by Emily Barr
‘How did you leave it?’
‘Well, I suggested to him that I’m just another of the women he’s used for a brief fling. He didn’t disagree. One more on top of thirty years’ worth. I’m not sure why I was with him in the first place, except that physically. . .’ She looks at me and laughs. ‘You don’t want to know about that. He didn’t really want me to come back. He was more interested in asking me to pass on a card or something to Ron. Because of his girlfriend being missing. I just don’t know how to read him. I mean, if he wants to send Ron a card, why doesn’t he just post it to him? Like with that woman?’
I can’t think of an answer, so I take my bagel instead, and put my coffee down on the arm of the sofa, now restored to its primary function.
‘I said that, actually,’ she continues, ‘and he said he didn’t have his address. How lame is that? A surgeon can’t find the address of a clinic? It’s on the internet. He knows it’s called Babylove because we laughed about it. And you know what else? I keep thinking about that woman. I mean, who was she? What was Guy doing?’ I nod. This is something I have been trying to forget, without success. ‘And since it’s Saturday, and since she was pleased to see you, would you come with me to go and see her again? I’d love to know what he sent her.’
I swallow my mouthful. ‘Sure. Why not? I’d like to know too. But, Meg?’ She looks at me, eyebrows raised. ‘You have got to do the talking this time. And you have to be prepared for it to have been something really bad.’
The doorman remembers us and greets us solemnly.
‘We’ve come to see Ms King again,’ Megan tells him with a smile. ‘She’s not expecting us, but could you just see if she’s in?’
He stares at her. ‘You’ve come to see Ms King?’
‘Yes, like we did last time.’
He looks from Megan to me, and back again. ‘You haven’t heard the news?’
I speak first, but I already know what he is going to say. I think I’ve known it all along. I just haven’t allowed myself to think it through. ‘What news?’ I ask him.
‘Ms King disappeared over four weeks ago. She has not been heard from. I assumed that as friends of hers you would have been informed. In fact, people have been trying to track you down.’
Megan’s mouth is gaping. ‘She’s missing?’
‘Anneka King,’ I tell him urgently. ‘Her name is Anneka, isn’t it?’
The doorman looks surprised. ‘Why, yes. Of course.’
Megan and I exchange fearful glances.
‘And how’s her partner?’ Meg asks him. ‘Ron?’
‘Ron is doing everything he can,’ the man says sadly. ‘At first people were thinking he had something to do with it, but nobody says that now. He’s actually in the building right now. Would you like me to tell him you’re here?’
Megan begins to shake her head, but I say firmly, ‘Yes please.’
He is astonished to see us. The lift goes directly into the apartment, and as its doors open I see Ron standing, arms folded, waiting.
‘Evie Silverman,’ he says, ‘and Megan. To what do I owe this highly unexpected pleasure?’
I have never seen Ron looking like this before. He’s wearing faded jeans and a washed-out blue shirt which doesn’t seem to bear any designer insignia. His face is drawn and he looks desperately worried.
‘You won’t believe it,’ I tell him. ‘It’s so weird. But we don’t want to intrude.’
I look around the apartment. It’s beautiful, with light flooding in from the huge windows which overlook the park. Every surface is white, and the furniture is perfectly selected and immaculately clean. I would never be able to keep an apartment this white. There are piles of clothes on the chairs, and I can see a couple of bags full of them.
‘Why don’t you go to the coffee shop?’ he says, after a while. ‘I’ll take a break in a moment. One block south, and one west, on the corner of Broadway. It’s Annie’s favourite. She’ll find me there if she needs me. I’ll see you in there.’
While we wait for him, sitting at a booth indoors and wondering whether to order another breakfast to justify our presence, we try to piece together what has happened.
‘Four weeks ago,’ says Megan, frowning. ‘That must have been only a couple of days after we saw her.’
‘Do you think Ron would have any idea what Guy said in the letter? She can’t have said anything to him, because he would have mentioned it to me, for sure. We talked about Guy last time. And he didn’t say anything.’
She shrugs. ‘We can ask him. But I doubt it.’
‘How the hell did Guy know her?’
‘She didn’t know him, did she? When I asked him who she was he just said she was a friend of a friend. He was no way going to tell me what was in the letter. I knew we should have opened it.’
‘Meg, you wouldn’t let me open it! And you told him that Ron’s girlfriend was missing, and he didn’t say anything about her being his Ms King?’
‘No. He sounded mildly surprised, that’s all. God, Evie, what has Guy done?’
When he joins us, Ron looks slightly better.
‘There’s no point,’ he says, as he sits down next to me. ‘The police have been over it all a thousand times, but I can’t stop myself looking through her things, hoping to find something they’ve missed. Thank you for rescuing me for a while.’
‘Sorry to have interrupted,’ I tell him.
‘That’s fine. I’m baffled, but it’s fine. I was going to call you today, Evie, anyway, so you’ve pre-empted me.’
Even though Megan’s here, I can’t stop myself. ‘Have you got any news?’
He smiles. ‘Nothing concrete yet, but I’m confident that we will get something.’
‘What?’ asks Megan. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘You’re not having IVF as well?’ she asks suspiciously. Ron and I both laugh.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘I believe a partner is usually necessary for that process.’
‘Not necessarily, the way Ron does it,’ she says quickly. ‘Not according to Guy.’
Ron stares at her. ‘What does Guy say?’
She looks away. ‘Nothing really. Sorry.’
‘That’s right.’ I remember now. ‘Guy did say something, didn’t he? I’d forgotten that. He had some half-arsed theory that you were offering to clone Kate or Ian.’ I look at Ron, smiling. I want to make him smile. He doesn’t, so I carry on talking. ‘Anyway, look at Roxy and Tallulah Fontaine. They did all right, didn’t they? A bouncing baby girl.’
‘Guy Chapman said I was cloning?’ he asks. His face is grim.
‘He was just talking crap,’ I assure him, wishing that Megan had kept quiet. ‘He was a bit drunk. He didn’t mean it.’
‘Didn’t he? What else did he say?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ I say firmly.
‘Megan?’
‘Nothing. Just what Evie said. It was to do with using genetic material from the stronger partner or something.’
Ron shakes his head and looks at nothing, across Megan’s shoulder. ‘He should keep quiet.’
We tell him about the letter we delivered to Anneka four weeks ago. Ron is amazed.
‘You’ve known all along!’ he says a few times. ‘I wish you’d made the connection. This is the only lead we’ve got. The doorman said two girls came to see her, but no one has had any idea of who they were. It was you!’
‘She didn’t know him,’ I tell him.
‘Of course she didn’t,’ he says. ‘Why would she? I don’t talk to her about long-lapsed acquaintances from medical school. He sent her a letter? A letter or a package?’
‘Just a letter.’
‘And you have no idea what was in it?’
‘No.’
‘Yet you happily carried it through Customs? Even after anthrax, ricin, and all the publicity?’
Megan nods, looking slightly ashamed.
‘What did
you say when they asked if you were carrying anything for anyone else?’
‘I said I wasn’t.’
‘Right.’ Ron shakes his head. ‘Guy Chapman. The last bloody thing I need.’
When we get home, there is a big brown envelope waiting for me. I am almost nervous to open it, but it’s just from Alexis.
Beautiful Evie, says his note. Enclosed some fan mail. Congratulations. Speak soon, A.
There are eight letters enclosed. I skim-read them. Alexis has sent batches like this before, and each letter has been so charming and appreciative that I half suspect him of writing them himself, Ron-style. As I’ve sat down to compose my exquisitely polite replies, I have wondered how many cranky ones he’s thrown away.
A woman in Detroit is uplifted by my recording of the Bach solo suites, my signature tune if I have such a thing. A retired gentleman in Illinois thanks me for my appearance on his favourite commercial, and details the considerable trouble to which he has gone to find out my name and how to contact me. He respectfully requests a signed photo. A fifteen-year-old girl - my heart beats a little faster - whose name is Morgan, wants to be a cellist herself, and asks for my advice. She came to my concert and lives in New York. I study Morgan’s letter carefully. It could be her. She could be my girl, drawn to me for reasons she doesn’t understand. Her interest in the cello could be genetic. Except that it isn’t her, because Elizabeth is fourteen, not fifteen. But she’ll be fifteen in June, so perhaps she is exaggerating to make herself feel more grown up. I might invite Morgan to meet me for coffee, just in case.
The next envelope I pick up hasn’t been opened. It looks as if it’s been included by mistake. I open it with my mind on Morgan, but when I see the familiar font, I suddenly fear I am going to be sick.
you think youv got away but you will never get away, it says. I know where to find you and find you I will, no need to worry about that. see you soon, love from me your friend.
I lean back and take deep breaths.
He knows I’m in New York. Of course he does. It cannot have been difficult to find that out. The fact that he wrote to the record company, not to this apartment, or to Howard and Sonia’s house, provides a modicum of comfort. But he is still out there. He is still coming after me. I have not escaped at all. I am still being hunted.
‘Meg,’ I say quietly, holding it out. I don’t meet her eyes.
‘Yuh-huh?’ she asks brightly, and comes over and takes it from me. I watch her face as she reads it.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘This is a nuisance.’
I snort. ‘You could say that.’
‘But he doesn’t know where you live.’
‘He will.’
I call Alexis. I am dreading asking him about the letter, because I don’t want to know how many he has hidden from me.
He is panting when he answers his mobile, but is as impeccably polite as ever.
‘Evie!’ he exclaims. ‘This is a pleasure.’
‘Sorry to bother you on a Saturday,’ I say politely. ‘Is it inconvenient?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that for a minute,’ he assures me. ‘Although I might call you back in a half-hour. You’ve caught me rebounding.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Rebounding. It’s an exercise class. Using trampolines. Evie, I can’t tell you the buzz.’
‘You’re in a trampolining class?’
‘I slipped out of the room to take the call. Don’t worry, I’m not rebounding as we speak. Is something troubling you, Evie?’
‘God, sorry,’ I tell him, then force myself to articulate it. ‘There was a nasty letter in with the ones you sent me.’
He is silent for a moment. ‘Was it a letter typed on a computer, with no name to it?’
‘How many others have you seen?’
I can almost hear his thought processes, as he wonders whether to be honest or whether to protect me.
‘A few,’ he confesses eventually. ‘I was going to tell you but I thought they were cranky and harmless. Though I could of course be wrong.’
‘You could. I’ve had these at home. The police have got them. The guy who’s writing them tried to break into my apartment in London while Megan and I were there. I can’t believe he’s got to me here. Have they all been posted internationally?’
‘I think so.’
‘So at least he hasn’t literally followed me. That’s good.’ I don’t tell him about my most secret fear: that I might have been writing them to myself; that I might be completely mad. This letter was posted from London, ten days ago, so I did not write it.
‘Would you like to involve the New York police?’ Alexis is asking.
I think about it. ‘Not really. Not right now. I’ll let you know. Did you throw all the others away?’
‘I’m afraid we did. We discussed it in the office, and that was the general agreement.’
I hang up the phone, imagining Alexis, in his Lycra, going back into a roomful of similarly earnest New Yorkers, to jump on a trampoline and partake of what I imagine to be the latest fitness fad. Perhaps I should have asked him how rebounding differs from the trampolining we used to do in the gym at school, but he might have taken any question as a sign of interest, and forced me to go with him.
‘Today is going great, isn’t it?’ I ask Megan. She takes the phone, and dials purposefully. I look at her, eyebrows raised, and she smiles a steely smile at me.
‘Guy?’ she says. ‘It’s me again. I have no idea what’s going on but I wish you’d been upfront with me about Anneka. I know who she is now, and I don’t know what you’re doing. If you know where she is . . .’ She stops to listen, and tries to interrupt a few times. ‘But,’ she says. ‘No, but . . .’ Eventually she raises her voice. ‘You do know what I’m talking about,’ she says angrily, ‘because you do know that she was Ron’s girlfriend, and when I told you she was missing you never said she was the same friend of yours that we gave that letter to. . . Yes, gave, not posted. Anyway, what I’m ringing for is to say that we’re finished. Over. No arguments. That is what I was trying to say this morning.’ She stops, and listens to him, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Guy, you don’t love me. No I don’t. I don’t. I might have done, I’m not sure, but I don’t now. Fine, do what you like, I don’t care, it’s up to you.’
She hangs up and smiles at me. ‘That’s got rid of him. He wasn’t happy. This is such a relief, I don’t know why I didn’t flipping well do it properly sooner.’
I grin back at her. ‘One good thing to happen today. Well done.’ I look at the letters in my hands. ‘It’s got a bit claustrophobic in here. Want to go out?’
She nods. As I’m putting my fan mail away, and tucking my hate mail into a drawer in case it’s needed in the future, I notice a small card I haven’t read yet. It is not in an envelope, so I know it’s been vetted.
Dear Evie, it says, in neat handwriting. It was so lovely to hear you play last Thursday, and to see you afterwards. I’m sorry if I surprised you a little by turning up like that. I would like to renew our acquaintance if you are willing, and perhaps to talk about what happened to us all those years ago. My contact details are below. I hope to hear from you.
With all good wishes,
Louise Parker
I make a face and throw it into the bin. Megan fishes it out, curious.
‘What’s wrong with this?’ she asks, skimming it. ‘I thought she was your friend? This is nice, very polite. Don’t you want to see her? Aren’t you curious?’
‘No I’m not.’
‘And this is because you had some bust-up when you were fifteen?’
I tried to explain my intense reaction to seeing Louise the other week, but because I couldn’t add any details, no one was impressed. Everybody except Howard and Sonia and Ron thought I was being petty.
‘She really, really screwed me,’ I say firmly. ‘I hated her and I still do. Nothing on earth would induce me to start being matey with her now.’
‘But she might
be cool,’ Megan complains. ‘And she could show us round town and introduce us to her friends. She might know some nice single blokes. One last night of fun before I go home . . .’
I look at her suspiciously. ‘You only like crumbly old men.’
‘I’m thinking it’s time to try something new,’ she says with a wink. ‘I mean, there are a lot of men out there, and younger ones might not have quite so much baggage.’
I shake my head and put my shoes on. ‘Come on,’ I tell her abruptly, walking to the door and holding it open. ‘Walk in the park. Gorgeous weather, nice cold drink, blow away the cobwebs and we can both enjoy being single without chasing every young man in Manhattan.’
She bounds after me like a puppy. ‘Sounds OK to me.’
chapter twenty
Two days later
Alexis doesn’t make me go trampolining, but he does take me to his gym. I pant and puff, go red in the face, and try to look calm. When I look around, I see bodies. I don’t look at the people, just at their bodies. I am feeling fiercely inadequate, though people seem to be ignoring me. I keep thumping on, on the treadmill, not increasing or decreasing my speed, and trying to look less exhausted than I feel. I want to look as cool as everyone else does. There is a woman, two treadmills down, who is filing her nails as she runs. I can’t take my eyes off her, in the mirror. She is wearing purple Lycra hotpants and a tiny tube top which displays her iron stomach. Her frame is minuscule.
This is hell. The room is air-conditioned, but I’m sweating far too much. I have never been fond of gyms, and at home have easily kept my figure by eating healthily most of the time and walking everywhere I can. Now I have discovered, thanks to Alexis, that because I’m going to go on television, I need to make myself ‘Hollywood slender’.
