, forgetting for a moment that I have a short bob instead of the long flowing blond locks he loved. It’s part of my attempt to change my life, to start over.

  It’s not really working.

  I still cry every day. And then, I’ll lose it. Throw a dish. Or yell at a subcontractor. My last European client just replaced me with another designer, even though I begged for another chance. That was a sign. I stormed out of the project, grabbed the few things I cared about from my apartment, and flew back to the States. My life is unraveling, thanks to the Andersons.

  But they won’t win. She won’t win. She has gone too far.

  When the doors slide open, I hurry off the elevator and down the hall to my room. Once inside, I slip the chain on the door. My dress is laid out on the bed where I left it, a gorgeous green silk that matches my eyes. Next to my dress is the square, shimmering evening bag, large enough to hold everything I need. I open the bag and peer at the contents. Satisfied, I put the purse back on the bed. I’ve already done my makeup. There’s nothing left to do but slip on my dress. Tonight, I must make myself blend in. I must look like one of the festive guests of the stupid awards ceremony. And I will.

  But first, my heart needs to settle down. I drop into the desk chair and take a deep breath. That was the first time I’ve seen Tom since the breakup. He still looks like the man I fell in love with, the man I had planned to marry. But looks can be deceiving. And in his case, they are. If he actually were the man I thought he was, a man who loved me and wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, he wouldn’t be with her.

  I can’t stop the memory of that awful day from rushing into my mind. I feel my heart pounding now just as it did then. I was surprised when Tom walked into the under-construction villa, like a mirage on a cold Lake Como winter morning. I shook off the shock and, with a grin on my face, excitedly told the construction crew in passable Italian I would be leaving for the day.

  “See, he’s real. My lover is here!” I bragged to the workers who had teased me about my lack of a boyfriend since the job started. But the look on Tom’s face worried me. Something was wrong.

  “Beth, please, we need to talk.” We hadn’t seen each other for six months, yet he didn’t rush to my side to kiss me. We hadn’t touched.

  “What has happened?” I took a step toward Tom as the workers cleared out of the room.

  “Let’s talk out there, on the veranda.”

  I followed Tom, not understanding. Not believing. I would be home in three weeks, so why was he here? My stunned brain allowed a friend’s warning in: Don’t leave your fiancé for six months for work. Are you crazy? I’d dismissed her concerns with murmurs of Tom loves me, and I’ll never have a project this important, this special again. And I was right, about the project. My clients were European royalty. The budget was unlimited.

  I stepped out onto the veranda, my mind swirling. I touched the ancient wall.

  “I don’t understand. Why are you here?” I finally managed to form words, a sentence.

  “I know this is a shock. It is to me, too. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Tom’s voice was strained, unnatural. “I was going to wait until you came home, but I need to tell you now. That’s why I flew here. I want to be as transparent as possible.”

  Transparent?

  “I’m in love with someone else.”

  I collapsed against the wall. This couldn’t be happening, and yet I knew it was. A sob broke through the silence between us. I shook all over, my tears blinded me.

  “Breathe,” Tom said. “Calm down.”

  “Calm down? You cheat on your fiancée while she’s away for work, and you tell me to calm down? You’re a liar. You wrote me love letters. You said you loved me. Us.” Tears streamed down my cheeks.

  Tom and I wrote letters to each other, every week since I’d been gone, those beautiful words filled with promises. All of them meant nothing to him. I wiped my eyes with my sweater. I stared down into the cold, deep-blue lake and wondered if I should jump.

  “Look, Beth, I just can’t explain it any better. We are over. I’m sorry.” Tom was impatient, as if the truth bored him, the facts not worth his time. He didn’t try to comfort me. Just the opposite. He looked as if he had a train to catch. Most likely he did, to hurry back to New York, to his sleek office, with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River.

  I wrapped my arms around myself. Took a deep breath.

  “Now I know why you haven’t answered my last letter.” A chill rolled down my spine. Where would I live? I had just moved in with Tom, combining our possessions. I made it our apartment.

  “Yes, sorry. I meant to write. Thank you for sharing your feelings, I just, you know, couldn’t find the time. Look, Beth, this is awkward for me, too. Where should I send your things? Would your staging warehouse be a good place?”

  I found out later she’d already moved into our apartment, but at the time I had no idea why he was in a rush to get rid of my stuff. My staging warehouse is where I keep clients’ furnishings until the project’s install date, where items wait before heading to a new home. Now my possessions will be trapped, wrapped in plastic, waiting for me to begin again.

  “Oh, that’s a perfect ending, Tom. How thoughtful of you. I’ll email Jack at the warehouse, tell him to be on the lookout for my life.” A gust of wind sent my blond hair swirling around my face, and I grabbed it with my left hand. There was a damp chill in the air, and I shivered as I sat on the cold stone wall and watched him walk away.

  That was three years ago. A lot has changed since then. Mostly inside of me. I’m off-kilter and have been since that day. I was once confident, a sought-after young decorating star. Now, tonight, I’m almost broke, standing in my hotel room, telling myself to hurry up and get changed into my rental gown. I see my fingernails bitten to the quick, and wish I had the money for a manicure. But it doesn’t matter. I tried, for a while, to get better. My last friend pushed me into counseling, and it worked.

  Until I read Us. I can’t go on pretending things are “fine.” Not after what Mia has done.

  My mind flashes to the car arriving at the hotel, the chauffeur pulling the door open and reaching for Mia’s hand, Mia’s smiling face, her impossibly long legs, her bright blue eyes, blond hair framing her heart-shaped face. Tom, in his tux, joins her on the sidewalk. We’re almost the same height, she and I. I, too, have dishwater-blond hair. I turn to the mirror in my hotel room, and before I pull off my T-shirt I assess my own looks. Sure, I’m thin, maybe too thin, and I have dark circles under my green eyes. I touch my hair, remembering how the stylist begged me not to cut it.

  I’d locked eyes with her in the mirror as she stood behind me. “I want it off. All of it. If you won’t, I’ll go somewhere else.”

  As she cut, I read the newspaper article announcing this year’s Literary Star finalists, including debut author and trophy wife Mia Anderson. My wet hair dropped like bricks on the thin newspaper, ruining the page. But that didn’t matter. By then I knew all the information by heart.

  I pull off my T-shirt and my jeans. When I slide the cool emerald silk over my head and smooth it down my body, I can’t help but smile. I look good. I do. I look like the woman Tom fell in love with years ago. I am much better for him than the imposter clinging onto his arm, his fortune. H
e doesn’t believe me about that.

  I tried to warn him. I called his office when I read the engagement announcement in the Times. He took the call. I begged him to reconsider, told him Mia was just after his money. He wished me well and hung up.

  I didn’t even have a chance to ask about my black notebook, filled with two years of doodles and dreams. It had been in my bedside table, along with all of the other treasures that found their way into those drawers. It was the only thing missing when I finally retrieved my belongings from the staging warehouse. I’d started a new diary in Italy, but without my book, I was missing two years of my life.

  I tried to forget Tom, forget our almost-life together. I moved on, stayed in Europe, had a few successful projects. But I was coming unraveled, slowly, surely, each year. And then, four months ago, her book was published.

  I stare at my reflection, my right eye twitches, a pulsing sound fills my ears.

  I’ll never recover from all of this.

  Mia

  It’s a who’s who of the literary world of New York, and I’m here. Of course I belong, but the anxiety I felt before we arrived has compounded into what can only be a full-blown panic attack. It’s hard to catch my breath, my palms are sweating, but I can’t let Tom notice.

  I smile at him as we finish checking in. The woman behind the table is dressed in a low-plunging gold dress. Her cheeks flush, and it’s obvious she doesn’t notice my distress, only Tom’s broad smile. Happens all the time, and I deal with these women.

  “Ah, there we are.” Tom points to our name tags on the table. “Mia Anderson and Tom Anderson.” My name tag has a gold star on it. A pang of guilt punctures my stomach. I shouldn’t be here. I need to get out of here. This is a mistake.

  She extends her hand. “Perfect. Here you are. And the gold star means you’re a finalist. Congratulations. Which category?”

  “Debut novel.” I’m going to be sick. “Come on, Tom, we need to get to the table.” I slip my arm through his. We make a few steps down the red-carpeted hallway toward the main ballroom when I spot the ladies’ restroom.

  “I think I’ll just pop in there, freshen up.”

  Tom stares at me. “Your face is completely white.”

  “Nerves getting the best of me.” I take a breath and remind myself I won’t win. I can’t win. Tom won’t be paying attention either way. He’ll check his phone, multitask. I know he has at least read the synopsis of Us, because he knows enough to banter about the book at dinner parties. If he’d read the novel, he’d know, wouldn’t he?

  Only the winning novels are read aloud, and then only a few pages. Everything will be fine. She is not here, of course. No one will know the truth.

  “Yes, I’ll go in and put a little powder on. Meet you at the table.”

  Tom smiles at my command. “Don’t be long. Who knows who they’ve seated us with?” He kisses my forehead and walks into the crowd as I hustle into the ladies’ room. The line is fifteen women deep, but I only need a mirror. As I excuse myself and push into the room, my phone rings in my purse. Everyone stares. My face flushes as I pull open my sparkly cocktail bag and grab my phone. Even though the number is “unknown,” I answer to stop the ringing.

  “Mia Anderson speaking.”

  “You’ll be revealed tonight for who you really are,” a raspy voice says. I can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman. “Enjoy these last moments before the charade is over. Your life will be over.”

  “Who is this?” I demand, but the line is dead. I feel women staring at me, so I turn to the mirror and rummage in my purse for my blush and lipstick. I add some color to my face. I have no idea who called me, or what they want. It had to be a prank, kids having fun on a Friday night. I stare at my reflection and decide to believe my own story.

  I make my way out to the hall and run into my editor. Peggy wears huge black-rimmed glasses, and I wonder if she needs them or if they are for effect. She’s forty years old, a workaholic, and helped me shape Us into the best work of fiction it could be. I hug Peggy as she murmurs how beautiful I look. Peggy herself never dresses for these things, saying, “It brings me luck if I blend in. You’re the star anyway.”

  “Hardly.” I slip my arm through hers, and we float down the hall with the sea of people. Peggy’s confidence seeps into me. She believes in me, in Us, and because of that, we’re here tonight. She plucked my manuscript from the slush pile the first week I submitted it and called, crying, after reading the final love letter. I realize for most writers this never happens. But I’m lucky, and talented. I am. She rushed it to publication, only eight months between acquisition and pub date. Peggy was convinced our country was in need of a pure American love story. I guess, since we’re here tonight, she was right.

  “You have to do a reading when you win. Have you picked a passage?” Peggy asks, sending my heart hopping.

  “Oh, they wouldn’t do that, would they?” I won’t win. Please, God, don’t let me win.

  “It’s tradition, so yes, they will. I tell my authors to start from the beginning.” Peggy stops at the grand entrance to the glittering, candlelit ballroom. “What’s your table number?”

  “Eight. Yours?” I manage to say, although I’m panicking about the reading. I’ve only read aloud from Us once, and that was at the launch party at the small local bookstore in my hometown. My mom’s friends came. That was enough of a crowd. There are hundreds of people in this ballroom.

  Peggy laughs. “I’m at forty-eight. Near the back, but I’ll be the one clapping the loudest. Where’s that gorgeous husband of yours?”

  “Waiting for me at the table. Better go.”

  “Good luck, Mia. I’m very proud of you.” She waves and disappears into the crowd.

  I spot Tom up front, close to the stage. He sees me, nods his head. He needs me. The ballroom is crowded and noisy with guests networking, waving to friends. I don’t know anyone but plunge into the crowd, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact. I hear a loud crash, a tray of glasses dropped in the kitchen, perhaps, but I keep moving. The center aisle is crowded with people, so I move farther to the right and notice an exit. I could leave now, duck out the door, and text for Tom to join me. We could be back home in twenty minutes, avoiding all of this. I touch the door and freeze, hearing a strange, low buzzing noise, and notice the warning: Fire Exit. Alarm will sound if door is opened.

  “Don’t you dare!” Tom stands in front of me, hands on his hips.

  I smile, but he doesn’t. I pull my hand from the emergency exit. “Okay, for you, I won’t cause an evacuation of the awards ceremony. How’s our table?”

  “Horrible. I’m beyond bored. Where have you been? I need you and your sparkling wit to help carry the conversation, especially since this is your gig.” Tom grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd, like an icebreaking ship on a frozen lake. I still want to find an exit. But I’ve run out of time.

  “Meet my lovely wife, Mia, author of Us, and a fellow finalist.” The men at the table struggle to their feet by way of welcoming me as their wives toss half smiles. Tom pulls out my chair, and I slide into my seat. While we exchange pleasantries and congratulations, a server fills my wineglass and I check my reflection in the glass. My makeup seems perfect. The lights dim and the ceremony begins.

  Tom leans over and squeezes my hand, whispering, “Win or lose, it’s still a great thing for your résumé, and mine. I’m watching the game on my phone. Nudge me if anything happens.”

  I force a smile and hope tonight is as uneventful as the game he’s watching. I also realize if he knew the truth about everything, he would have pushed me through the exit door himself.

  Beth

  I’m standing backstage, drinking a glass of Merlot, trying to keep the tears in my eyes from spilling out and ruining my makeup. Not tonight, I tell myself. I can see the crowd, but they can’t see me. A glittering New York gathering,
something I was used to before my life was stolen from me. By her. I bite my lip hard, drawing blood, enjoying the taste. I feel the weight of my purse on my shoulder, and I smile at my plans.

  Onstage, tonight’s emcee, my college friend Mike, begins to read the synopsis of Mia’s book. It’s a paragraph I’m familiar with, since I have seen it for months online.

  I close my eyes. I’m where I’m meant to be.

  Mike continues, “A young couple’s love is tested when the woman is pulled away on a dream project in Italy while her boyfriend stays behind to build his career in a competitive finance field. Committed to each other and dreading the separation, they agree to a love experiment. They will write love letters to each other. No texts. Limited phone calls. Us is the charming tale about taking your time and sharing your dreams, of getting to know each other through the written word, and of revealing your heart to another person. If your relationship is in a rut, maybe you should spend some time writing your own story of Us.”

  Polite applause follows. I open my eyes and focus on Tom sitting beside her at one of the front tables. He’s looking down at his phone. Could he be that clueless? Doesn’t he realize it’s not Mia’s story, it’s ours? How can he hear that summary without a big light bulb going off? He’s oblivious. Or mindless. Swept up in Mia’s fake world. It’s like watching someone slowly sink into a mental illness. He needs help, needs to snap out of it.

  That’s why I’m here. I’m listening to what my inner voice tells me to do now, not to anyone else.

  Mike nods in my direction. My cue to roll out the table with the shiny gold star awards. Mike confided in me last week, during a long dinner with many glasses of wine, so I already know the winners. I hide my purse under a chair and push the table out toward the podium, avoiding the spotlight. Mike grabs the table, and I duck again into the shadows.

  “Ah, just look at these beauties. The Literary Star of the Year Awards.” Mike holds an award. The audience chatters with excitement. “We’ll begin with the winner of the nonfiction category.”