Unraveled Together

by Wendy Leigh

  “Go on,” I say, simultaneously weary and wary.

  He visibly relaxes, puts a pill under his tongue, waits for it to dissolve, then continues.

  “Here is the truth: Not long ago, soon after she had been indirectly instrumental in rescuing Miranda from the clutches of Warren Courtney, my long-term client Lady Georgiana Laceley consulted me about a certain man in whom she had suddenly and unaccountably developed a burning interest. You, Mr. Hartwell.”

  Shocked to the core, I give a sharp intake of breath.

  He goes on, clearly enthralled with the sound of his own voice and the drama of his revelations.

  “And so it was that I drew up your chart and interpreted it for Georgiana, in order to give her a glimpse of the destiny that the stars decreed awaited her with you when you finally met,” he says.

  “However, when I examined your chart closely, the truth sprang out at me like a hand grabbing my throat: your chart and everything in it demonstrated without a shadow of a doubt that you are the perfect lover, the perfect husband, the man whom fate had selected to love, marry, and make blissfully and everlastingly happy my cherished granddaughter Miranda.”

  No matter how much I despise the man, no matter how skeptical I am regarding astrology, nothing can quell the rush of joy I feel at his words.

  “All I had to do was to take one look at your chart to realize that you were born to love her, and vice versa. I did not, of course, impart that information to Georgiana at the time, because she had always been so jealous of my granddaughter.

  “Unfortunately, a few months later, for reasons I now can’t remember, she provoked my ire, my resolve faltered, and, much against my better judgment and interests, I made the mistake of proclaiming, ‘If your Mr. Hartwell ever chances to meet my granddaughter Miranda, he’ll be swept off his feet, and from that time on, it will be as if you had never existed.’

  “Georgiana’s face went bright red, and she started screaming in a way I’d never heard her scream before: ‘In that case, your precious, precious Miranda will never get near Robert Hartwell. Not if I’ve got anything to do with it!’ she said.

  “Her anger was so terrifying to behold that I was at a loss for words, and didn’t stop her when she grabbed Miranda’s picture from my wallet, where she knew I always kept it. ‘I intend to memorize her sacred fucking face in case she ever has the temerity to show it near Robert Hartwell!’ she raged.

  “Then she studied the picture for what seemed to me an eternity, until I managed to wrest it away from her and lock it away in my safe so she couldn’t tear it up,” he says, then stops for a second, fumbles in his bedside drawer, and produces a picture of Miranda aged around fifteen: fresh, innocent, already beautiful.

  I feel uncomfortable admiring Miranda’s photograph in his presence, so I’m almost relieved when he goes on: “But no matter how jealous of Miranda Georgiana was, the truth was inescapable, for the stars had shown me the way; you and Miranda were meant for each other. However, as it transpired, over the next few years, I was forced to sit and watch, helplessly, while Georgiana exercised her wiles on you.

  “The waiting, of course, was alleviated by my awareness, gleaned from the stars, that her plans would ultimately come to naught. But until then, I had no alternative but to wait. And wait I did. Through Georgiana’s stint at Le Château, first as Suzy (and how she loved regaling me with every salacious detail of that time in her life, just to see me squirm and suffer), then as Pamela, then as Lady Georgiana Lacely once more. Through her engagement to you and your subsequent marriage and the aftermath, I sat by the riverbank and waited.”

  “But what in the hell were you waiting for?” I can’t help asking.

  “For the scales to fall from your eyes regarding Georgiana, and then for the exact date on which the planet Uranus hit Miranda’s Venus, the date on which I could set everything in motion for her, the date on which it would all begin. After that, it would be just a matter of time before she met you, the man she was born to love, and who was born to love her,” he says.

  “The exact date?”

  “September thirteenth, 2014. The time: six ten. The date and the time on which Miranda inadvertently e-mailed her manuscript of Unraveled to her little sister, Lindy, instead of to her publisher, Linda. Two days later, little Lindy called and confided in me that she had the manuscript, and asked my advice regarding what she should do next. I suppose I should have instructed her to send it straight back to Miranda. But I had a suspicion that Unraveled could be the long-awaited instrument of my Miranda’s fate. So I read it, and knowing your chart, your deepest, most secret desires . . .”

  The blood rises to the surface of my face, but even though I want to blot out his words, and shut him up forever, I’m forced to restrain myself—because I need to learn the rest of his story.

  “ . . . the rest was simple. On my instruction, Lindy donned the bunny-girl costume and delivered the manuscript to Hartwell Castle. Naturally, as I calculated she would, the moment Miranda learned that you had the manuscript, she was desperate to get it back from you.”

  “So you sat back and watched while Miranda trapped me?”

  “Trapped you? Miranda never trapped you. That was Georgiana’s aim, but never Miranda’s. All Miranda wanted to do was regain possession of her manuscript. And then she met you, whereupon, of course, destiny took a hand.”

  “While you sat back and gloried in what was happening,” I say, livid.

  “No, Mr. Hartwell, I wasn’t glorying in it. I was—in my small way—helping your romance along. As you may or may not know, I coached Miranda for that very first phone call to you, outlined the words she should say to you, all designed to intrigue and excite you. Then I purchased the navy Chanel suit she wore to her first meeting with you. Chanel, because I knew that despite the fact of how your relationship with Georgiana ended, in the early days, you dressed her in Chanel, and nothing but Chanel. So I thought that Miranda wearing it might also beguile you. And finally, I drove her to Hartwell Castle, to her first meeting with you. After that, I bowed out completely and let destiny take over,” he says.

  “Until now, that is . . .” I say bitterly.

  “Yes, Mr. Hartwell, until now. And only because I can’t take leave of this life and rest in peace without being assured that my beloved Miranda is back in the arms of the man whom she was born to love, and who undoubtedly loves her more than he will ever admit to me, simply because the concept of loving and being loved has always terrified him.”

  I’ve had enough.

  I push back my chair, pull myself up to my full height, and without another word storm out of the apartment.

  I am in the limo again and headed back toward Manhattan when the inevitable call comes, and I curse Lindy for having given him my number.

  I hesitate for a few seconds, then answer it and hear his weak, piping voice once more.

  “Mr. Hartwell, if you still retain an iota of emotion for my granddaughter, and I think you do, and if you are a man of integrity and fairness, as I know you are, you will give her one more chance,” he says.

  “Please get to the point, I’m late for my next meeting,” I say.

  “As you wish, Mr. Hartwell. Here it is: Even you must agree that you now have in your possession the information that Miranda never intended to trap you, and that your initial meeting with her was due to me, and only me. And that I engineered it because I opted to play Cupid and unite my granddaughter with her soul mate, and for no other reason,” he says.

  I believe him. And it does seem that I owe him much, much more than I am comfortable with, but I am not about to show any gratitude to a man who once did to Miranda what he did.

  “One more thing, Mr. Hartwell, and this is the last,” he goes on to say, and I remain silent and let him have his final word. “Returning to my granddaughter and the way in which her father abandoned her, it seems to me that
you, yourself, might understand only too well how abandonment by a parent when a child is very young can lead to that child growing up to become an adult who is secretly riddled with the fear of being abandoned by the person they love the most,” he says, pausing to allow his words to sink in.

  Trouble is, they don’t.

  Or rather, I won’t let them.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “But Mr. Hartwell, it’s here, right in front of me, in your chart, written in sky-high letters! You are a man who, from the time that he was seven years old, has lived in constant fear that the people he loves more than anyone else in the world will abandon him,” he declares.

  I hang up my phone and order the driver to head straight to Hartwell Castle.

  Only in the dead of night, after hours of soul-searching, do I finally arrive at the truth. To give the devil his due, he was correct: my whole life has been blighted by my fear of abandonment.

  And that insight, along with my newly acquired knowledge that Miranda only hid the truth from me about Georgiana still being alive because of her own insecurities, and that she didn’t plot against me, hardens my resolve. In the morning, I do what I guessed all along that I would do: I make the most fateful telephone call of my life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Miranda, the Present

  The telephone rips me out of my sleep.

  It’s Lindy. I brace myself to learn the details of the plan our grandfather has conceived so that I will get Robert back, and thank my lucky stars that I’m barely awake and probably won’t be able to absorb any of it.

  To my surprise, though, she doesn’t mention his name at all, but instead is saying something about her birthday, about Mom suddenly sending her a ticket to Honolulu, that she’s flying out on the night before her birthday, but that she still doesn’t want to miss our birthday lunch.

  “So please can we go to Violetta today instead, Miranda?” she says, and I sit bolt upright in bed.

  Violetta, today, now? How will I ever bear it?

  “Mandy? You promised . . .” she cajoles.

  No matter how bad I’m feeling right now, no matter how deep my mortal dread of going back to Violetta once more, I refuse to let Lindy down.

  “Of course, sweetie, of course I’ll take you there today,” I say; then—much as I know I shouldn’t—I secretly cross my fingers and pray that we won’t be able to get a table.

  “I’ll make the reservation,” Lindy says, and I have no alternative but to agree.

  Less than ten minutes later, she texts me: Just booked a table for two at Violetta, 1:15. So excited. Meet you there, Lindy xx

  No escape, then.

  So I drag myself out of bed, wash my tearstained face, then run a bubble bath.

  A bubble bath. Robert always loved for me to take a bubble bath. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I want to, something, anything, always reminds me of him, and I don’t know how to handle it.

  I try to reassure myself that after all, Warren rejected me, and I handled that and eventually moved on. But then Warren was and is only half the man that Robert is. Not nearly as macho, not nearly as handsome, not nearly as desirable, not nearly as tender during the moments when tenderness comes to the fore, and, of course, not nearly as dominant when it counts.

  Besides, my emotions for Warren were like an anthill in comparison to the vast Everest of my emotions for Robert. No comparison, no way, nohow. And next to getting over Warren, I know that getting over Robert will be ten times as hard, ten times as difficult.

  And of all the days I’ve spent drowning in unhappiness because I’ve lost Robert, today will no doubt be one of the worst. Lunch at Violetta, the restaurant he owns and where we had our first date and were so happy together.

  At least he won’t be there today, as I remember his telling me that he never goes out to lunch during the week.

  “Cuts into my day,” he’d explained.

  “But you had lunch with me?” I ventured.

  “A once-in-a-lifetime break with tradition for a once-in-a-­lifetime woman,” was his flattering reply.

  In any event, I want to look my best for Lindy as, after all, this is her birthday lunch, so—after a great deal of deliberation, and some more heartache—out of all the dresses that Robert bought for me in Geneva, I fix on the Stella McCartney to wear to lunch today.

  For a few moments, I toy with wearing my engagement ring—but not on my engagement finger—in particular, the one with the emerald-green stone, the stone that always reminded me of his beautiful eyes. The eyes I’ll never look into ever again.

  Snap out of it, Miranda. Stop being so sentimental. The very least you can do is put on a happy face for Lindy on her birthday . . .

  I decide not to wear my engagement ring after all.

  Then I square my shoulders and focus on Lindy’s birthday lunch.

  Too late to order her a big cake with her name iced on it, but I still call the restaurant and ask whether they can lay on something special to celebrate my sister’s birthday.

  “If she orders dessert, we’ll definitely have a lit candle with it,” the receptionist says, and then she takes my name, and Lindy’s.

  “Oh, there is something special we could arrange for you, Miss Stone,” she says. “We happen to have a pianist playing at the restaurant during lunch today, so perhaps he could play ‘Happy Birthday’ for your sister.”

  I tell her that would be lovely, and I’m pleased that even at such short notice, I can do a little something special to celebrate Lindy’s birthday.

  To my surprise, when I arrive at Violetta a few minutes late, Lindy isn’t there either. I debate whether to wait for her in the lobby, but the thought of hanging around in the lobby of Robert’s restaurant makes my stomach lurch, so I ask the maître d’ to show me to our table.

  To my horror, it’s the very same table, in the very same alcove, where Robert and I had lunch together all those weeks ago.

  I fight back my sobs and sit down facing the wall, leaving Lindy the seat with a view of the spectacular restaurant. She’ll get more pleasure out of the scene than I will, feeling as I do right now.

  All around me, diners are chatting in low, modulated tones, primarily because the pianist is playing so passionately and so beautifully.

  “Tara’s Theme” from Gone with the Wind.

  “Lara’s Theme” from Dr. Zhivago.

  The theme from Titanic.

  The Godfather theme.

  I am almost starting to relax and enjoy the medley of film scores, as well as the glass of champagne that the waiter has brought me (“compliments of the house”), when I check my watch and realize that Lindy is now twenty-five minutes late.

  Cell phones are banned in the restaurant (typical of Robert, who has always hated them), so I can’t text to find out where she is. And I don’t want to leave the table, as I expect she’ll be here any minute.

  So I lean back in my chair, close my eyes for a moment, and luxuriate in the music.

  Just as the pianist plays the last few bars of “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” a dramatic, almost reverential hush falls over the restaurant.

  And then the pianist strikes up “Hymne à L’Amour.”

  In shock, I hide my head in my hands because I don’t want the entire restaurant to witness the tears that are about to fall from my eyes.

  As I do, swiftly, so swiftly that I don’t even have time to react, strong but gentle fingers wrap themselves around my left hand.

  In shock, I open my eyes and my green diamond engagement ring glitters back at me from my finger.

  I look up, dazzled. And there, standing in front me, only seemingly taller, more handsome, more magnificent then ever: Robert in all his glory.

  “Would you rather have lunch here, or on the plane?” is all he says.
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  And I fling my arms around his neck, oblivious to everyone in the restaurant, oblivious to the tears in my eyes, while he kisses me as I’ve never been kissed before, and the entire restaurant watches and applauds.

  Since we left the restaurant, in the limo to the airport, and on the plane, we haven’t stopped talking, and right now, I feel as if we never will. And then I remember Lindy.

  “Lindy’s birthday . . .” I say.

  “We’ll all be celebrating it together when we get there, my darling,” Robert says.

  “There?”

  “London,” he says.

  “But my passport?”

  “Lindy picked it up from your apartment, along with your engagement ring, while you were on your way here,” he says, and gives me a conspiratorial wink that for a second transforms this sophisticated, macho tycoon into a naughty schoolboy.

  “And you know what happens to naughty schoolboys . . .” I say, thinking aloud without meaning to.

  Chapter Twenty

  Miranda, the Present

  The Lady Astor Suite, Cliveden, Berkshire, England

  Robert has been banished to the hotel pool under strict instructions not to come back upstairs to the suite until I’m dressed and ready in the beautiful emerald-green dress I’ve secretly bought for my engagement party. While I’m waiting for my bubble bath to fill to the brim, I lounge on the crimson brocade couch by the vast, ornate open fireplace, watch the flames dancing, as the light streams through the picture windows framing the large terrace already set up for my engagement party. Beneath the terrace, exquisitely landscaped gardens which slope down towards the River Thames in a distance.

  As always, I love being in the country of Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Byron, but even more so because this time I’m with Robert. I no longer think of Georgiana at all. Once only when I came into the suite and overheard Robert talking to his head of security back in the States and saying, “As long as the doctors still have her drugged up . . .” did I catch myself almost feeling sorry for her.