by Pat Young
Ultimately it was Charlotte who brought about her own downfall, so he wasn’t about to feel guilty. She’d still be alive if she hadn’t become so demanding and clingy. So ‘in love’. He didn’t do love. It was far too complicated.
When, a few weeks ago, she accused him of waiting too long to end his marriage, she’d threatened to tell Diane everything. Desperate to hold things together until the middle of September, he’d had no option but to let her in on the deal, promising it would guarantee the financial independence that would allow him to walk away from Diane. He’d been taking a risk, aware that sharing his knowledge with Charlotte made her dangerous, but he hadn’t anticipated her late change of heart. Now she was gone. She would complicate his life no more.
Like any businessman on his lunch break, he removed a sandwich container from a bag and placed it on the seat beside him. When his contact reappeared at the far end of the path, he stood and walked away in the other direction. He didn’t look back.
9
When she felt brave enough to move, Lucie tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear to the wood. She kept her eyes fixed on the handle, watching for the slightest movement. Had she locked the door properly?
‘Okay, I guess I’ll just leave them here.’ A man’s voice. Matthew? Lucie knew she should open the door, break the bad news, hand over the bag and get out of there. Instead she listened to the guy’s footsteps receding, then waited for the elevator to come and take him away. Whoever he was.
When she was one hundred per cent sure he’d gone, she quietly opened the door and peeped out. A bouquet of roses lay on the mat. She reached out one arm and grabbed them. Clasping the flowers to her chest, she closed the door and leaned back against it, breathing as if she’d just dashed through sniper alley.
A tiny envelope was tucked in amongst twelve long-stemmed roses, all different shades of pink. Inside was a printed card that bore the message, ‘Last Rose of Summer’ – the September Selection, from your friends at The Bloom Room. Your next delivery, due September 26, will be ‘Autumn Glory’ a fiery collection of golds, reds and umbers, reminiscent of New England in the fall. Enjoy! A handwritten note at the bottom apologised for the bouquet being much smaller than usual due to a shortage of roses following the sad events at WTC.
Lucie thought of people trying to buy roses for lost loved ones and felt guilty about keeping this whole bunch for herself. Except they weren’t for her. They were for Charlotte, one of the lost. And not from Matthew.
Lucie was starting to build up a picture of Miss Gillespie. A stylish, single woman, who bought her own flowers. The only sign she’d ever loved and been loved, a dog-eared photo from a previous millennium. A woman who bought designer labels and cashmere sweaters. A woman who chose to live alone in a million-dollar apartment in Lower Manhattan, and could afford to do so. Renting a place like this would cost thousands of dollars a month. Charlotte was either from a very wealthy family or held down a job that carried a six-figure salary.
Lucie might have become a successful businesswoman like Charlotte, had she taken a different direction, made other choices. Listened to her father. If only he’d let her do it her way. She’d have been happy to follow him into the transport business her granddad had started with one ancient lorry. She’d have been proud to take over one day, and build the business. Lucie had always preferred lorries to dollies. She first got behind the steering wheel of a truck when she was twelve years old, having charmed Old Sandy into letting her have a go. By fourteen, although her dad didn’t know it, she could reverse a twelve-wheeler on the forestry roads where they picked up the logs. At sixteen she was ready to cast off the calf-length kilt and unflattering blazer of her all-girls school and start earning the men’s respect as she learned the haulage business.
Her father would have none of it. Weighed down by a chip on his shoulder about his own lack of education, he was determined she’d continue with hers. He wanted her to study accountancy. She could be trusted to do the books, but running the business? No chance. That was man’s work.
Lucie had rebelled, of course, but looking back, would it have been such a terrible mistake to do things his way? The advent of open-cast mining in Scotland meant thousands of tons of coal being hauled by road and McBride Hauliers had been astute enough to be ready for the bonanza. By now Dad would own a huge fleet of trucks, worth millions of pounds. Lucie could have had a challenging, satisfying job and a small fortune due to come her way.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to make up with her dad. How hard could it be? He was right here in New York City. How Mum had managed to convince him to come after all these years was a mystery. Maybe he was ready to forgive her? Granny always said they were too alike, Lucie and her dad. ‘Thrawn as a wulk, you pair.’ Like a whelk refusing to be winkled out of its shell, neither one was ever prepared to give an inch. But Lucie was more than ready to capitulate now. She would beg her father’s forgiveness, if it got her away from Curtis.
Maybe, if she arranged to meet Mum at their hotel, Dad would agree to join them. If things went well, Lucie could be on a plane home to Scotland by the end of the week.
This time the operator answered on the first ring.
The hotel also answered on the first ring. A good omen.
‘I’d like to speak to one of your guests, please. Her name’s Margaret McBride?’
‘Let me just put you on hold.’
Lucie crossed her fingers, hoping her father wouldn’t come to the phone. She wasn’t quite ready for that.
‘I’m sorry. We have no one here of that name.’
‘Would you look again, please? Under McBride. John Bradford McBride.’
‘Our system shows a reservation in the name of McBride. Arriving September tenth.’
Lucie had arranged to meet her mother on the eleventh, so that would be right. ‘Yeah, that’s them. Can you put me through to their room, please? Ask for Mrs McBride, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m sorry. Mrs McBride hasn’t checked in.’
10
‘Is this the Crowne Plaza? In Times Square?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Well, I think there must be some kind of a mistake. Would you mind checking again, please?’
Lucie heard the receptionist sigh. ‘I already have, ma’am. I’m afraid your friend hasn’t arrived.’
‘Not my friend. My parents. And they must have arrived. Mum said they were flying into New York on the tenth. I was supposed to meet her for coffee yesterday after my interview but I got caught in the ash cloud when the towers collapsed and I couldn’t make it.’ Lucie realised she was babbling. ‘Sorry,’ she said, feeling ridiculous, and very close to tears.
‘Would you like to leave a number? Who should I say called?’
‘I don’t have a number. Can you please tell them Lucie rang? And I’ll call back.’
‘Certainly. I’ll make sure that message is passed on.’
When she put the phone down, Lucie felt as flat as a week-old balloon. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been pinning on this chance of a reconciliation. She should have swallowed her pride sooner. Written home years ago.
She’d been pinning a lot on that job interview too. It had given her a legitimate reason for going into Manhattan on her own, one that Curtis couldn’t object to. Or so she’d thought. His temper had flared before she even got to the bit about seeing her mother afterwards.
She’d hoped to meet Mum with a job offer in her pocket so she wouldn’t appear to be a complete loser, but with the South Tower gone, Lucie had no job prospects. And the tiny amount of money she had scrimped together was lying in the street somewhere, along with her driver’s licence whose address was way out of date. She and Curtis had moved around so much, from one squalid rental to another, that Lucie had stopped trying to keep personal paperwork up to date. Besides, with no car to drive, she only ever used her ID to buy his beer.
She had no job, no money and no ID. The complete loser package.
It m
ade sense to stay here for now. Grab a couple of days’ breathing space.
Space to breathe. Exactly what she needed after escaping a dust cloud. And exactly what she needed after escaping from Curtis.
One of his regular complaints was that she’d let herself go. ‘What happened to that bright-eyed, shiny-haired, hot, sexy babe I married?’ he would whine. ‘When did you turn into such a tramp?’ Last week he’d grabbed her ponytail and tugged it viciously. Lucie did her best not to wince but she couldn’t keep her eyes from watering.
‘Oh, don’t start in with that blubbering,’ he said. ‘What man wants to listen to that?’
Lucie had attempted a smile.
‘That’s better.’ He patted her rear and his face clouded again. ‘When did your ass get so skinny? I used to love your booty in tight jeans. Didn’t your momma teach you to look good for your man?’
‘It takes money to look good, Curtis, but you’re right, I could use a haircut. Maybe you could lend me a few dollars to have my hair trimmed, buy some new jeans, so I can look good for you?’
Mistake. Big mistake.
Lucie dismissed Curtis from her mind. He’d been controlling her thoughts, her life, for far too long.
From now on, Lucie was in charge. First she trimmed her hair, evening up the scraggy broken ends with scissors she found in a drawer in the kitchen. Not ideal, but she managed to get it fairly even, then blew it dry and smooth with Charlotte’s hairdryer. The result was pretty good for a novice hairdresser and, in spite of her battered face, Lucie thought she looked okay. No, not just okay, she looked a whole lot better than she had for a long time.
She opened a drawer under the bathroom mirror. It slid out silently to display a collection of make-up that would grace the cosmetics counters in Fraser’s, Glasgow’s most glamorous department store. Lucie remembered Mum and Granny taking her on the underground train to Buchanan Street. She could still recall the smell of damp earth and oil hanging in the air and the way that air would funnel down the track when a train approached. She used to hang on tightly to Mum’s hand, terrified of being sucked off the edge of the platform and into the endless tunnel. Every Christmas they took her to see Santa and Granny bought her a party dress. Then they’d have lunch in the restaurant on the top floor. When it was time to go home, Lucie had to be dragged away from the central hall, with its soaring Christmas tree and balconies festooned in garlands of gold and white.
Lucie chose some foundation and applied it to her face. It failed to cover her bruises, but it did add some colour to her pale cheeks. She admired the effects in the mirror. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the jumble of dusty clothes she’d dumped on the floor. Time to do something about those.
She stuffed her suit and shirt in the kitchen trash can and pushed them right to the bottom, out of sight. Then she turned on the faucet and watched the last of the dust flow off her hands and down the drain.
Over the sound of the water, she heard a buzzing, insistent as a hungry wasp. Lucie turned off the faucet and listened, not recognising the sound and trying to work out where it was coming from. Some kind of intercom, connecting the apartment with the lobby.
Someone seemed very keen to come up and see Charlotte.
The intercom continued to buzz while she stood and looked at it, not knowing what to do.
Abruptly, mid-racket, it stopped. In the silence that followed, Lucie’s bravado vanished. This could all end very badly and she’d been treating it like a game, a kid playing dress-up in clothes and make-up that didn’t belong to her.
She should get her own clothes back on, pronto, and get the hell out of here. Take nothing of Charlotte’s, not even the train fare. No one need ever know she’d lived another woman’s life for a day. What on earth made her think she could get away with this hare-brained idea?
She’d have to go back to Curtis, of course. But this time she’d be stronger. This near-death experience would help her stick to her resolution never to let a man control her again. Maybe he’d be glad to see her back. He must be worried about her by now. It would be better this time, different. She’d make certain of it.
Lucie picked her clothes out of the trash, shook off the worst of the dust and started to put them on. She’d have to say sorry for hurting Curtis, and he wouldn’t be happy with the idea of his woman hitting back, knocking him over. The best she could hope for was that he might not remember the fight. He was out cold when she left, after all.
It started at her fingertips, the realisation of what she’d done. It was a numbing, black fear that crept up her hands and arms till it reached her chest and clawed at her heart.
11
That’s why he was lying so still.
She hadn’t thought to stop and check. Hadn’t been too concerned. She’d often seen him pass out with drink or drugs, then lie motionless till he sobered up.
When she’d told him there was no food in the house, he’d grudgingly handed over some loose change and sent her to the 7-Eleven for cheap burgers. She’d cooked them in the huge cast-iron skillet that was a pain in the ass to wash up. She needed two hands to lift it but Curtis insisted she always use it because he liked the way its ribbed surface made griddle marks on his burgers. She couldn’t really remember what wound him up. She’d started to tell him about the cleaning job but she never got to finish. Something set him off. Some little thing she’d said or done, or not said or not done. Hard to tell at the time and impossible to remember now. Whatever it was, maybe the cocktail of drink and drugs he’d taken earlier, who knew, something made him seem extra threatening.
Desperate to avoid riling him further, Lucie had served up his burgers, just the way he liked them. Then she made herself scarce while he had his meal in front of the TV.
She couldn’t believe her luck when she woke alone. She managed to shower and dress without disturbing him, and would have made it out the door if she hadn’t decided to grab an instant coffee. She’d planned to drink it lukewarm rather than risk the scream of the boiling kettle. She’d have got away with it, too, had she not left her bag in the bedroom. The kettle started to whistle, gently at first, but building to a crescendo. Lucie grabbed her bag and sprinted. Abruptly, the whistling stopped.
He was waiting for her, traitorous kettle in hand. Fearing he might throw it at her, she ducked back into the bedroom, but a violent slam of metal on metal told her he’d dumped it back on the stove.
Lucie had checked her watch. She couldn’t afford to hide too long or she’d miss her interview. She waited a minute, counting off the seconds in her head, then, thinking the danger had passed, she ventured out, a nervous smile on her face. ‘Morning, honey,’ she chirruped, hating the toadying in her voice.
Curtis looked her up and down, as if appraising her. He grinned and she relaxed a little.
‘Well, don’t you look fine?’ he said, admiringly.
She brushed down her dark skirt and picked at a speck of white that caught her eye. Quick as a snake, he pounced, grabbing her by the throat. His fingers tightened till she could hardly breathe. Without a word, he pushed her back against the kitchen cabinets. Leaned his weight on her till she was terrified her spine would snap. If she didn’t choke first. Somehow she knew that this time he was going to kill her.
His breath was stale and rancid on her face, but she knew better than to react. He growled at her, his voice low and filled with menace. ‘Hell you think you’re going, all dressed up like a city girl?’
With her windpipe crushed, she couldn’t breathe, far less answer.
‘You really think I’m gonna let you waltz off into Manhattan every morning?’ Her silence seemed to madden him further. ‘You’re goin’ nowhere! Hear me?’ He squeezed tighter. When she couldn’t loosen his fingers, she tore at his face but he didn’t seem to feel a thing. She was about as effective as a fly, irritating but harmless. With no time to make a fist, Lucie lashed out with her flat hand and struck him on the ear.
He let her go. She breathed, gasping
in great lungfuls of precious air that made her cough and retch. Curtis staggered back, like a cartoon drunk, then dropped to his knees. She’d seen him fall over before and knew the pattern. He’d clamber back onto his feet and beat her twice as hard, as if she’d deliberately humiliated him. Usually she would brace herself, scared to do anything but take whatever revenge he chose to dole out. God alone knew what it would be this time. The first time she’d had the temerity to fight back.
She didn’t wait to find out. Her arm stretched along the counter looking for a weapon, a knife, anything she could use to protect herself. Her fingers found metal and closed around the handle of the skillet. She pulled it to her and, with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, Lucie raised that skillet with both hands, as high as she could, and brought it down like an axe on his back. She could have gone for his head. But she didn’t want to kill him, just stop the beating. Curtis dropped to the floor, his head smacking the stone tiles with a thud that made her stomach heave. She backed away, clutching her neck.
Without taking her eyes off him, she gathered her bag, stepped over his body and left.
It was all clear to her now. He must be dead. Why else would he just lie there and let her leave?
Lucie looked at the old skirt she’d been pulling on and let it drop to the floor, sending up little puffs of dust.
She couldn’t go back. They’d be waiting to arrest her. She wasn’t prepared to face a murder charge for Curtis. He’d robbed her of one life. She wasn’t about to let him take all she had left of this one. She could claim self-defence, but with no witnesses, there wasn’t a jury in the land who would believe her. What would any self-respecting citizen think of a woman who clubbed her husband with a cast-iron pan and went calmly about her business?
