by Robyn Sisman
Betsy’s mother patted her hair. “Yes,” she went on, “this is such a busy time for me, with my trip coming up—and the wedding preparations, of course.” She paused expectantly.
“Oh?” Suze made one last attempt at civility. “Is someone getting married?”
Mrs. Rennslayer spun round, opening her eyes wide. “Surely Lloyd has told you?”
“No.” Suddenly Suze felt small and foolish. “Told me what?”
“Why, that he and Betsy are getting married.”
“Married?” Suze’s hand slid from the doorknob. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Mrs. Rennslayer gave a rich laugh, though her eyes were steely.
“He never mentioned it to me.”
“It’s hardly a business matter.” Mrs. Rennslayer extracted a pair of white gloves from her handbag. She fastened the clasp with a snap. “They’ve been engaged for almost two weeks.” Her voice was triumphant.
“You mean they got engaged in London?”
“Isn’t it romantic?” Mrs. Rennslayer loomed beside her, waiting for the door to be opened. “Thank you for your hospitality.” She offered her fingertips for Suze to shake. “I don’t imagine we’ll be meeting again.” She sailed out to the elevator without a backward glance.
Suze shut the door and leaned against it in a daze. Thank goodness that was over, she told herself. Now she could get on with some work. But oddly enough, when her entryphone buzzed some ten minutes later she found that she had lit a cigarette instead and was staring blankly out of the window.
“Delivery for you, Ms. Wilding.” It was Raymond’s chirpy voice.
Suze remembered all the things she had ordered by phone. Americans were so efficient. Perhaps one of them had already arrived. “Thanks. I’ll come down.”
As soon as he saw her, Raymond darted into his office. “It’s your lucky day,” he said, beaming as he emerged with an enormous bouquet.
Astonished, Suze accepted an armful of crackly cellophane. Her first thought was that Lloyd might have sent her flowers as a thank-you. That would be one in the eye for Mrs. Know-it-all Rennslayer. There and then she ripped off the envelope and tore it open. Written on the card inside, in the childish hand of an anonymous florist’s assistant, were the words, “From Nick Bianco.”
Suze crushed the card in her hand and strode back toward the elevator, letting the flowers swing head-down at her side like an old tennis racket. She didn’t want them. The minute she got upstairs she would squash them straight into the garbage can.
“I love your hair,” Raymond called after her.
Something in his voice—his directness, his simple eagerness to please—shamed Suze. How spoiled and selfish she must seem. Her footsteps slowed. She turned. There was Raymond, ears akimbo, smiling his innocent, optimist’s smile. Suze walked back to him. “Raymond, do you have a girlfriend?”
His smile broadened. “I have a wife, Rosita. We got married three months ago.”
“Jesus, Raymond, you look about twelve. Listen . . . I don’t really need these.” She held out the flowers. “Why don’t you give them to Rosita? Tell her you love her.”
“She knows that already.”
“Women can never be told often enough. Go on. Take them.”
Suze watched a procession of emotions cross Raymond’s guileless face. In the end professionalism won: the tenant was always right, however unhinged. “Thanks. They’re beautiful.” He took the bouquet reverently. “Have a nice day now.”
Riding up in the elevator, Suze hunched herself into a corner, her empty arms folded tight. Her reflection glared back at her from the dusky mirror, scruffy and mulish. I’m thirty-two years old, she thought, and I know nothing—nothing!—about people. Why hadn’t Lloyd told her he was getting married? Hadn’t she earned the right to his trust? Of course, it was no business of hers who he married, but he had put her in a false position. She had been made to look ridiculous and it was his fault. No wonder she was annoyed.
Back in the apartment, she cleared the tea things and dumped them into soapy water, grimacing at Mrs. Rennslayer’s cup with its red lipstick rim. Why would Lloyd want to saddle himself with such a ghastly mother-in-law? For that matter, why would he want to marry an ice-maiden like Betsy? Then she remembered the photographs: men were always suckers for a pretty face. “Fragile,” Jay had said. And Betsy had been to a proper university, not just art college. She understood about microwaves and how to keep houseplants alive. No doubt a tidy housewife type would suit Lloyd, with his tidy mind.
Suze dried her hands on the back of her shorts and thumped open the swinging doors to the living room. Well, thank God I’m not a little domestic wonder, she reflected, pacing about the apartment. She must have felt quite strongly about it, for she repeated the thought to herself several times. Eventually her restless circling brought her back to the low table where the telephone was. For a while she stood staring at it, shuffling her thoughts, then picked up the receiver and dialed. When a voice answered, she hesitated only for a moment.
“Hi, Nick,” she said brightly. “It’s Suze.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“Mrs. York? This is Lloyd Rockwell from Customer Services at Passion Airlines, calling to check that you’re happy with your arrangements to fly to London next month.”
Lloyd rubbed a hand wearily over his stubble, as he repeated the same old words. It was two o’clock in the morning. His face was stiff with insincere smiling. Over the past couple of hours he must have made fifty calls.
Mrs. York said she didn’t know anything about their travel arrangements; she left that kind of thing to her husband. Next was Mr. Young; he wasn’t home. Mrs. Yussef told him she had a sick baby and hung up on him. Ms. Zabar told him to mind his own business. But with Mrs. Zimmerman he struck gold. “We’re not flying with Passion now.” She sounded embarrassed. “We switched our ticket.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Lloyd reached for his pencil. “May I ask why? We always like to know if customers are unhappy with any aspect of our service.”
“Oh, no,” she told him kindly. “We’ve always traveled with Passion before. Our son’s married an English girl. We like to visit with them every summer. The only reason we’re going with Stateside this year is that it’s cheaper.”
“I see. I’m just surprised because we like to keep our prices as low as we can. You must be quite a bargain-hunter.”
“Not really. Someone called up—a nice young man like you. He said that if we switched to Stateside we’d save fifty dollars each. That’s a lot of money to us.”
“Of course it is! I understand. How do you suppose he knew you were planning to fly to London?”
“Well . . . Aren’t these things all on computers nowadays?”
“That must be it. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Zimmerman. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m going to send you a one-hundred-dollar voucher against any future Passion flight to London. Maybe we can persuade you to switch back to us.”
“Why, thank you!”
“Just one more thing. Can you remember when this other gentleman called you?”
“I may be seventy-two, but I’ve still got my marbles. It was the week before last, right after I got back from my pottery class. I go every Monday.”
“Mrs. Zimmerman, I’m impressed. Thank you. Have a wonderful trip.”
Lloyd replaced the receiver and made a note next to Mrs. Zimmerman’s name on the list in front of him. Then he slumped back on Suze’s sofa, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Out of the people he had called so far, chosen at random from his list, he had reached thirty-five. Eight of them had told him, in one way or another, to bug off; of the remaining twenty-seven, twenty had been directly offered a cheaper flight by Stateside.
Twenty people; that was two thousand dollars’ worth of vouchers he had promised. If he was wrong—if Passion didn’t honor the deal—he would have to find the money himself. Plus a huge telephone bill he would owe Suze. It was a price wo
rth paying to redeem his reputation.
Beside him was a large pad of lined paper on which he had written several questions. He poured himself yet another cup of coffee from the pot on the low table in front of him, and looked again at the computer-generated list, now covered with his notes. The answer was there somewhere; it had to be.
The list was printed on continuous paper, listing alphabetically all those who held current reservations for Passion’s economy-class transatlantic flights. Schneider Fox had online access to Passion’s bookings so that each list was up-to-date at the time it was printed; this one in front of him had been secretly printed out yesterday by Suze and couriered to him. Each entry showed the name, address and telephone number of the person making the booking, the dates of the booking and of the flight, and various codes indicating the number of people traveling, the fare paid and any special promotions that might be applicable. These were not very complicated: Passion had a policy of trying to offer one standard fare for each class, part of the no-frills philosophy that underpinned everything the airline did.
Lloyd began systematically to check the entries for the seven people who had not been approached by Stateside against those who had, comparing details. A sense of purpose sharpened his brain, clearing the fog. He felt liberated to be doing something—anything—at last. It was a laborious process, but by the time he reached the last one he knew he was on to something. His hopes rose another notch, and spontaneously another idea popped into his head, a long shot, but worth a try. He reached for the phone and called one more number, this time without referring to the list. A child’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Billions of blistering barnacles, is that Billy?”
“Uncle Lloyd!” The welcome in the child’s voice made Lloyd grin with pleasure. They chatted for a minute or two, before the boy’s mother came on the line.
“Lloyd, is that you? I thought you were still in London.”
“I am.”
“For goodness’ sakes, what time is it over there?”
“I’ve been working late. Nancy, I’m sorry to bother you about this, but has anyone called recently offering you a cheap flight to England?”
“Sure. A guy from Stateside called about two weeks back. He seemed to think I’d already booked a flight with Passion, so I played along. I sent you a note about it, just like you asked. I guess no one in the New York office thought to pass it on.”
“I guess not.”
“Is everything OK?”
“You did just what I wanted.”
“I’m glad to help if I can. Tell me quickly, before I burn dinner—how are you enjoying it over there?”
What could he say? “It’s great.”
“And how is Betsy?”
“She’s great, too. Of course, she’s asleep right now.”
His sister laughed. “Same old Lloyd. Chatty as a clam. Are you ever going to come visit us? Billy will be going to college before you know it. How about Thanksgiving? Betsy would be welcome too, of course.”
“Maybe,” Lloyd parried automatically. He heard a faint sigh and realized how unenthusiastic he must sound—how cautious and noncommittal. This was his family, after all. “I’ll try,” he said.
“Really?” Her eagerness shamed him.
“I’d like to. Uh . . . who else is coming?”
“If you mean have I invited Dad, yes, I have. Now, don’t go silent on me, Lloyd. I know he messed things up for you, but it was such a long time ago. He gets lonely. He’d like to see you.”
Lloyd plucked at the phone wire. “I’ll let you know,” he said curtly and cut the line.
At once, he picked up his pad of paper and returned to his problem. It was fiendishly difficult: he had to prove that he was not guilty, which when you thought about it was a lot harder than proving that someone was guilty. What he had just discovered from his sister was not conclusive proof that he was innocent, but it was . . . Lloyd’s mind drifted off. He found himself counting the months to Thanksgiving. Only five—not enough. He pressed his hands to his temples, trying to force his brain to concentrate. Obstinately, it darted down murky by-ways of memory, flushing out long-buried emotions. Lloyd got up and went over to stand at the window. Outside, dawn was breaking over London. The sky was pearly with promise.
On such a morning, eighteen years ago, he had sneaked out of his grandparents’ house and hitched a ride to the State penitentiary. Visiting hours weren’t until after lunch, they said, so he had sat down with his back to the high wall, watching delivery trucks come and go and listening to the sounds of a prison waking up—the shouts and bangs, the tramp of feet and bursts of casual masculine laughter, punctuated by sudden bells. He knew that there had been a mistake and that it was up to him to rectify it. He was the only son. All his life he had waited for an opportunity to prove himself worthy of his father’s attention. Now here it was.
When the sun was high, other visitors started to show up, lawyers in tight suits glancing impatiently at their watches, mothers yelling at their children to behave. For them this was routine. When the gates clanked open, Lloyd followed them inside. The visitors’ room was just as he had imagined it: large and gray, with double desks facing each other, divided by glass. “I’m here, Dad. Just tell me what to do”: Lloyd had prepared his confident opening words. But as soon as he saw his father’s face they had shriveled to a dry nothing-ness. His father looked ashamed. His hesitant half-smile was like a monstrous disfigurement. He was guilty! For Lloyd the shock was intensely physical. He had risen from his chair, recoiling in fear and revulsion. Then he had fled. Behind him he had heard the crack of his plastic chair tumbling to the floor.
Lloyd turned from the window, banishing the memory. For years he had told anyone who asked that his father was dead—even Betsy. He was used to the lie. Nancy didn’t understand. It wasn’t hatred that he felt for his father, or shame or disapproval: it was guilt. Lloyd wasn’t sure there was a way out of this, unless it would be to offer up his own experience of disgrace and shame and cowardice. But not at Thanksgiving. Not with Betsy.
It was time to go to bed. Lloyd yawned and stumbled across the room to straighten his papers. He was weary, but he had made progress tonight. He had two leads to follow, faint leads but they might take him somewhere. So what was nagging at him? There had been something peculiar about his conversation with Nancy. Then he remembered: he hadn’t told her he was getting married.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Do we need to have such a mess everywhere? We’ve got to be out of this apartment by Saturday. How am I ever going to clean up?”
It was six o’clock the following evening. Lloyd had been working all day again, and the living room was littered with coffee cups, bottles of mineral water, printouts and sketches and notepads covering every surface and much of the floor. He sat on a little island of carpet, surrounded by paper. He was feeling pretty spaced out, but he could not allow himself to be distracted. “I’m sorry, Betsy, but I must finish this. It’s important.” He picked up one of Suze’s faxes. There had been four today alone, full of good ideas, wild suggestions and a forest of question marks. He wondered how she was getting on.
“More important than me?” Betsy posed coquettishly in the doorway.
“Yes,” he answered brutally. “At this exact moment, more important than you. I’m trying to figure something out. It could be good for both of us.” Lloyd didn’t want to say any more than that. There was no point in giving her false hopes.
Betsy picked up one of his papers at random, gave it an exasperated glance and let it drift back to the floor. “Let it go, Lloyd. You lost your job. Period. Passion is someone else’s problem now.” She came over to him. Lloyd could smell perfume. Her voice softened as she touched his hair and asked, “Why can’t you think about me for once?”
Lloyd sat back on his heels and studied her. “What exactly is it you want me to do?” he asked.
“Come shopping with me tomorrow.”
“Shopping
!”
“I thought we could buy my ring. A girl doesn’t feel truly engaged until the ring’s on her finger. I know Mother’s going to want to see it.”
Lloyd’s temper rose. Did Betsy really think that he looked like a man ready to go shopping for some ridiculous ring that would probably cost a month’s salary that he didn’t even have? Before his thoughts could explode into words the telephone rang.
“That’ll be the theater agency,” she said, with maddening certainty, “confirming our tickets for Les Miserables.”
But it wasn’t. Betsy’s expression changed as she held the receiver to her ear. Then she held out the phone to Lloyd in much the same disdainful way that she had dangled the black garter belt. “It’s your girlfriend. Again.”
Lloyd took it with a sense of relief. “You mean Suze?”
Betsy stalked from the room. “No doubt you’ll be busy chitter-chattering together for the next several hours.” She slammed the door.
Lloyd blew out a gust of breath and flopped into a chair. He put the receiver to his ear. “Hey, I was just thinking about you.” He grinned. “I’ve made some interesting progress on those—”
“I’m ringing you about the material you said you’d have ready,” she interrupted him coldly.
“What?” Lloyd was puzzled. “Suze, is that you?”
“I want to remind you that it’s vital I receive it by Friday.”
Lloyd frowned. She was being very snippy. What had he done? “Jesus, what’s with you? You know I’m working on that stuff as hard as I can. We both are.”
“So you say. I don’t think you’ve grasped the importance of this presentation. Both Mr. Schneider and Mr. Fox will be there.”
How snooty she sounded, enunciating each word as if he were a cretin. Lloyd’s jaw tightened. “Of course I realize—”
“Is that or is that not Veritas Studios?” she asked icily.
“Quit fooling around. You know perfectly well—” Then Lloyd understood. She was speaking in code. Veritas Studios—that was a reference to Jay. Of course! He leaned forward eagerly. “I get it. Someone’s come into your office and you don’t want them to know what you’re saying. Is that right?”
