“He only thinks he’s happy.”
Ellen shrugged. It might be easier to just write the woman a check for ten thousand dollars, but there would always be someone else wanting more. “I’ve got to go in. I’ll see you soon.”
“Of course, dear.” Ellen was sure she heard the woman murmur, “Thanks for nothing.”
That was it. She’d do it. She’d spend some time in New York City where no one knew her. She’d call that hotel right away and see when they could have an apartment for her. She’d really give it all a chance. She’d stay a month, maybe more and, if she wanted to come home, she always could. This wasn’t an irrevocable step, just a temporary way to see a bit of the world.
She walked from her train into the main rotunda of Grand Central Station. Actually it was what she thought Grand Central Station would look like, with marble walls and a mosaic of signs of the zodiac on the ceiling as she had seen in an article about the restoration of the old landmark. She stood in the center with streams of people flowing around her. A man bumped into her causing her to drop her pocketbook. He was tall, well-muscled, dressed in a three-piece suit fitted to his nicely proportioned body.
His hair was dark, with a small mustache and a closely trimmed beard. Wings of silver hair accented his handsome face. “I’m so sorry I jostled you,” he said.
“Oh, no problem.”
“Ah, but there is.” He bent over to help her pick up her purse and its scattered contents. “You look a bit lost.”
“Just a little.”
He straightened and handed her her purse. “Are you new to the city?”
“This is my first time here.”
“Well let me help you. My limo is outside and I can take you wherever you want to go.”
“I couldn’t let you do that,” she said.
“Of course you could. My name’s Paul Broderick.” He extended his hand.
“And mine’s Ellen. Ellen Harold.” As he took her hand she felt a jolt of electricity. God, she thought, he’s a sexy man. She allowed him to lead her through the great doors and, as he had said, a stretch limousine waited at the curb. He handed her in while the chauffeur placed her suitcase in the trunk.
The interior of the limo was comfortably cool and smelled of leather and Paul’s aftershave. She gave him the address of her apartment and, as they drove, he told her about himself, holding her hand throughout the journey. It was a long drive and, as they talked, he rummaged in a small cabinet and retrieved a bottle of Dom Perignon. As she sipped from a tall, slender champagne flute he stroked the back of her neck and it seemed only natural for him to take the glass from her, set it down, and touch his lips to hers.
The kiss was deep and long, their tongues gently seeking each other’s deepest pleasures. His lips still in contact with hers, he pressed a button and an opaque partition slowly closed, separating them from the driver. Now they were cocooned in a world all their own.
“Paul, this is too fast,” she whispered.
“Not if people know as quickly as we did how much we mean to each other.” He held her shoulders. “Please. It’s so right.”
“Yes,” she sighed, “it is.”
Soon they were naked, and he stretched her out on the smooth, soft leather seat. He stroked her skin, swirling his fingers over her breasts, nuzzling her neck, his naked body against hers. “You know I won’t be able to let you go,” he purred in her ear. “We’ll have to make our relationship more official.”
“I know.” Then she felt his manhood pressing against her flesh. Magically he was inside, stretching and completing her. The movements of his body gave her wonderful pleasures until he finally arched his back then collapsed.
In her bed, Ellen fell asleep.
“Oh, lord,” Lucy said, sliding her palms down the thighs of her tight black leather pants. “She has the dullest, most uncreative fantasies I’ve ever participated in. They sound just like those romance novels she’s always reading.”
“Well then,” Angela replied, rubbing the back of her neck beneath her flowing blond hair, “stay out of them.”
“I would love to, but I checked back and her dreams have always been like scenes from bad novels. I figured that once she won the lottery she would begin having fantasies worthy of a thirty-two-year-old woman. These are puerile, suitable for a fourteen-year-old.” Her fathomless black eyes flashed.
“So why don’t you just let her alone? What’s she to you anyway?”
“You know I’m always interested in lottery winners. I get some of my best recruits there. And you know her numbers? They add up to 66. That’s close enough to our number, mine and the boss’s.” She aimed her thumb downward and jabbed at her desk.
“Leave the poor woman alone, Lucy.”
“But shit, Angie, she has to get a life.”
“She will, and please don’t call me Angie.”
“Angie, Angela, Angel, what difference does it make.”
“I prefer the name I selected. Angela. It’s not quite so obvious.”
“In order not to be obvious, Lucy snapped, tapping her long, perfect nails on the desktop, “you’d have to remove the wings.”
“I wouldn’t talk, lady. What about that tail of yours?”
Suddenly identical messages, in huge letters, flashed across their matching computer screens, LADIES. CEASE!
Each woman, looking chastened, tapped in a quick, YES, SIR, although the sir each referred to resided in totally different areas of the firmament.
“Well,” Angela said, “anything we choose to do about Ellen will just have to wait until her future is a bit clearer.”
“I guess. I just wish she’d…”
“Wish all you want, but let’s get back to work.” Each woman picked up a long printed list and began pounding on her computer keyboard. “#123,492,478, hell, #123,498,293 heaven, #123,498,012 heaven, #124,493,121 hell.”
“Hold it,” Angela said. “Number 121 goes to heaven.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“We’ll just see about that.”
Chapter
2
It took almost three weeks before the arrangements were complete. Micki had agreed to come over once a week and water her sister’s plants and do whatever else needed to be done in the tiny house. She’d park Ellen’s eight-year-old Toyota in her driveway and move it occasionally to keep it going, and sort the mail and send along anything important. The doctors in the medical group would send their tapes to Ellen’s address in the city once a week and Ellen would update all the appropriate computer records. Since her new apartment was already furnished, she had to bring very little so she put just a few things into a box and shipped them to her new address. Ellen was delighted that the hotel was content to go month to month, so she hadn’t had to sign any kind of a lease. That way she could play things by ear and move back to Fairmont whenever she pleased.
On a hot, late-August morning, Micki drove her sister to the train station in Schenectady. As the train prepared to leave, the two women hugged and shed a few final tears. “Please tell the kids I love them and I’ll miss them. I’m afraid they’ll forget me.”
“Of course they won’t. You’re not going to Siberia. You’ll come back and visit or move back whenever the fancy strikes you.”
“I’ll miss you and Milt so very much.”
“I know that, he knows that, and the girls know that.” Micki playfully swatted her sister on the behind. “Now get on that train and get the hell out of here.”
“I love you, sis.”
“I love you too, babe.” Micki gave her sister a gentle shove and pushed her toward a passenger car. “Move. Now!”
Her eyes still swimming, Ellen grinned. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll call you tonight.” She dragged her suitcase through the train-car door just as the loud bell reminded passengers that the train was leaving. She slid into a seat and scootched over to the window, dragging her suitcase with her. As the train began to move, her eyes locked on her siste
r’s and the two women waved. “I’m going to love being in the city,” she told herself aloud. “I am doing the right thing.” She wiped her tearstained cheek with the back of her hand. “And if I hate it I can always come back.”
When the train was fully underway, Ellen stood and adjusted her lightweight jeans and Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Since the car wasn’t crowded, she settled her suitcase more permanently on the seat beside her and gazed out the window as New York State passed beside the tracks.
She changed trains in Albany so it was late afternoon when the train crossed a river and she was suddenly surrounded by tenements spray-painted with graffiti. The train slowed and stopped at 125th Street, then plunged underground.
“Grand Central, last and final stop,” the conductor’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Please check around you for your personal belongings.” Surrounded by bored travelers, Ellen settled her pocketbook on her shoulder, grabbed her suitcase and, as the doors opened, stepped onto a dingy platform, following the crowd into the main area of Grand Central Station. Like a tourist, which, of course, she was, she stopped in the middle of the huge main hall and looked around.
It looked exactly as she had imagined it, huge and cavernous, filled with tens of thousands of people. Since it was rush hour, hurrying commuters streamed on either side of her, hustling toward openings in the sides of the rotunda. For several minutes she just stood, staring. Most of the commuters looked hot and wrinkled in suits with jackets slung over their arms, dresses that looked limp and damp. Many of the women wore sneakers and socks and carried fancy leather attaché cases. A good percentage of the people were talking on cell phones while they walked, often skipping to one side suddenly to avoid more of the onrushing horde.
Shaking her head, and with no idea where she was going, Ellen walked toward an exit, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her. Suddenly a man who looked remarkably like the man in her fantasy plowed headlong into her. He brushed off his three-piece-suit and snapped, “Hey, watch it, lady. Don’t just stand there and gawk.”
“Excuse me,” Ellen said, wobbling a bit before regaining her footing. Okay, so much for fantasies. Now needing air, she picked up her pace and aimed for a wide doorway to the outside. Avoiding two more collisions, she finally gained the street and, pulling her suitcase, she walked to a corner. One sign said Forty-second Street the other said Vanderbilt Avenue.
Her contact at the hotel had suggested that she take a taxi to the building but Ellen had thought that was really extravagant. Now, however, not sure of which way to walk, and totally flustered by the crowds of people, she spotted a taxi discharging a passenger right in front of her so, as a business-suited man got out, she got in. The interior of the cab smelled strongly of pine deodorant but it was cool and much quieter than the outside.
“I can put that suitcase in the trunk,” the driver said with a strong Jamaican accent.
“No, thank you, I’m all right.”
“Your first time in New York, Miss?” he asked as he turned down the flag on the taximeter.
“I’m from upstate,” Ellen said. “It’s a bit overwhelming.”
“I’m sure it is at first.” He sighed, looking at her in his rearview mirror. “Where to?”
When she had given him the address the driver took off with a jerk strong enough to slam her back against the seat. Fortunately Ellen was too busy staring out the windows to care about the start-stop ride. No wonder they call them the canyons of New York, she thought, gawking as she craned her neck, leaning down to try to see the tops of the buildings. She soon realized that it was impossible so she settled for looking down the side streets as the taxi moved uptown.
Finally the cab stopped in front of a beautiful building made of dark red-brown stone with a deep red door with carriage lights on either side. Ellen looked at the taximeter and almost gasped in shock. “Seventeen dollars?” she said.
“Without tip,” the driver said.
“Right.” She gave him a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change, hoping that was enough. When he didn’t offer to help her out, she opened the door and scrambled onto the sidewalk, dragging her pocketbook and suitcase behind her.
She looked up and down the side street. It was a warm evening so the street was filled with people. There was a small restaurant on the corner with a few outdoor tables, all filled now with New Yorkers. It amused her that she thought of Manhattanites in italics, like them, not us. Maybe eventually she’d feel part of it all. And if not…
She climbed the few steps to the front door and turned the knob. The building manager had told her about the security so she wasn’t surprised that the building was locked. In Fairmont, no one locked their doors, but this was the big city so she rang the bell marked MANAGER and almost immediately an attractive woman with gray hair and deep blue eyes swung the door wide. “You must be Ellen Harold,” she said, “and I’ve been expecting you. I’m Pam Thomas. We spoke several times on the phone. I’m here to help you with anything I can.” Taking the handle of Ellen’s suitcase, the woman said, “Let me show you to your apartment. You’re on the second floor, number 21.”
As Ellen climbed the single flight of wide, carpeted stairs, Pam prattled on about how the building had been converted into six apartments, each with a bedroom, a living room, a small eat-in kitchen, and a bath. “Everything you need can be provided, from linens to daily or weekly maid service. Just decide what you need and let me know.” She took a key from her pocket and opened the door of the apartment on the right. “Home, sweet home,” she said cheerily, handing Ellen two keys. “This is for your apartment and this is for the front door.”
Pam swung the door wide and Ellen walked into a large airy room with a view of the street behind heavy security bars. The furnishings were somewhere between a motel and a regular living room: functional chairs in a navy tweed, an oatmeal sofa, and matching oatmeal drapes. The tables and small hutch were dark wood, the paintings on the wall institutional florals in muted shades of pink, blue, and beige. Ellen wondered whether the paintings had been bought to be decorative or to merely blend into the motif. Even the carpet was a tight weave of blue and beige designed, she supposed, to wear well and not show dirt. Although there were lamps and two vases filled with flowers, the room had a coldness about it.
“We just had this room completely cleaned when the previous tenant moved out so please feel free to move the furniture and add whatever little homey touches you might want.” She crossed the room and opened a door. “This is the bedroom.”
Ellen gazed through the door at a similarly functional room done in southwestern shades of dusty blue, soft desert pink, and beige. “And this,” Pam said, pulling open a pair of beige painted louvered doors, “is your kitchen. Do you cook?”
Ellen gazed into a small room with barely enough room to change your mind. It had the requisite appliances, with a tiny table and diminutive chairs. “I do, but I imagine I’ll be eating out most of the time.”
Pam spent the next fifteen minutes filling Ellen in on the building regulations, the maid service, and the location of the nearest laundry, dry cleaners and such. Finally she said, “Well, I’m sure you want to get settled, so I’ll leave you. I live in 11, just below you, so if you need anything, just ring my bell. Tomorrow perhaps we can sit together and get to know each other. Once you’ve been here a few days, I’ll be glad to answer any questions about the neighborhood, where to eat, where to shop, and things like that.”
“That would be wonderful. I’ll just ring your bell.”
For several weeks Ellen prowled Manhattan. She visited museums, enjoyed some and was bored by others. She went to seven Broadway shows, enjoyed most and was bored to tears by two. And she walked. She window-shopped along almost every street and avenue, ending up on a few occasions in less-than-desirable neighborhoods.
She ate at fancy restaurants and felt a bit embarrassed at being frequently asked, “Will someone be joining you?” She found she was much more comfortable at a ti
ny luncheonette around the corner from her apartment where she read while she ate or just listened to the counterman yelling, “Scramble two, whiskey down, bacon and burn it.”
She received the packet of tapes each Tuesday and by Friday she had entered the information into the computer and modemed it back to the office in Fairmont.
Almost a month after moving to the city she was on the phone with her sister for their weekly chat. “I’ve been thinking about coming back home.”
“Ellen, why? We’ve discussed and discussed it. There’s nothing here for you right now.”
“There’s nothing here for me either. I tried it, and I’ve enjoyed parts of my visit but it’s over now and I’m coming home.”
“Ridiculous. You’ve only just tasted the tip of the New York City iceberg. Jump into the pool. Swim around. Indulge.”
“In what? I’m bored. I have nothing much to do and I can’t just wander around like a gypsy.” Ellen propped her feet on the small wooden coffee table and crossed her ankles. I want to go home, she confessed to herself. I feel like a fish out of water here. Am I slinking home like a coward? Not giving it a chance? Do I really have to give it a chance?
“Haven’t you met anyone to pal around with?”
“Not really. I’ve spent some time with Pam, the gal who runs this place, but she’s got her own friends and she goes out every night. She’s friendly enough, but it’s just not my style.”
“I had hoped you’d meet some men there, date, you know.”
“Yeah, right. No such luck.”
“Have you made any efforts to be social?”
Ellen sat up and shifted the phone to her other ear. “You mean like go to a bar and sit around waiting for some man to ask me what my sign is?”
“Not that, but, well you know.”
“Actually no, I don’t know. I have no idea how to meet people of either sex.”
“So why don’t you do something. Take a course, volunteer somewhere where there are people.”
Flesh For Fantasy Page 24
