Till the Dust Settles

by Pat Young

  It was worth the cost of the bubbly to sit across a table from her. She was so enchanting that he sometimes forgot the whole reason for his involvement with her. In his heart of hearts he was still hoping to discover that this was all a mistake. Maybe there were two Charlotte Gillespies living in that apartment block who happened to look very similar. Perhaps he was getting soft in his old age, but it would be nice to find out that this young woman had no connection to Charlotte whatsoever. Then he could keep her on to fill the vacancy of mistress.

  Her glass was soon ready for another refill. ‘The flutes in here are very small,’ he reassured her, while putting his hand over the top of his own glass to show the waiter he had enough.

  ‘But you’re not drinking,’ she said with a moue of disapproval that made him want to kiss her there and then.

  ‘Keeping a clear head. Busy day tomorrow.’

  The champagne worked its magic and she became not silly, but witty and beguiling, if a little on edge. It was a pity the bubbles hadn’t loosened her tongue, but the night was still young. He continued to ply her with questions over dinner, but her answers seemed guarded. He was sure she was hiding something.

  When they were offered dessert she said, ‘Oops, I’m far too tiddly for pudding,’ and giggled into her hand. When he asked for the bill and suggested he take her home, she seemed more grateful than wary.

  During the short cab ride, she rested her head on his shoulder. She smelt divine, her perfume the same bewitching fragrance as Charlotte used to wear. He inhaled deeply and felt more aroused than he had since his last night with Charlotte. This girl’s vulnerability made her even more difficult to resist. He turned his face to her hair and breathed deeply, enjoying the silky softness against his cheek.

  When the cab stopped at her apartment building, he woke her gently. ‘Time for bed, I think,’ he whispered. When she snuggled even closer, he took it as a sign and helped her out on to the sidewalk. The glass doors to the building slid open and a young doorman stepped from behind a huge marble desk.

  ‘Good evening, Ms Gillespie,’ he said, and managed to imbue the simple greeting with a whole lot more. He appeared to be asking if she was okay about this man he’d never seen before going up with her. ‘Have you had a pleasant evening?’

  She seemed to sober up instantly and said in a very dignified voice, ‘Hello, Rob. I’m having a lovely evening, thank you. Off duty soon?’

  ‘Another hour.’

  ‘Well, goodnight then.’ She gave the doorman a little wave as they made their way to one of the elevators.

  He was in.

  Although he’d never seen Charlotte’s apartment, it was somehow just as he’d imagined. Or perhaps she’d once described the view from the wonderful floor to ceiling windows. By night the view was a myriad of lights, some bright like beacons, others twinkling like stars in a distant galaxy. He stood respectfully, waiting to see if he was expected to stay.

  ‘Shit down, Rick.’ Realising what she’d said, she collapsed onto the sofa in a giggling fit and covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh sorry,’ she said, making an obvious effort to enunciate. ‘Please, take off your jacket. Can I get you something to drink?’

  She seemed to be concentrating very hard on each word. He hoped she hadn’t sobered up too soon. He needed her compliant. ‘I’ll join you in a glass of wine if you like, thank you.’

  ‘Shertainly, shir,’ she replied, followed by another fit of hysterics. When her laughter petered out, she lay there, eyes closed. He wasn’t sure whether or not she was asleep – it was hard to tell. He decided to try an experiment.

  ‘Lucie,’ he said in a gentle, sing-song voice.

  She opened her eyes immediately and smiled at him. ‘Yes?’ she said, innocent as a toddler.

  ‘Time for bed, Lucie.’

  She didn’t argue, either with the name or with the suggestion. ‘Lucie’s sleepy,’ he said, like a parent to a tired child.

  ‘Lucie’s sleepy,’ she agreed.

  Perfect. Guessing which door was the bedroom, he led her through. She leaned on his arm, trusting, willing and very vulnerable.

  He sat her on the bed and knelt to slip off her shoes. How women walked in these things he’d never know. He stood to unzip her dress and help her out of it. She reached for him and he pulled her into an embrace, holding her upright with one arm, while he hauled back the comforter. Gently, he lowered her onto the bed and, with the greatest effort he’d ever made to resist temptation, covered her up.

  She stirred a little. ‘Thank you for looking after me,’ she said, melting his heart.

  He kissed her forehead. ‘You’re welcome, Lucie.’

  Her eyes opened wide and he saw fear in them.

  ‘No, I’m Charlotte,’ she said. ‘Charlotte’s my name.’

  ‘I know, you told me. Lucie Charlotte.’ Her startled reaction told him he was on to something. Her real name was Lucie.

  ‘Night, night, Charlotte. Sweet dreams. I’ll stay right here by your side.’

  When her breathing had settled into a rhythm he walked into the closet and started flicking through the clothes. He recognised several outfits. This was definitely Charlotte’s apartment. There was no doubt about it. As if further proof were needed, the next item he touched was a white shirt. Out of curiosity, he counted the buttons. One missing. Charlotte hadn’t been lying when she said she didn’t sew on buttons.

  Who the hell was the girl in the bed, and, more importantly, how much did she know about Charlotte? And him?

  As quietly as he could, he searched the apartment, cringing when doors creaked open or drawers banged shut. He found the laptop on a bookshelf in the lounge. He knew Charlotte never left her laptop out of its bag, she had a thing about it, so the girl in the bed must have been snooping. With his heart lodged somewhere in his throat, he opened the lid and hit the on switch. As expected, it was password protected. He’d hoped to have a quick look to see what kind of websites had been browsed since 9/11. You could tell a lot about a person from a quick check of their browsing history. He’d had a purge in one of his offices where he felt the workers were spending too much time online and not enough time working. It was astonishing what people will access, especially from their workplace. The exercise had not only increased productivity, it had earned two men a termination of their contract.

  This, however, was a waste of time without a password. A thought occurred to him. It was worth a try.

  He crept into the bedroom. ‘Lucie Charlotte,’ he whispered, until she came close enough to the surface to be responsive. ‘Can you remember the password?’

  ‘What?’ she said groggily.

  ‘The password?’

  ‘No passwords.’

  He was leaving the room when she started to mutter.

  ‘I know a password.’

  He listened carefully as she reeled off a string of random characters, but her voice was quiet and far too blurred by alcohol for him to catch them.

  He hurried back to the bed and knelt at its side. Trying to keep his voice light and encouraging he said, ‘What did you say, my darling? What’s the password?’

  He sat on the edge of the bed and waited but the girl appeared to have gone to sleep. He gave her shoulder a gentle shake, but she seemed to be out of it. So drunk she was almost unconscious. He’d get nothing more from her tonight. He might as well head home and surprise Diane by getting back early.

  He leaned over to give Lucie Charlotte’s cheek an affectionate kiss. She looked so innocent lying there. ‘Goodnight, Princess,’ he whispered.

  As if a deeply buried memory had been stirred, she murmured in a little girl voice, ‘Daddy calls me Princess.’

  ‘Princess Charlotte?’

  ‘No, silly, Princess Lucie.’ She sounded like a child, impatient with a stupid grown-up. ‘I’ve got a secret.’

  Now this could be interesting. ‘Have you, Princess? What sort of a secret?’

  ‘A secret letter.’

  ‘Rea
lly?’ he asked indulgently. ‘And who’s your secret letter from? A fairy? Or another princess?’

  ‘It’s from Charlotte.’

  He felt like he’d been sprayed with dry ice. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up like hackles.

  ‘Where is this secret letter, Princess?’

  ‘Not telling,’ she sang, ‘cos it’s a secret.’

  Her voice faded away to nothing. He shook her, desperate to know if she was asleep or awake. She was impossible to rouse, deeply asleep. He gave his head a shake, trying to clear it and make sense of what he’d heard. Surely it had no meaning. Surely he was reading something into nothing.

  He couldn’t take the risk.

  Grabbing the comforter in two hands he raised it towards her face. ‘Sorry, Princess,’ he whispered, ‘I think your fairy tale might be over.’

  54

  Lucie woke uncomfortable. She was wrapped, almost smothered in a blanket or comforter. Too tightly. Her arms were trapped by her sides, like a swaddled baby. Or a shrouded corpse.

  She opened her eyes but her head hurt far too much and she closed them again. She became aware of sound and listened. She could hear breathing. That was wrong. She should be sleeping alone.

  Had her taste of freedom been nothing more than a drunken dream? Had there been no fight after all, no escape, no suffocating cloud of dust? No Charlotte, no dying Mum, no deaths? Would she turn over and see Curtis, able-bodied, beside her?

  ‘Charlotte?’

  It was real.

  ‘Charlotte, are you awake, honey?’

  Oh God. Oh God. As if her life wasn’t complicated enough.

  ‘Honey?’

  She rolled over.

  ‘Open your eyes.’

  ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Everything. What I said last night, what I did last night. What we did last night.’

  She felt a gentle touch on her cheek. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  He was lying on the bed. Not in the bed, on top of it. And he was fully clothed. Well, not fully clothed. He’d lost his jacket and tie. Did he take them off in the bedroom or before? She had no idea. Was he even wearing a tie last night? She couldn’t remember.

  She was clothed too, minus the LBD. Again, no recollection of having removed her dress. This was bad.

  ‘Rick?’

  ‘Yes, my darling?’

  ‘How much did I have to drink last night?’

  ‘I’m far too much of a gentleman to answer that.’

  She remembered a second bottle of champagne coming to the table, only because of the mental arithmetic she did about the cost. And how long she and Curtis could have lived off the same amount.

  ‘Did we empty the second bottle of Dom Pérignon?’

  He laughed, as if she’d said just the cutest thing he’d ever heard. ‘You don’t remember?’

  She groaned. ‘No, I don’t remember. It’s been a while since I had anything stronger than a beer. I guess it went straight to my head. I’m so sorry.’

  The gentle fingers were back. This time stroking her forehead. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Headache, huh?’

  ‘Mother of them all.’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘Please tell me I didn’t embarrass you.’

  ‘How could you ever embarrass me?’

  ‘God, I don’t know. By doing something crazy or saying something awful.’

  ‘You really don’t remember anything?’

  ‘Nothing after dessert, which I don’t think I ate. See, there you go! There’s one embarrassment right away.’

  ‘So you’ve forgotten our first real date?’

  His voice sounded so sad. ‘Including the tender, beautiful way we made love?’

  Her eyes shot wide open. ‘Oh God. We didn’t, did we?’

  ‘Would that really be so terrible, if we did?’

  She looked at his kind face, felt his soothing fingertips on her brow and realised she felt safe. She could see a future. Maybe the hell of the last few years was meant to be. So she could come out the other side ready to appreciate a good man.

  ‘Would it, Charlotte?’

  The room swirled like a slow-moving carousel. Last night was coming back to her. That bizarre letter from Charlotte was hiding right there in the closet.

  Lucie put her hands over her face, and pressed on her eyelids. Sequins of light sparkled in her head and her stomach roiled.

  ‘Darling? I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You didn’t upset me. I just remembered something.’

  ‘Something you want to talk about?’

  Should she tell him about Charlotte’s crazy missive? She’d intended to talk to him last night over dinner and ask his advice, but the evening was going so well and she didn’t want to spoil it. More importantly, she didn’t want to explain that she wasn’t Charlotte. Before she knew it, she’d got too drunk to talk about anything.

  It was all too complicated to think about right now with her head hurting and her stomach threatening to rebel. ‘Maybe later,’ she said.

  ‘Sure. Listen, I owe you an apology. I was teasing you about last night. Nothing happened.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You really don’t remember?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  He smiled at her, but the look on his face was wrong somehow. He looked relieved.

  Why relief? Had something happened after all? Something he was glad she’d forgotten?

  ‘I didn’t lay a finger on you, I promise,’ he murmured. ‘I wouldn’t, ever. Unless you wanted me to.’

  Lucie’s mouth filled with saliva and she swallowed quickly. Breathing hard, in and out, in and out, she tried to control a panic that she didn’t understand.

  She threw back the covers and sprinted for the bathroom. Like a baseball player skidding onto last base, she slid on her knees to the toilet bowl. She spewed up last night’s dinner, gagging on bile and self-loathing.

  Fate had thrown her a lifeline. With a gorgeous, caring man anchoring the other end, willing to haul her to a better life. And she had to go and ruin everything by getting drunk. She was as big a loser as her husband. They were well matched.

  When there was nothing left in her stomach, she got to her feet and washed her face. As she opened the bathroom cabinet, trying to avoid her reflection, Rick’s voice startled her.

  ‘Are these what you’re looking for?’

  He was standing in the doorway holding out some pills and a glass of water. She noticed he had put on his jacket and tie. He looked suave as Bond and just as out of place in the foul-smelling bathroom. ‘Can we get out of here, please?’ she said, mortified.

  In the kitchen she swallowed both pills with a sip of water.

  ‘You need to drink more than that,’ he said, slipping a robe around her shoulders. Was there no end to his thoughtfulness?

  ‘Why don’t I refill that glass then maybe I could make you a cup of coffee?’

  She clasped her hand over her mouth. ‘No coffee,’ she muttered through her fingers.

  He laughed. ‘I guess not. Maybe later. What you need right now is to get back to bed and sleep this off.’

  She nodded. No suggestion had ever made better sense. She drank a second glass of water, enjoying its cool, clean taste and the way it soothed her raw throat.

  He opened his arms, offering a hug she couldn’t resist. As she leaned into him, she looked up and whispered, ‘Sorry.’

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She was glad he hadn’t gone for her rank mouth. She wished she’d had time to brush her teeth or at least swill some mouthwash around. The thought of Listerine made her gag and she stepped away from him.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he said.

  ‘It will be when I’ve sobered up and regained some composure. If that’s possible. I am so sorry.’

  His smile was like a benediction and she relaxed. She’d been given another chance.
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  She took his hands in hers, as if they were about to exchange vows at an altar. ‘You know you said you wouldn’t, unless I wanted you to?’

  He nodded, solemn.

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ she asked.

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘What do you mean, ready?’

  ‘I mean, sorry to be tactless, won’t it feel a bit like cheating on your wife?’

  He heaved a sigh, as if he’d just realised what she meant.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever be ready to replace my wife,’ he said sadly, ‘but then I didn’t think I’d ever meet someone as fabulous as Charlotte Gillespie.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, drawing the word out to give her time to think. ‘Let’s talk about that before we take this relationship to the next level.’

  ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘Em, there are a few things you don’t know about me.’

  ‘Well, of course, that’s what makes you fascinating. Want to tell me?’ He poured her another glass of water and sat down on the sofa.

  She tightened the belt of the robe and sat beside him, curling her bare feet underneath her so she could turn and face him. It was time to be honest.

  His phone jangled, breaking the confessional atmosphere. Lucie’s aching head throbbed at the sound and she covered her ears.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this,’ he said, rising. He moved away from her to stand staring out at the city while he listened to the voice at the other end. A woman’s, judging by the pitch. Lucie listened but couldn’t make out individual words. She thought the woman sounded angry. Was this the ‘dead’ wife? Surely not. Rick was too nice, too caring, too genuine. Too bereaved.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said quietly, his tone appeasing. ‘I apologise. Start without me, please. I’ll be right there.’

  He flipped his phone shut and put it in his pocket. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Lucie asked, wishing she didn’t feel, or sound, so suspicious.