by Wendy Leigh
“He’ll tell you what you want to know, he promised. Even Miranda doesn’t know the whole truth. But he says that if you come and see him, now that he doesn’t have a single thing to lose anymore, he’ll tell you anyway. I know he will. And then you’ll understand Miranda, and forgive her,” Lindy says.
I take what she is saying on board, but then remind myself that although I am on the verge of forgiving Miranda anyway, there is still Warren Courtney to contend with.
And the truth is that even if Miranda is now moving in with him (and how can I really blame her after I returned all her clothes and her engagement rings to her without even giving her a chance to explain?), the journalist in me still wants to have the answers to all those questions, and to cross every t and dot every i in this strange and convoluted saga.
“Ever since I told my grandfather you had taken Miranda to Geneva, he insinuated that there was much more to the story. But when I asked, he point-blank refused to tell me, and he still won’t. But he says that he’ll tell you everything, and a lot more, too, because he hasn’t got anything to lose anymore. Two months to live at the most . . .” Lindy says, and her eyes fill with tears.
The limo halts outside the Astoria address and Lindy climbs out.
“I’ll come get you once I’ve told him you’re here and that everything’s okay,” she says, then runs into a nondescript brick building across the street, leaving me to ponder my upcoming encounter with the man I feel like killing on sight. But no matter how much I hate him, I know that I have no choice but to see him and listen to the truth he appears to want so badly to tell me.
Once Lindy is back, I tell my driver to take her wherever she wants to go, not caring that I’m in real danger of her taking me at my word and commandeering him to transport her to Honolulu and back.
I just want to guarantee that she is as far away as possible from what is about to unfold, and, in particular, from the moment when I unleash verbal hell on that man for what he did to Miranda. I don’t want Lindy to witness that, not just because she, for reasons I can’t fathom, appears to love him unreservedly, but also because I’m certain that despite her street smarts and willingness to lie when it suits her, on a deeper level Lindy remains innocent, and doesn’t have a hint of the terrible wrong he did Miranda. I would stake my life that Miranda has never told her the truth about what he did to her, and I don’t want to be responsible for her discovering it.
The door to his apartment is open, but I still bang the gold door knocker in the shape of an owl three times, just to announce my presence.
A thin voice tells me to enter, and I plunge into a dark and dingy foyer, decorated with ornate mirrors, each covered with a muslin veil, plus a few large red vases containing plastic silver carnations. And on the ceiling, a series of dark-green fishing nets, each with a silver globe light trapped in it that casts a low-level glow over the place.
A small bedroom to the right of me, filled to the brim with bright and pretty clothes, a computer, and a collection of books—clearly Lindy’s. I don’t pause long enough to see any more, but instead carry on to the double doors at the end of the corridor, each with a gold star emblazoned on it.
I rap on the door, again three times, and the same voice as before, only sounding stronger as we are now so eerily close to each other, invites me in.
He’s in bed—a bed covered in a red patchwork quilt, astrology books, astrological charts—and next to it, on a big table, is a cluster of crystal balls, spectacles, a bottle of Perrier, and a glass.
I’m now face-to-face with the monstrous man I only ever saw once in my life, the man who called himself William Masters, the man with the narrow, glacial eyes.
Now, however, far from being a shadow of his former self, that same man has a puffy, fat face and thick, fleshy shoulders, presumably bloated from all the steroids he’s been taking for his illness.
He holds out a plump hand, each finger, even the thumb, sporting a different gold ring with an astrological motif.
I recoil at making contact with the hand of the man who did Miranda so much wrong all those years ago, but I’m here for a purpose, and insulting this putrid piece of garbage will only hinder it.
So I brace myself and take his hand after all, but make sure to crush it in mine, only stopping short of really hurting him. He stares at me out of his big, bulging eyes, the blue identical to Miranda’s and Lindy’s, and in them I can see his bewilderment.
Then it clears, and he nods.
“Of course, I should have expected that from the ever-chivalrous Mr. Hartwell. Besides, I deserve it,” he says, then tries to free his hand from mine with great effort, until I finally release it; the touch of his flesh makes me want to vomit.
I sit on the side of the bed, as far from him as I can, but not far enough to escape the aroma of the Parma Violet pastilles he appears to be sucking. Violets. Georgiana. I almost forgot. Then again, I’m not here for that, I’m not here to talk about her.
A clock in the corner strikes.
“Perfect, Saturn has just hit our mutual north node, Mr. Hartwell. Which is what brings you here to me today. A once-in-twenty-nine-year transit of the planets that—since the beginning of time—was destined to occur in this minute, and in this place, and about which I’ve been cognizant for years, just as I have known every single aspect, every single degree of all the planets in your natal chart, and how this transit is destined to impact you. Both of us, in fact.”
Most of what he is saying is gobbledygook to me, but one thing I do remember from my brief spell of writing the astrological predictions for my first newspaper is that the north node governs karma and destiny. And that when Saturn hits the north node, lessons must be learned, scores settled, and ultimately, a price paid for past wrongdoings.
High noon, then, for the man who almost destroyed Miranda.
“We share the identical north node, Mr. Hartwell, although obviously we were not born in the same year. But that doesn’t preclude us from also sharing a similar destiny in a certain context,” he says, and I feel nauseous at the thought that he might be talking about Miranda.
“You see, Mr. Hartwell, apart from having the same north node in common—a fairly general occurrence—you and I also have a twin Mars, meaning that we possess dramatic similarities as men . . . Do you grasp my meaning?” he says, voice full of urgency.
I don’t think I could answer his question even if I wanted to, because given everything Murray has told me about William Masters. . . I can’t suppress the unpleasant thought that perhaps this excuse for a human being is inferring that we are similar in that we have our dominance in common.
He shakes his head.
“But we are not similar in our sexuality, Mr. Hartwell, not at all. In fact, mine is diametrically opposed to yours.”
Before I can process exactly what he means by that—and I’m not sure I want to—he goes on.
“Yes, Mr. Hartwell, you and I are, indeed, very similar men.”
“I very much doubt that,” I snap, before I can prevent myself.
He rocks with merriment.
“Think again. You fell in love with a certain Lady Georgiana Lacely, and married her. And like you, I, too, fell under Georgiana’s spell many years before. Although for me, it remained an unrequited love, a love in which she was the queen, the goddess, and I merely her acolyte. But Georgiana isn’t our primary common ground, is she . . . ?”
I stay silent.
“Of course, when in doubt say nothing . . .” he says, with a disquieting twisted smile, then goes on. “No, I am referring to the life-altering impact both of us have had, and that you will continue to have, on Miranda.”
I stand up, unable to listen to any more.
“I suggest you curb that Italian temper of yours, Mr. Hartwell, otherwise you will fail to get anything whatsoever from me,” he says, and I sit down again, still sha
king with fury.
Chapter Seventeen
Robert, the Present
“Let me begin then, Mr. Hartwell. Naturally, the moment Miranda was born and first saw the light of day, I drew up her astrological chart and committed it to memory. From that time on, I was always cognizant of every planet in her natal chart, its placement and all its aspects, as if her chart were my own,” the twisted and depraved man in front of me says.
“Miranda’s chart first entered the picture—and dramatically—when she was almost seventeen years old. She first met Warren Courtney on the day my son, Luke, married his second wife. I wasn’t at the wedding, as at the time, I was away teaching astrology in Switzerland. Besides, Luke and I were long estranged. But Miranda told me afterward that she had fallen head over heels in love, at first sight, with her father’s best friend, Warren Courtney.
“Before she took the plunge and embarked on a physical relationship with him, she at least had the good sense to ask me to draw up his astrological chart. And I did. One look at it, and then at his composite chart with Miranda, revealed everything to me. Warren Courtney’s sadism, his lack of respect for women (and, as you know better than most people, sadism and lack of respect for women don’t automatically go hand in hand; often, it’s quite the reverse, as the sadist tends to respect a woman who shares, or at least caters to, his innermost secret desires), and I came to the immediate conclusion that I’d rather die before I allowed Miranda to devote her life to Warren Courtney . . .
“I tried everything I knew to warn her about him, but she refused to listen to me. Instead, she threw herself into an affair with him with abandon and I could do nothing, or so I thought. Then lightning struck, and the one person who could, perhaps, help me save Miranda from Warren Courtney sprang to mind—my favorite of all my clients. But then I remembered that she was in New York, on vacation. So I took the next transatlantic flight, and so it was that I was able to rescue Miranda from Warren Courtney. With Georgiana’s help, of course . . .”
“What the fuck?!”
“I was so shaken, you see, by the possibility of Miranda falling into Courtney’s clutches on a permanent basis, that when I convinced my client, Lady Georgiana Lacely, to have a face-to-face reading with me while I was in Manhattan, I confided my misgivings to her.
“ ‘Oh, so the perfect Miranda isn’t pure anymore! Quelle surprise! ’ she crowed, then helped herself to another of the violet pastilles she always loved to have during our readings.
“ ‘Malice doesn’t become you, Georgiana,’ I said, not in the least bit surprised by her burst of it as I knew full well from her natal chart that malice was her middle name.
“ ‘So the perfect Miranda has fallen into the clutches of a predatory playboy?’ she said, ignoring my comment.
“ ‘Yes, and my fear is that this two-bit playboy will marry her before I can even turn around, and she’ll be stuck with him for the rest of her life when she could do far, far better,’ I said, then realized that I’d made a fatal error. As I desperately needed Georgiana to employ her considerable feminine wiles to help me get Miranda away from Warren Courtney, the last thing I should have been doing was fanning the flames of her jealousy.
“ ‘Of course! I almost forgot, the perfect Miranda is destined to marry a prince, or a king, or even a god, she’s such a paragon of virtue,’ Georgiana said.
“I gave a big, exaggerated sigh.
“ ‘I’m an old fool, as far as she’s concerned, I know, but this Warren really is bad news. I have to do something, and, well, Georgiana, with your genius . . .’
“I didn’t even have to finish my sentence before she fell for it hook, line, and sinker and then swung into action.
“Now as to what action she took, Mr. Hartwell, I am loath to tell you. Suffice it to say that after one telephone call from Georgiana, Warren Courtney ended his relationship with Miranda overnight—and in the cruelest way possible . . . leaving her shell-shocked, shattered, and unable to trust her emotions with another man.”
A long silence during which I digest the information—some of which I already knew, but not the swiftness and the cruelty with which Warren Courtney rejected Miranda.
“So what you are saying is that, apart from the fact that her father abandoned her, because Warren Courtney cut off his relationship with Miranda so abruptly and with so much speed—the first adult relationship she ever had with a man—she came to believe that every man she loved would leave her in the end?” I said finally.
“Most impressed, Mr. Hartwell, that you grasped my point right away. So now you understand the first reason for Miranda’s insecurities, and how it drove her to hide the truth from you that Georgiana was still alive.”
I am, at last, growing to understand Miranda. But I still haven’t begun to fathom everything else about this bizarre sequence of events. And the journalist in me can’t quite manage to let it go.
“Hold it, are you really saying that Warren Courtney ended his relationship with Miranda and broke her heart after just one telephone call from Georgiana? How did Georgiana know him? What did she say to him? And why did he listen to her?” I say.
“But Georgiana didn’t make the crucial call,” he said.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“Very well. As they say in journalism, here’s the scoop: the call that Georgiana made was not to Courtney but to Tamara. Just one call, and twenty-four hours later, it was done.”
I give a start at the mention of her name.
“Yes, the formidable, resourceful, well-connected Tamara—Georgiana’s sidekick and her friend from Les Orchidées. One call from Georgiana to Tamara, and another call from Tamara to a certain gentleman who paid a visit to Warren Courtney and took drastic measures to ensure that Courtney never saw Miranda again. A gentleman named Murray Hatch.”
Before I can mask my shock, he steams on.
“Yes, the aforementioned Mr. Hatch knew everything there was to know about taking drastic measures. He did what had to be done, and within a few hours, Warren Courtney had ended his relationship with my granddaughter. Naturally, Murray Hatch demanded ahead of time that I pay a price for his intervention in Miranda’s nascent love affair, and, of course, I agreed to pay it,” he says.
“And what was it?”
He gives a short, hard laugh.
“One of the biggest surprises of my life. Apart from the fact that he took a few years before he decided to extract it from me, the price he demanded was extremely paltry. All I had to do was to present myself at a certain evening hour at an address near the South Street Seaport. An address that housed an establishment known as Le Château. I was to enter the lower level and position myself in front of a particular door with a grille in it, looking as grim and forbidding as possible, and remain there for five minutes,” he says, then adds, “And that was that.”
“And the name William Masters?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Means nothing whatsoever to me,” he said.
“And owning Georgiana?”
A look of shock mingled with disdain crosses his face.
“What an insane idea!” he says.
So Masters never owned “Pamela” (or rather, Georgiana), simply because he had never existed in the first place and was just a figment of Murray’s twisted imagination.
Which means that Miranda’s grandfather didn’t conspire with Murray and Georgiana to trap me and steal my fortune. In short, he was innocent—a disquieting word to apply to a man who was guilty of one of the worst crimes conceivable .
Repulsed at the thought, I get up to leave, but he motions me to sit down again.
Almost as if he is reading my mind, he goes on.
“I shall not attempt to deny or diminish my crime, Mr. Hartwell. I have every expectation that at any moment you will castigate me unmercifully, and I know
that I shall deserve everything you wish to throw at me and more,” he says.
“But I want you to know that not a day goes by that I don’t berate myself for what I did to Miranda, and not a moment passes in which I don’t punish myself for it. Or do what I can to compensate her for the wrong I did her. And I swear this to you: I do not intend to die before prostrating myself before my granddaughter, confronting all my turpitude, and begging her forgiveness. But for now—”
“For now, you want to gloss over the evil you did her,” I snap.
“An impossibility. Nothing can ever absolve me from my sin,” he says, and I see a veil of tears descend over his eyes.
Then he rubs them dry, takes a deep breath, and goes on.
“Very well, Mr. Hartwell. An explanation, but not—I stress—not an excuse.
“Imagine a night years ago, a drug-fueled night on which the then love of my life had informed me that she never wanted to see me again. A night on which I added drink after drink to the drugs swirling around in my system. And when I arrived home in the early hours of the morning, I did the unspeakable.
“You could say that the drink made me do it, the drugs, or simply the devil, but whatever the case, afterward, I vowed to spend the rest of my life atoning to Miranda for what I did to her, and through the years, I did just that, to the best of my abilities—aided, of course, by the stars,” he says.
“The stars, the stars, the fucking stars!” I shout, and start shaking him in fury.
With an immense act of will, he pulls away from me, his eyes blazing.
“Call me what you want, but never, ever insult the stars! You owe the stars everything!”
The man is deranged, no doubt about it.
After a few moments, he calms down.
“I apologize. So let me explain. Without the stars, Mr. Hartwell, I can assure you that you would never have met Miranda in the first place,” he declares, a triumphant note in his voice.
Chapter Eighteen
Robert, the Present
