by Holly Ford
Ella stared at her numbly. She had tried every hotel on her phone within walking distance of Damian’s apartment. It was ten o’clock, and she was exhausted. There wasn’t a subway station for long, scary blocks — even if she knew where to take a train.
‘Is there—’ Ella cleared her throat, trying not to let her voice catch. ‘Do you know of anywhere cheaper?’
‘If you take a cab uptown—’
Ella shook her head. She couldn’t afford to spend money on that.
The girl hesitated. ‘If you keep going east a couple of blocks, there are some older-style places along there.’
‘Thank you,’ Ella managed, hoarsely, turning for the doors.
‘Be careful,’ the girl said, behind her.
Great. Heading east down the empty street past apartment blocks in ever-worsening states of repair, Ella tried not to let her imagination get the better of her. New York was just as safe as London. That noise behind her was just — just a rat.
In a doorway, a homeless man stirred at her approach. ‘Spare some change, miss?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She met his eyes. ‘I’m afraid I really can’t just now.’
‘That’s okay, honey.’ He nodded. ‘You have a safe night.’
Ella walked on. The way things were going, she might be back to ask him if he could spare some cardboard. Oh, come on, she told herself. Don’t be so melodramatic. This was America. There had to be an all-night diner or something somewhere. If the worst came to the worst, she’d just have to sit out the night there and try not to get robbed until— Until what? Until it was morning and she had no money and nowhere to stay?
Up ahead, at last, Ella saw a cluster of hotel signs. She quickened her pace. At the top of a set of peeling steps, she walked into a lobby that smelled strongly of old cigarette smoke and sweat.
‘No working girls.’ The elderly man behind the desk gave her the briefest of glances before turning his attention back to the TV.
‘Excuse me?’ she stammered.
‘No coat, no suitcase, no stay.’
‘But—’
‘Go on, get out of here.’ He switched channels impatiently. ‘This is a nice place.’
Ella fled. On the steps outside, she paused, taking stock of her other options.
‘And you can’t stand there either!’ the man’s voice pursued her.
Across the street, a blue neon vacancy sign blinked wearily in the window of the Hotel Manhattan. At least, she assumed that was what its name was supposed to be. The h and a t were missing. Ella hurried towards it. Inside, she approached the dilapidated desk with some trepidation.
‘Yeah,’ the woman told her, without enthusiasm. ‘I got a room.’
‘How — how much is it?’
‘Eighty dollars.’
Ella felt a wave of relief. She had that much in her wallet. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said, quickly.
The woman looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Two night minimum,’ she added. ‘Paid upfront.’
Oh, for God’s sake. But she was hardly in a position to bargain. ‘Here’s ninety in cash,’ she said, as nonchalantly as she could manage, given the circumstances. ‘I’ll put the rest on my card.’
Wordlessly, the woman ran the card through the machine. ‘Okay,’ she nodded.
Okay? Oh, thank God. Ella’s eyes started to blur as the woman slid a registration form across the counter.
‘Here’s your key. Third floor on your left. Elevator’s down, so you’ll have to take the stairs. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.’
In her eagerness to get to the room — any room — Ella barely heard her. It wasn’t until she’d shut herself inside and bolted the door that she really looked around her. Ugh. Jesus. And the bathroom was where?
She sat down wearily on the bed, then, on closer inspection of the bedspread, wished she hadn’t. Peeling the cover off between thumb and forefinger, she discovered the quilt beneath it was even worse. Okay. Okay. It was cleaner than the pavement, right? And it was hotter than hell in the room anyway. Having stripped the bed to its stained sheets, she turned the decrepit air-conditioning unit to full. Oh, Jesus! Ella smothered a shriek as a three-inch cockroach ran out.
She felt herself starting to shake. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t— Ella took a deep breath. Shuffling into the centre of what she very much hoped were freshly washed sheets, she drew her knees up and pulled her phone out of her bag. Now she was safely off the street, she could call her mother again. Surely she’d reach her this time.
Again, Lizzie’s phone went straight to voicemail. Ella checked her watch. Of course. It was Saturday in New Zealand. Lizzie would be at Carr’s. She wouldn’t be getting voicemail. Or texts. What was up with her email, though?
With an increasing sense of desperation, Ella listened to Glencairn’s phone ring. And ring. Where were they? Giving up, she pressed her forehead to her knees, tears trickling down her bare legs. What the hell was she going to do?
Richard! He must know people in New York. Ella blew her nose and tried to calm her breathing. Could she actually speak? With a final sniff, she brought up Richard’s number. It was awfully late — or rather, early — in London. But he had always said she could call him any time …
‘The fucking bastard!’ Richard exploded, all trace of sleepiness disappearing from his voice. ‘He can’t get away with that. We’ll sue him.’
The tears took over again. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Ella, it’s all right. Don’t cry. What does Lizzie say?’
‘I can’t find her,’ Ella sobbed.
There was a pause. ‘Right. Okay. Sweetheart, don’t worry. We’ll sort this. Are you safe where you are?’
Watching the cockroach begin a lap of the skirting board, Ella tried to keep a grip on the bigger picture. ‘Yes.’
‘All right, you hold tight there. I’ll find someone to come and get you—’ There was another pause. He must have just realised how late at night it was in New York. ‘First thing in the morning.’
Ella woke up to the ring of her phone. Lizzie, at last? She’d gone to sleep with the phone in her hand. Now she scrabbled to find it inside the hopefully roach-proof cocoon she’d made out of the sheets. Ah, there it was. Not Lizzie. Richard. Freeing an arm, Ella pressed the phone to her ear.
‘Are you okay?’
That depended: she scanned the bed for six-legged company. Seeing none, she took stock. She’d slept so badly she felt like she had a nasty hangover, but otherwise, yes, she did seem to be okay. It was light outside, so she’d made it through the night, anyway. That had to be a good start.
‘I’m still trying to raise a friendly face over there,’ Richard admitted apologetically. ‘I’ve got my agent working on it, too.’ He sighed. ‘Somebody in New York has to have stayed home for the summer.’
Listening to his lovely, familiar voice was making her want to cry again.
‘In the meantime, I’ve sent you some cash,’ he went on. ‘It took me most of the morning to convince Western Union I was actually me and not some Nigerian fraudster, but we got there in the end. There’s an agency three blocks west of your hotel, you can pick it up there.’
Oh God, that felt like the best news she’d ever heard. ‘Thank you,’ she managed, tearing up hopelessly, ‘so much — I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t even think about it. You just need the collection code. I’ll text it to you now.’
Ella nodded, unable to speak.
‘And sweetheart, try not to worry. Someone will be there to help you very soon.’
Having braved the horror of the shared bathroom to do what she could with her hair and her face, Ella slung her bag over her shoulder and raced out of the hotel, looking back at it from the street with a final shudder. God willing, she would never have to set foot in it, or anything like it, ever again.
In daylight, the walk back across town seemed shorter and less scary, the vacant lots less full of danger
. The stores were just beginning to roll up their doors on what was, if one were in the mood to notice such things, another beautiful sunny morning. Recognising the man she’d spoken to the night before asleep in his doorway, she slipped one of her last remaining dollars into his paper cup. He didn’t open his eyes.
She arrived to find the Western Union agency still closed. Reading the sign on the grille, Ella checked her watch. She had twelve minutes before it opened. Across the street, New York’s other early-risers — runners and dog-walkers, most of them, by the looks of things — were bustling in and out of a hip-looking bakery. God, she could murder a coffee.
She was hungry, too, Ella realised, as she queued for the counter. Of course — she hadn’t eaten last night. Having worked out what the cash left in her wallet would buy, she ordered a filter coffee and a roll and wedged herself into a space at the crowded table that ran the length of the bakery’s windows. Five minutes to go.
As the coffee began to make her feel vaguely human again, Ella ran over her plan in her head. First, she was going to check herself into a decent hotel. Then, as soon as she had called Richard and let him know where she was, she was going to have a very long shower. And then— Ugh. Her eyes fell on the cover of Time. It was one of Damian’s, of course. Then, she was going to have to deal with him. Was there any chance he’d been so drunk last night that he wouldn’t remember what he’d done? That they could work together again? That she could just go to Prague this afternoon as if nothing had happened? Was there the slightest possibility that any of the things Damian had promised her — the flat, the green card, the meeting with his agent — could still happen?
Remembering the look on his face last night, Ella knew there wasn’t. He’d no doubt organised someone else for the Prague job already. There were a hundred photographic assistants who would drop everything to go on a shoot with Damian Priest. Nevertheless, she did have to face him. Apart from anything else, all her stuff was still in his apartment. She needed to get it out before he left. The thought made her lose her appetite again. Pushing away the remains of her roll, Ella reached into her bag for her phone. Best get it over with. He should have finished sleeping it off by now.
Shit! Her phone! It wasn’t — it wasn’t there. Fighting against reality, Ella ransacked her bag. It couldn’t be gone. It just couldn’t. Her whole life was on there … what remained of her life, anyway … She stared around the bakery. There was no point, she knew. Whoever had taken it would be long gone.
Across the street, there was a graunch and a rattle as Western Union opened its doors. Slowly, the true horror of her situation started to settle in. The collection code for Richard’s money was on her phone. His number, his email … everyone’s numbers, everyone’s email … they were all on her phone. Richard, Lizzie, Carr. Damian. Even her travel insurance emergency line was … Oh God, oh God. She was alone in New York with no home, no job, no means of contacting anyone she knew — and twenty-five cents in her pocket. Daylight or not, Ella began to be very afraid.
There was nothing to do but go back to the one place Richard knew where to look for her: the hotel. She’d just have to stay there until he sent someone to find her. Or they threw her into the street at checkout time tomorrow morning. Whichever came first.
Clutching her bag to her chest, Ella forced herself to finish her coffee. God knew when she’d get another cup. Carefully, she wrapped her leftover roll in a napkin. She didn’t have the price of a happy meal now. Maybe if she asked nicely, the homeless man would give her the dollar back …
Twenty minutes later, at the end of the walk she was coming to know all too well, she stood at the Hotel Manhattan’s reception desk. In daylight, it looked even worse. Thanking God she’d run off without bothering to actually check out, Ella waited for the man behind the desk to notice her. A new shift had begun, it appeared; there was no sign of the woman who’d taken her money the night before.
‘You want something?’ he asked, looking up at last from his newspaper.
‘Has anyone called for me?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Ella Harrington.’ A horrible thought occurred to her. ‘I’m booked in here for two nights.’
Frowning, he ran his pen down the register. ‘Harrington … no …’
Her heart went cold.
‘Oh yeah, there you are. Three-oh-two.’ He looked her over, his head to one side. ‘What was it you wanted again?’
‘Messages,’ she said, starting to breathe again. ‘Did anyone ring, or — or come looking for me?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Could you — could you maybe check?’
‘This look like The Plaza to you? I ain’t a message service, honey.’ He went back to his reading.
Slowly, Ella made her way up to her room. Needless to say, it hadn’t been cleaned. Crawling back into her abandoned nest of sheets, she settled down to wait for Richard. He’d call her soon. Wouldn’t he? And when he couldn’t reach her mobile, he’d ring the hotel. Right? Or he’d send someone. The help he and his agent were trying to find. They were probably on their way right now. She just had to make sure she was there when they arrived.
Nine hours later, Ella watched the filthy brick wall outside her sliver of window dissolve into the dusk. She was way past crying. Past anything much. She’d be spending another night at the Manhattan, there was no denying that now. For the umpteenth time, she unpacked her camera bag, arranging her gear piece by piece on the bed. She picked up her camera body, feeling the familiar weight in her hands. They went back a long way, she and her old digital. Tomorrow morning she’d have to pawn it. Along with everything else. The Leica first, of course. If pawn stores were open on Sunday. Of course they would be, she realised, as a far-off siren began to wail — this was New York City. People’s lives fell apart at all hours.
The knock on the door made her jump. Oh, thank God! Shoving her feet back into her sandals, she hurried to open it, heart thudding.
An old man stood there in a grubby singlet and boxer shorts. He looked like a dishevelled, recently de-institutionalised version of Damian Price.
‘Have you seen my pants?’ he asked, worriedly.
‘No,’ Ella told him. ‘Sorry.’
Re-locking her door, she switched on the light, slipped off her sandals and sat back down on the bed. Again, she went over her gear, adding up its worth. How many more nights would it buy her?
Reluctantly, Ella pulled out the remains of her breakfast roll and unwrapped it. It was the only food she’d had since lunch the day before. Not that she felt even slightly hungry. She’d better eat it, though, before her room-mates the roaches came and got it. Taking a bite, she forced herself to chew, working it down past the lump in her throat. Another twenty-five minutes and she could go down and check for messages again — the guy behind the desk was so sick of her she’d had to cut back to asking once an hour.
She had just got back from her fruitless trip to reception when there was another knock on the door. Flying across the room, Ella threw it open.
‘Have you seen my pants?’
Oh God. ‘No.’
Having locked up once more, she sat down heavily. Outside, another, closer, siren swirled through the streets. It was over twenty-four hours since she’d stormed out of Damian’s apartment. On the other side of the wall, she heard somebody start to snore. Getting out her digital, she turned it on and off, then slipped out the memory card. She couldn’t bear to even think about what was on it.
Unaware of having drifted off to sleep, she was woken by the sound of knocking.
‘Have you seen my—’
Ella shut the door in his face. God, what time was it? And, ugh, had anything crawled on her? Shuddering, she ran her hands through her hair, then checked her watch. It was after midnight. Returning to bed, she put her camera gear away, hid the bag, and wrapped herself up in the sheet. She’d just arranged it over her head when there was a knock at the door.
‘Go away!’ she yelled,
past caring who else she woke up.
‘Ella? It’s me.’
Was she dreaming? Untangling herself, she headed towards the door, not daring to believe what she’d heard was true, and opened it.
Luke stood there. ‘I heard you needed someone,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if I’d do.’
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Two weeks earlier, driving home to the vineyard from a snowbound Glencairn, Lizzie tried to talk herself out of the hurt she was feeling. Carr had every right to ask her to take a step back. She was round there every weekend, treating his house as if it were her own, telling Cally what to do, trying to be Ash’s confidante. It was no wonder he’d had enough.
Except that … Well, if she’d rushed in, it was only because he’d held the door so wide open for her. And now to have it suddenly slammed in her face was … bruising. What had changed? Was it something to do with Ash being there? Or was it her? Did Carr feel differently about their relationship now that he had other people around him? Had he just been lonely?
Sometimes, she reminded herself, people simply changed their minds. Feelings came, and they went. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Maybe she and Carr had run their course. Lizzie was shocked at how awful she found the thought. She had never really stopped to consider where their relationship might be going. She’d just trusted that it was going somewhere. If it wasn’t …
Or maybe, the more sensible side of her brain kicked in, he really did just want her to slow down. Give him some breathing space. Except that he hadn’t said slow down. Or take a step back. He’d said stop.
Arriving home, Lizzie put the increasing number of clothes that had found their way to Glencairn back where they belonged in her own wardrobe. It looked fuller than it had for a while. She’d been spending so much time at Carr’s lately that her own house had started to take on a half-lived-in look. It hardly even felt like home any more.
She wandered out to the kitchen, opened the fridge door, and stood staring in at the shelves. What was she looking for again? Finding no answer, Lizzie closed the door and stared out the window instead. The rows of dormant vines stretched up the slope, black against the snow.
