Clone

by M A Gelsey

  “Now, Senator,” Harlow said, with a smile that cut like a knife. “What’s it going to be? The carrot or the stick?”

  36: ANNABEL

  Ominous clouds the color of steel wool loomed overhead when Annabel and Ms. Durant arrived at JFK airport. Their flight had been short but turbulent, and Annabel had spent much of it clutching the armrests and praying, despite the fact that she’d never identified with any particular religion and didn’t even know whether she believed in God. There was just something about the prospect of plummeting to the earth and smashing into oblivion that made her want to hedge her bets in the spirituality department.

  “Is it always like that?” Annabel asked Ms. Durant as they screeched to a halt on the pavement.

  “No,” Ms. Durant said. “But occasionally you do feel like popcorn rattling around inside a pot.”

  Annabel and Ms. Durant were the first to disembark the plane, and Annabel tried not to think about the fact that she’d be getting on another one in three days time. Instead, she reminded herself why she was here, and refocused her attention on that. She had three whole days and nights without Rex, and she had a chance to tell her story. By the time she and Ms. Durant exited the airport to hail a taxi, she was already thinking of the tumultuous flight as the first part of a grand adventure.

  She had never before seen so many people in one place — yelling, laughing, honking at the traffic jam. The clamor was overwhelming and when Annabel took a deep breath to steady herself, she began coughing at the smog.

  “I detest the air in this city,” Ms. Durant said with a sniff. “Something about it makes you feel like you’re getting coated in grime.”

  “Have you been to New York before?” Annabel asked.

  “Of course, my dear,” Ms. Durant said. “I lived here for a couple of years in my youth. In a cockroach-infested closet-sized studio apartment in Brooklyn.” She paused and allowed herself a small smile when she noticed Annabel gaping at her. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she added in a stage whisper.

  “At least you didn’t have to marry anyone,” Annabel said without thinking.

  A hurt look flashed across Ms. Durant’s face for an instant but was replaced almost immediately by a reproachful one. “Annabel, we’ve been over this. You’re very lucky. I hope this trip gives you some perspective on just how lucky you are.”

  “I know. I — you’re right.” Annabel glanced down at her feet to hide the fact that she’d just told another lie. They reached the front of the cab line then, and a pale driver with too much gel in his dark hair put their suitcases into the trunk and opened the rear door for them. Annabel blushed when she noticed the appreciative look on his face as his eyes scanned her body. She clambered into the seat, mentally berating herself for losing her cool so easily. The driver closed the door behind her and walked around to his seat.

  “Where to, ladies?” he asked, watching Annabel in the rearview mirror.

  “Manhattan. Fifty-seventh and Park, please. The Four Seasons.” Ms. Durant’s clipped tone made it clear that the driver’s wandering gaze had not escaped her notice either, and that she did not approve in the least.

  “You got it,” the man said, turning around and slamming his foot on the gas pedal, sending Annabel sprawling sideways into the door when he abruptly jerked the car into the next lane. She hurriedly buckled her seatbelt, bracing herself as he wove in and out of traffic.

  Annabel stared out the window as they approached the skyscrapers, and before long they were slowly making their way through the densely packed streets. Even when she craned her neck to look almost straight up, Annabel couldn’t see the tops of the buildings they passed. She watched the people milling around on the sidewalks like so many ants, some striding purposefully along, some strolling as though they had all the time in the world. Rain began to fall then, fat drops splattering on the front windshield of the cab, but it made little difference to the foot traffic, except that some people opened umbrellas as they hurried by. The taxi driver muttered profanities under his breath when the rain started, but Annabel was grateful for it. The sound of the rain had always soothed her, and the sheer scope of the city was overwhelming.

  After an hour, the cab finally pulled to a stop in front of a building made of off-white stones and an ornate glass entrance framed by a couple of trees poking up from the sidewalk. As Ms. Durant settled the bill with the driver, two uniformed men rushed forward from the hotel entrance to meet them. One held a black umbrella large enough to shelter four people comfortably, and the other attended to their luggage. They were escorted inside and while Ms. Durant checked them in, Annabel looked around the lobby. There was gleaming marble everywhere, high sweeping ceilings, and designer lamps emitting a soft glow. The plants that stood in the lobby’s four corners offered a small but appreciated sense of familiarity. Awed as she was at the endless bustle of New York, she wasn’t sure she loved the exchange of grassy, wildflower-dotted fields for concrete and steel.

  The same man who’d wheeled in their luggage led them upstairs to their suite. Like the lobby, it was carefully lighted and decorated in such a fashion that no one could fail to call it luxury — the large windows offered stunning views of the city and Annabel walked right up to them and stared out at the dusky sky, trying to keep in mind that each of the tiny lights she could see represented a room with people in it, living their lives alongside millions of others. Does it make them feel less alone? she wondered. Or more?

  “Well my dear, we’ve arrived.” Ms. Durant settled down on the couch and smiled fondly at Annabel. “I must say, this is a far nicer place than where I spent my nights when I was here last.”

  “I’m glad,” Annabel said, tearing her eyes away from the window and moving to sit in the arm chair adjacent to Ms. Durant.

  “Why don’t you change for dinner? You’ve got your big interview in the morning and then that photo shoot afterwards. We should have an early night,” Ms. Durant suggested.

  “You’re right,” agreed Annabel, although she doubted she’d be able to sleep, so thrillingly surreal was the situation in which she now found herself. They went to a sushi restaurant around the corner that Ms. Durant picked where Annabel had miso soup, seaweed salad and an exceptional spider roll. On the way back to the hotel, Ms. Durant showed Annabel a chocolate shop and bought them both lavender cardamom truffles for dessert.

  Back in the hotel suite, Annabel’s mind was buzzing when she climbed into her king-sized bed. She savored the feeling of having it all to herself — she hadn’t slept alone since before the wedding. Annabel stretched her arms and legs out wide, taking up as much space as she could, and gazed out the window at the multitude of city lights until she drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, Annabel woke up before her alarm went off, riddled with doubt. She dismissed the uneasy feeling, telling herself it was too late to back out now, and that it was normal to be nervous. It wasn’t as though she’d made this decision alone — Ms. Durant was here with her, complicit in her plan. Surely that had to count for something.

  Annabel showered and dressed simply in a short-sleeved navy blue cotton dress that brought out the color of her eyes. She did not bother with makeup, and combed out her hair but left it to air dry, not wanting to seem like she’d put too much effort into her appearance. When she went into the common room of the suite, she found Ms. Durant seated on the couch reading from her tablet. It gave Annabel a strange feeling of nostalgia for her childhood, when it had been just the two of them.

  “Ready to go?” Ms. Durant asked.

  Annabel nodded. Ms. Durant put away the tablet and gestured towards the door, indicating that Annabel lead the way. Annabel took a deep breath and held it for a split-second before releasing it in a whoosh. She squared her shoulders and walked through the door, determined not to appear afraid.

  A man wearing a hotel uniform ran outside when they reached the lobby to hail a taxi for them. Within minutes, they were speeding across the city towards the cafe where
they were to meet Arthur Blair and do the interview over breakfast. Annabel was silent for most of the ride, while Ms. Durant recounted various pieces of trivia about New York landmarks. In what felt like no time at all, the cab stopped outside a beautiful old building with ivy growing all along its front. Ms. Durant paid the driver, and they stepped out. Annabel looked around. A sweaty-faced man with a pointy nose and poorly cut ginger hair approached her, thrusting out a hand when he was a few feet away. He wore a rumpled white button-down shirt and faded jeans that were too baggy for him.

  “Mrs. King, I’m Arthur Blair,” he said with a wide smile. “So pleased to finally meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Annabel said. She shook his hand, trying not to squirm at the name he’d used. Unpleasantly, his palm was as sweaty as his forehead. “Annabel is fine.”

  “Annabel it is! And you are . . .” Arthur Blair asked Ms. Durant, who had been hovering at Annabel’s shoulder with an appraising look on her face.

  “Helena Durant,” she said. “Annabel’s —”

  “Friend and travel companion,” Annabel cut in. For some reason she did not want Ms. Durant to be the one to tell Arthur Blair about her role in Annabel’s upbringing.

  “Charmed,” Mr. Blair said, extending his hand politely to Ms. Durant, who shook it. “Shall we go in? I made a reservation so our table should be ready.”

  Annabel followed Mr. Blair into the restaurant. It was bright and airy, with white linen table cloths and impressionist still-life paintings lining the walls. A blonde hostess who appeared to be around Annabel’s age led them to a table for four next to a window after Mr. Blair persuaded her that the reservation listed for two was really meant to be three and that it was the restaurant’s mistake. Annabel noted that his skill at subterfuge far exceeded his skill at personal grooming.

  Mr. Blair began by making made polite small talk about their flight, their hotel accommodations, whether they might have time to do any sightseeing the following day before they departed the city. Mostly, Ms. Durant answered these queries while Annabel hid behind her menu, until they ordered and the waiter took away her shield.

  “How about we get started on the interview, then?” Mr. Blair said, suddenly all business. “Do you mind if I record it? Just to ensure I quote you accurately, of course.”

  “Oh!” Annabel said. “Um, okay.”

  Mr. Blair tapped the touch screen of his phone a few times, then looked back up at her with an encouraging smile. “Excellent. Why don’t we start with your childhood? Where did you grow up? What was it like?”

  “Oh, um. I grew up in a small beach town in New England. It was . . . pretty normal, I guess.” Annabel said.

  Mr. Blair made a politely incredulous sound. “Come on now, Annabel. You had no parents. You were raised by a caretaker hired by the man who was married to your original. The man who became your husband on your eighteenth birthday? There’s nothing normal about that upbringing.” He gave Ms. Durant a look that said he’d known exactly who she was from the beginning.

  “I don’t like your tone, young man.” Ms. Durant glared at Mr. Blair, cutting in before Annabel could even begin to think of a response.

  “It’s okay, Ms. Durant. He’s just doing his job.” Annabel gave Arthur Blair a faint smile, chewing her bottom lip and trying not to appear flustered by what she realized was a fair assertion.

  “Humph,” Ms. Durant said, sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed. She kept her eyes on Arthur Blair who fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat but did not apologize or retract the question.

  “You’re right,” Annabel said. “It was unusual. But it was the only upbringing I had, so I’m not sure how to even begin comparing it to anyone else’s. And as you can see, Ms. Durant and I are still close. She was a wonderful caretaker.” Ms. Durant seemed mollified by that, but the tension did not completely leave her shoulders.

  “Yes, of course. Very touching.” Mr. Blair said, wiping his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. He even seemed like he meant it. “But was there ever a time when you wished you were just like everybody else? Maybe sometime at school or . . .?”

  Every day of my life. “Not really,” Annabel lied. “I am who I am. There’s no point in wishing I was somebody else.”

  “Hmm,” Mr. Blair said. “I suppose that’s a mature outlook to have.”

  “Annabel is a very mature girl,” Ms. Durant said with pride.

  “I should think so,” Mr. Blair countered. “Being that she’s already married and all.”

  Ms. Durant’s eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself, young man. She doesn’t have to keep talking to you if she doesn’t want to.”

  “Funny, I don’t hear her making any objections to me at all.” Mr. Blair looked at Annabel and she reddened, not wanting to be caught in the middle of their argument.

  “It’s fine.” She turned to Ms. Durant. “Maybe I should do this on my own, and catch up with you later? After the photo shoot.”

  Ms. Durant’s jaw dropped in shock, but she recovered quickly. “Now Annabel, my dear, is that really —”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself,” Annabel said in quiet but firm voice.

  For a tense moment, no one spoke. Then Ms. Durant picked up the cloth napkin in her lap and threw it down on the table. “You know, I’m not very hungry after all. I’ll leave you to it.” She stood, not meeting Annabel’s eyes. Guilt twisted in Annabel’s stomach for a moment, strangely mingled with triumph.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Annabel said. Ms. Durant nodded, then cast one final scowl in Mr. Blair’s direction before she took her leave.

  “Well then,” Mr. Blair said, as though there had been no interruption. “Where were we?”

  The breakfast went on for two full hours. Annabel found herself getting more and more comfortable with the affably awkward Mr. Blair as the time wore on, but she never forgot to whom she was speaking and for what purpose. Part of her was still worried about what Rex would do when he discovered that she’d spoken to a reporter after he’d expressly forbidden it. She had no desire to justify his inevitable anger with carelessness.

  Mr. Blair gave her the address where the photo shoot would take place that afternoon when they parted at the restaurant. Annabel stood outside on the pavement for a moment, watching his receding form as he headed to the corner and down the steps that led to the subway. She had over an hour to herself now, and she wandered along a side street lined with art galleries.

  The spring air was brisk and smelled like car exhaust and fried food. Small trees poking up from the sidewalk were well on their way to regrowing the leaves they’d lost during the winter. As Annabel strolled past each gallery window, she saw everything from paintings to sculptures to photographs to video installations. When Annabel reached the end of the block, a shockingly rebellious thought occurred to her. She was alone in a strange city, entirely anonymous. What was stopping her from staying here, or else going off somewhere else on her own? Would Rex track her down? Surely he would try, after spending so much money to commission her creation. What would happen if she refused to return to him?

  The thought was fleeting, the sort of wild fantasy that she knew would never come to pass, like slaying a dragon or learning to read minds. She did not know whether one day she would have the courage to leave Rex, but she knew today was not that day. With a sigh, she resolved to enjoy the rest of the weekend away, and not to waste any more of it thinking about her husband.

  Twenty minutes later she walked into the five story brick building where the photo shoot would take place. Mr. Blair was waiting for her in the lobby next to a large desk where a bored-looking secretary typed away and paid them no mind.

  “Annabel, right on time. You’re the first to arrive. Let me show you upstairs.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blair.”

  “Arthur, please,” he said as the two of them stepped into the elevator.

  “Arthur,” she repeated. She felt strange calling him by his first name, but she resolv
ed to try. He had asked her to do so repeatedly.

  The elevator had no doors, merely a criss-crossed iron grating that Arthur pulled across and clicked into place. He pushed the button for the second floor and they lurched upwards, initially in fits and starts, then more smoothly. They ground to a halt one floor up, and Arthur unlatched the iron grating and pushed it aside, holding his arm out to indicate that Annabel should disembark ahead of him. She stepped out of the rickety elevator into hallway. Arthur led her to the door at the end, which opened to reveal a large open room with a black drape covering one wall.

  There were about ten people bustling around with lighting equipment in a corner, plus a couple setting up large mirrors and unloading makeup on a small table. A few nodded to Annabel in greeting, but quickly resumed their tasks.

  The room contained a few pieces of mismatched furniture, and Arthur led Annabel to an armchair facing an empty fireplace and a large window overlooking the alley.

  “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Coffee?” Arthur asked.

  “Tea please, if it’s not too much trouble.” The armchair where Annabel sat was lumpy, but she did not want to be rude by pointing it out.

  “Be right back.” Arthur hurried through an archway on the opposite side of the room which led to the tiniest kitchen Annabel had ever seen. He put an old kettle on the stove and a few minutes later carried over a steaming mug of green tea which he handed to Annabel. She blew on it before taking a sip; it wasn’t as good as the tea she had at home, but it was better than nothing.

  “I’m going to head down to see if anyone else has arrived,” Arthur said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Annabel stood up and paced the room, careful not to spill the tea. She felt awkward being largely ignored by the room’s other occupants, but they seemed intent on what they were doing and she did not wish to interrupt. Instead she paced in a small circle around the room. It had high ceilings, crown molding and dark wooden floorboards that creaked when she stepped on them. A few minutes went by before she heard the elevator groaning as it ascended, then the clattering as the iron grating was pushed aside. Arthur had returned with two other people: a tall boy who looked to be about her age with dark skin and a preoccupied expression on his chiseled features, and a woman about fifteen years her senior with a messy blonde pixie cut, copious tattoos, and a camera.