by Aimee Molloy
It’s Alma who told them, who revealed Nell’s identity to Mark Hoyt, who then must have told the press. It has to be. Nell’s been sure of it since the moment she got the phone call from Elliott Falk late yesterday evening, asking her to confirm her identity, telling her the story was going online in ten minutes.
Nell didn’t plan to tell Alma about her past, but it all came out, that first meeting, after she knew she was going to offer Alma the job. Nell had to tell her. Alma was going to be with Beatrice fifty hours a week. She needed to know, in case the moment Nell has dreaded for the past fifteen years actually came to pass—in case she was found out.
This.
The taxi crosses into Manhattan. She tries to pull herself together, and yet the tears come again. She hates herself. All the work she’s done, the steps she’s taken to become someone else. The years of therapy, hiding in London, where the accent became a natural part of her, getting a master’s degree, working at a small college, teaching people too young to have any idea who she was. Even Sebastian didn’t know, not until their eighth date, when she told him everything, convinced he would leave.
But he didn’t leave; he pulled her close. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said.
“I went along with it,” Nell said, pulling back from him, looking at his face. “It wasn’t all him.”
Sebastian nodded and took her hands. “I know. But you were just a kid.”
Nell studies her reflection in the window of the taxi: the short hair, the tattoo, the incredibly pert nose, the sight of which still startles her sometimes, in the mirror in the morning—paid for by the father she hardly saw, who lived in Houston with his second wife and two sons and called a few times a year. None of it matters, these steps to look completely different, to be completely different. She’s still her. She’ll always be her.
“We’re here,” the driver says. Nell hands him a twenty-dollar bill, opens the taxi door, and steps onto the sidewalk, back into the strobe of their cameras.
Two hours later she sits at her desk, going through the final version of the training manual and picking at the egg-salad sandwich Sebastian packed for her this morning, knowing she can no longer eat in the company café. Not with the way they’ll watch her.
There’s a light tapping on her office door. “Good morning, Nell.” Ian sticks his head inside and then enters. “How you holding up?”
She swivels toward him in her chair and forces a smile. “Oh, you know. It’s a little rough right now.” Nell is sure the editors at Gossip! are upstairs talking about the story, wondering what they should do, how they’ll handle writing about her. “It should all blow over in a few days. They’ll find fresh blood somewhere else.” The sharks like you, she means.
“The number of cameras out front this morning when I came in. Quite a crowd.”
“I talked to the head of security,” she says. “They’re seeing what they can do to keep people away from the front of the building.”
“They can’t do anything. They called me. It’s public property.” He pauses. “You know how this works, Nell. The cameras have every right to be there.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “You never know. There could be a humanitarian crisis somewhere. A stolen election. Maybe a government bombing its own citizens that Americans will want to read about instead of me. We can hope, right?”
Ian leans forward, a bemused expression on his face. “I gotta tell you, and I mean this sincerely—the British accent? Genius. I seriously had no idea.” His smile fades when she doesn’t respond. “I’m really sorry to hear about your friend’s baby. That must be rough.”
Nell nods.
“You were there the night it happened, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Were you one of the women who got into her house that night? Before the police secured it?”
Nell nods again.
“Yikes.” Ian closes the door. “So, what do you think happened?” He winks. “Anything you want to share? Just between us?”
“Stop with the winking, Ian. Don’t even try it.”
He sighs and leans against the door. “Okay, Nell, listen. I hate to be the guy to say this, but we think you should take some time off.”
“Time off?”
“The strain of all of this, it’s got to be getting to you.”
“I’m fine. I’ve survived this before, and I’ll survive it again.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “The thing is, Nell, you haven’t really been at your best since your return.”
“My best? Ian, give me a break. It’s been less than a week.”
“That’s what I’m doing. Offering you a break. Maybe we asked too much of you, coming back—”
“Ian, I—”
“We’ll pay you. Consider it a long-term leave of absence. Extended maternity leave, if you will. For a few months or so. A little more if it’ll help.”
Nell laughs. “Really? Extended maternity leave? Is this a new company-wide policy? The ladies will be thrilled.” Ian smirks, and she tries to dial back her anger. “When would you like my maternity leave to start?”
“Today.”
“Today? Ian, the security training is tomorrow. I’ve been preparing for it. I came back to work early to oversee it.”
“We’ve talked to Eric, and he’s going to take over your responsibilities.” Ian looks out the window, avoiding her gaze. “He’s not going to do the job you would, but we’re confident he’ll manage, including taking your place tomorrow. Go get the rest you need. Spend some time with Chloe.”
“Her name’s Beatrice. Look, I know this is inconvenient, but I’ve done nothing wrong. They found me. Fine. But what happened was fifteen years—”
“Nell,” Ian says, meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Talk to Adrienne.”
He bites his lip. “Why?”
“Because she knows. She’s known all along. And she doesn’t care. You can’t make me leave.”
“Adrienne’s the one who sent me down here. She feels awful about it. We all do. But we can’t afford this publicity. It’s too much of a distraction.”
Nell steels herself. “From what? Writing about it? From deciding which photo to use of me on next week’s Gossip! cover? Is that what this is about? I could put on a bikini and go get a flag, if that would help.”
He keeps his gaze steady on hers. “Let’s keep this simple. Please pack your stuff. We can revisit this in a few weeks. See where things stand.”
She closes her eyes and sees it: placing her belongings into a box at the State Department. People averting their eyes as she walked toward the elevator. Going outside into the crowd of cameras. The years following, unable to get work, turned down for every job, the expression on the faces of every potential employer. He gave up a chance at the presidency for her?
She opens her eyes and looks at Ian. “Nope.”
“Nope?”
“Nope. I’m not leaving. You can’t fire me.”
“Nobody’s firing anybody—”
“I’m not leaving, Ian. I’ll hire an attorney if I have to. But I’m not leaving.”
“But, Nell. I’m . . . it’s—”
“Excuse me for being rude, Ian, but I have to ask you to leave. Consider it a short-term leave of absence from my office.” She turns back to her computer. “I have a training to finish preparing for tomorrow.”
Ian opens her door, walking silently back into the hall. Nell stands to close it behind him, noticing the young man dawdling a few feet away, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, probably hoping to discreetly snap a photo for his stupid Facebook page.
She returns to her desk, reading numbly through the training manual, trying to block it out. Ian. The kid in the hall. The photographers outside. The article she read before Ian came in.
The same morning former Secretary of State Lachlan Raine is nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, Ellen Aberdeen is linked to the disappearance of Baby Midas. In fact, she’s been identified
as the intoxicated mother drunkenly dancing at the Jolly Llama on July 4, the night of the abduction.
Nell reaches for her purse on the floor, digging through her wallet, thinking about Alma. She shared a few secrets of her own the morning Nell admitted the truth about her past: telling Nell about the guy in Queens who sold her the fake social security cards, the lies her husband told to get the job managing the Hilton by the airport—details that Nell has been wondering if the police have uncovered.
She finds the business card Mark Hoyt gave her and dials the number, staring at a photo of Beatrice on her desk. Hoyt picks up on the second ring.
Nell hangs up the phone. She dials another number, crumbling with tears when she hears the soft hello.
“Mom,” she says. “I need you. Can you please come?”
Colette slides the emerald back and forth along the thin gold necklace. She woke up this morning to find the box on Charlie’s empty pillow. Poppy’s birthstone, on her two-month birthday, the card read. Thank you for being such a great mom.
She picks up her phone. I’m so sorry, Colette types, suppressing the lump in her throat at the thought of the images dominating the news this morning. The photos of Nell as a young woman; the videos of her walking from the taxi into the Simon French building earlier that morning, trying to shield her face with her bag. I wish you’d told me.
The Nose. That was Nell. Colette remembers the scandal well. Her mother was among the chorus of women’s rights activists who spoke out against what happened, who tried to deconstruct the situation for what it was: not the story of a promiscuous young girl trying to sleep with her powerful boss that the media was so eager to present, but the story of a young woman being preyed upon by a powerful man.
She checks the clock above Allison’s desk again, trying to ignore the tingling in her nipples. This can’t be happening: the first time she’s forgotten to pack her breast pump is the one day she may actually need it. She was so upset watching the news about Nell this morning she had trouble getting herself together, forgetting to pump before leaving. Then she was late to leave and had to run back home for her wallet. And now, she realizes, she’s forgotten the manual pump she always carries, leaving it behind on the kitchen island. Plus, Teb is running late after promising he’ll be on time. He knows she has to be back home by two o’clock.
It’s important we’re done on time today, she texted Teb earlier this morning. Charlie has a meeting.
It isn’t just any meeting. The editor of the New York Times Magazine has invited Charlie to a last-minute lunch, to talk about the possibility of running an exclusive excerpt of Charlie’s new novel.
“No, Colette, I can’t risk it,” Charlie said last night. “If you can’t change your meeting with Teb, I’m going to hire a sitter.”
“I’ll be back,” she told him. “I promise. Teb promised. I won’t be late.”
She picks up her bag and walks to the bathroom, her heels clicking loudly on the wood floors. Someone is in the first stall; she takes a seat on the toilet in the second one and checks her phone. Nell has replied to her message.
Screw them. This destroyed me once. Not this time. Not with Beatrice around to see it.
The woman from the other stall smiles as Colette approaches the sink, but her expression changes when she glances down at Colette’s breasts. Colette looks in the mirror. Two wide gray circles are spreading across her white silk blouse. The woman quickly finishes washing her hands, and when she’s gone, Colette turns on the hand dryer, holding her blouse under the hot stream of air, but the spots reappear as soon as they dry. The folded toilet paper she sticks inside her bra leaves jagged wrinkles visible beneath her blouse.
She presses her bag to her chest, feeling the sting of her milk continuing to release as she walks back to the lobby. Her phone chimes from inside her bag. It’s a text from Charlie. I have to leave. Assuming you’re en route. I’m leaving the baby downstairs, with Sonya. It’ll be fine. We spoke. You can pick her up there.
“Colette.” Allison is standing beside her. “He’s ready for you.”
Colette silences her phone and keeps her bag clutched in front of her as she heads into Teb’s office. Sonya? That girl on the second floor they’ve met, what, twice, at the building’s holiday party? Teb is sitting back in his chair, scrolling through his phone. He nods at one of the leather chairs across from him, and doesn’t apologize for the wait. “Have a seat.”
“How are you?” she asks.
“Great,” he says, but his tone—and his expression—are cool.
“It looks like—” He ignores her and leans forward to press a button on his desk phone.
“Aaron, come in.” The door opens almost immediately, as if Aaron was expecting the call. Aaron nods at her and walks to the credenza, lifting the stack of folders onto his lap. She can see Midas’s name written on the top folder. “Okay, Colette.” Teb’s eyes are hard. “We’re in big trouble here.”
Her stomach drops. They know.
They know she was with Winnie that night, and that she took the file. They tested the blood she’d smeared on the papers after the paper cut a few days ago, and found her DNA. They have somehow discovered that she took the flash drive, which is still at her apartment, stashed inside an old purse in her closet. Milk saturates the crumpled toilet paper, trickling through the fabric of her bra. She tries to figure out where to start—how to explain why she’s been hiding the truth from him, the reasons she couldn’t resist looking at Midas’s file—when Teb speaks.
“This book is awful.” Teb is rubbing his eyes.
She exhales. “Okay.”
Teb leans back in his chair. “C, what happened? Why is this so bad?”
Why? An unexpected pregnancy. Sleep deprivation. Her worries about Poppy’s health. Panic that Midas is dead. “Part of it might be that you’re busier now,” she says. “It’s not like the last time. It’s been a little difficult to keep our scheduled meetings—”
Teb shakes his head. “No. That’s not the issue. The issue is that this doesn’t sound like something I wrote.”
“Well, you didn’t write it.”
Aaron shoots Colette a look as Teb swivels slowly toward her in his chair.
“What do you mean?”
Her mouth has gone dry; she wishes she’d packed a bottle of water. “I mean you didn’t write this book, Teb. I did.”
“Colette.” There’s caution in Aaron’s tone. “I’m not sure—”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Of course I’m happy to rework the book, but we need to set up a schedule to talk more about some of these experiences you want to include. With all due respect, Teb, it’s been hard to sit down with you.”
“I think what the mayor means,” Aaron says, “is that this isn’t working.”
“I get it. So let’s talk about how to fix it.”
Aaron begins to speak, but Teb cuts him off. “I’m sorry to say this, C. But we have to bring in another writer.”
“Another writer?”
Aaron leans forward in his chair. “We’ve spoken to the editor,” Aaron says. “We’re hiring someone else to fix the book. Someone with a bigger name. That guy from Esquire.”
“You’re kidding. You’ve already arranged this? Without talking to me?”
“Come on, Colette,” Aaron says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This book is going to be an integral part of the mayor’s race for re-election. You know that. We can’t bring what you’ve written to the publisher or the voters. We’re in a ton of shit with this baby-abduction thing. That crazy real estate guy is throwing money at our opponent. We’re barely hanging on here.”
She searches for the right response, and then says nothing. It’s done.
She doesn’t have to pretend any longer that she can manage the baby and this work. She’ll get to stay home with Poppy.
“You’re sure about this?” She addresses Teb, but Aaron is the one to answer.
“I’m afraid so, Colette.” His phone beep
s. “And we, unfortunately, need to go.” Teb is staring out the window, unwilling to look at her. “The banking people are here,” Aaron says, buttoning his jacket, gesturing toward the door. “Colette, thank you so much.” His manner is light, as if they’re wrapping up a conversation in which they’ve decided on brunch plans. “The mayor has really enjoyed working with you.”
She stands, expecting Teb to say something, but he remains silent. She walks out of his office, toward the elevator. Her head is swimming. What happens now? What will this mean for her career? She should call the editor, or her agent; she needs to explain herself.
But then she pictures Poppy, alone with a woman she doesn’t know.
She races past the elevator, down the four flights of stairs. Outside, there are no taxis in sight, and she runs as fast as she can across City Hall Park, down the stairs to the subway. A train is on the platform, and the doors are beginning to close as she swipes through the turnstile. She gets there just in time to stick her arm between them, and they close on her elbow. The doors open a few inches, and before they can close again, she pries them apart with both hands, wide enough to slip inside and take one of the last empty seats. The woman next to her smells of hair spray, and Colette catches the eye of an older woman with a pile of orange plastic shopping bags on the floor between her feet. The woman tsks loudly. “Slowing everyone else down,” she says, scowling. Colette looks away. Her elbow is throbbing.
Rap music blares from the headphones of a man sitting across from her, and she presses her fingers to her ears, trying to think of how to explain this to Charlie. He doesn’t know how badly the book has been going, how much she’s been struggling. What is he going to say? Colette opens her eyes, seeing that the man across from her is holding open a copy of the New York Post, the photograph of Nell from the Jolly Llama on its cover.
The air fills with the sound of squealing brakes and the sudden wail of a baby. The woman beside her clutches Colette’s thigh as the train jolts to an abrupt stop, and an older man near the door falls to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” the woman next to her says, removing her hand. A young couple is helping to lift the man, and people are glancing up from their phones, scanning each other’s faces as a stunned hush settles over the subway car. The older woman with the shopping bags tsks again and begins to say something, but her words are swallowed by the voice of the conductor. “Police to the tracks. If you can hear me, police to the lower-level tracks near the F platform. We have a person on the tracks.” There’s a moment of static and then: “He’s strapped to something.”
