Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  I thought of him when I’d traveled to the London Olympics a few years ago to represent my country. I was the reserve for the saber team, who had excelled at the Olympics by winning their first-ever team medal: bronze. As reserve, I was the only one of the four of us not to set foot on the piste. I felt like a fraud during the medal ceremony. There’s almost what you could call a tradition of minor “injuries” occurring in Olympic team fencing—twisted ankles, and the like. Everyone wants a medal but everyone’s terrified by the pressure, so most reserves get to compete. But my teammates didn’t suffer a twinge.

  My life took an unexpected turn after a talent scout saw me standing on that podium, and a few days later I received my first modeling contract. For the next year, I juggled my modeling and my fencing career, and ended up presenting the first two seasons of the “Games of Skill” program, which aired nationwide on Fox Sports. It didn’t pay very well, but suddenly everyone knew who I was, and as a result I received a few more modeling contracts, as well as the lucrative College Sports sponsorship. Modeling and presenting sports had propelled me into the public eye far more than fencing could ever have done, but if I hadn’t won that medal I might never have been noticed.

  I thought of Patrick whenever I was posing for the camera, looking into the dazzling lights with the photographer behind the glare encouraging me for “more personality please, darling, we need you to smolder…oh, yes, that’s the look! That’s it. Great, darling, just great.”

  I’d thought of Patrick the very first time I’d smiled nervously at the television cameras when I was on air. I wondered if he’d been watching. I’d even thought of him, guiltily, when my manager Dave, who had become my boyfriend soon after I’d met him, proposed marriage. I’d been so happy then, believing that a golden future lay ahead of us, that Dave and I would build a wonderful life together. Of course, it hadn’t worked out that way.

  In the last few weeks, scandal and injury had derailed my career. My sponsors were threatening legal action, my marriage was on the rocks, and Dave had told me he was going ahead with the divorce.

  Now I sat alone, watching out of the window as the plane cut through a blanket of cloud to reveal the landscape beneath—a patchwork of green fields, their colors subdued on this drizzly morning. Dublin was gray and gloomy, the perfect match for my mood. No bright emerald vista to welcome me, no storybook landscape as promised by the tourist brochures. The countryside gave way to the city, and that too was dull, grim-looking, its charm hidden away.

  “Thank you, have a nice day, Ms. Harvey,” the flight attendant called as I disembarked.

  “Thanks,” I muttered. I couldn’t meet her eyes. Did she know who I was? Had she read the headlines? Was she going to gossip about the woman on the flight? “Was that Claire Harvey? You know, the fencer who used to be on TV, who’s just been in all the tabloids?”

  I hadn’t checked in any bags. My trip had been a sudden, spur-of-the-moment decision. Desperate to flee the country, I’d used my accumulated voyager miles to pay for the flight. I wasn’t even booked into a hotel. I was used to having my life organized, regimented. Not to mention traveling with truckloads of luggage. Now, holding the handle of my compact carry-on awkwardly in my right hand, I walked through the airport and then paused, deciding.

  Cab or rental car? How far did I want to go?

  “Claire!” A man’s voice cried behind me and I flinched, my left hand flung protectively in front of my face as I turned, expecting to see the sight I’d dreaded: somebody with their camera or iPhone, gleefully brandishing it to capture me in their lens.

  But the speaker, a middle-aged businessman, was calling out to somebody else, another Claire, who was browsing a newsstand a few yards away. The short, dark-haired woman turned, recognition in her eyes, a smile lighting up her broad face.

  “And there you are, Gerald Kilblane, late as usual.”

  “I’d be late for my own funeral,” he admitted, striding over to give her a hug.

  I let out a deep breath, and looked away from their happy embrace, lowering my arm. My wrist throbbed from making the sudden movement; eight weeks was long enough to heal a bone, but the muscles were still weak and the arm, painful if I twisted it in a certain way.

  I walked over to the newsstand that the other Claire had just left and glanced at the headlines.

  A gale had capsized a sailboat off the northeastern coast. The economy was still struggling, but exports of potatoes were on the rise. The tabloids were full of excitement about the Duchess of Cambridge, who was arriving for a royal tour.

  I was relieved to see that the news was all so unfamiliar, so normal-sounding, and that none of the recent hysteria had followed me across the Atlantic.

  It was a storm in a teacup, I told myself. It would blow over quickly.

  Talking of storms, though, it did look as if the southwest of the country was having the better weather.

  I decided to go there.

  “Castle Hill, near Kenmare. It’s the most beautiful town in Ireland, Claire. If you have the chance to travel there, you should take it.”

  Words of advice from the stranger I’d never forget. Whose lips had closed over mine in what I still, somehow, thought of as my first real kiss. That moment had sent my hormones raging, making me feel wild and reckless, because ending up in an intimate embrace with a stranger on an airplane was not what good girls do. The caress of his lips had been soft at first, but the strength I’d sensed in his lean, strong body and the carnal intent blazing in his green-gold eyes…well, that had been so powerful it had blown my mind.

  I remembered the advice he’d given me; the words he’d spoken about that beautiful town. If I was going to hide out, why not choose the prettiest place in Ireland? Perhaps I could even stay in that rundown hotel he’d talked about, centrally located, with a stunning view over the bay. What had he said its name was? The Park. I decided to find out if it was still in business.

  I walked briskly out of the airport, headed for the car rental, and ten minutes later, I had the keys to a VW Polo Classic, and my GPS programmed to guide me to Castle Hill.

  “Take the Ring of Kerry route,” the woman at the counter advised. “It’s a beautiful drive.”

  “Left side of the road, right side of the car,” I reminded myself as I popped the trunk and stowed my bag.

  This freedom felt scary and wonderful all at the same time. Nobody back home knew where I was. Not Dave, not anybody. They couldn’t get in touch with me. Nobody could arrive on my doorstep begging for an interview, or call me up asking how it felt to be a whore.

  That had been the last anonymous call I’d received yesterday.

  It was straight after that I’d decided to leave the country for a while.

  “How does it feel to be a whore?” the woman had shouted down the phone at me. I’d been paralyzed by shock, unable to press the disconnect button in time to cut off the rest of her diatribe.

  “You cheated on your husband. God will judge you for that, and he will make sure you get what you deserve! I saw you on Fox Sport. I heard you speaking about how your husband’s management helped you succeed. You’re nothing without him. He’s going to divorce you, and your life is going to be destroyed. And you deserve it, the Bible says so, you immoral, whorish…”

  I’d finally managed to guide my trembling hand to the disconnect button.

  I still had not turned my phone back on.

  Now, driving out of the airport, I switched it on with trepidation. I felt cold inside. What if the abusive woman had called back?

  I had ten messages. None, thank God, were from her. Five were from journalists wanting my comment on my current situation. Four were from friends, including my best friend, Monika, checking whether I was okay.

  And the most recent one was from my estranged husband, Dave.

  “Claire, where the hell have you gone? The shit’s hit the fan on this side, big-time. Please call me as soon as you get this. I’ll be available on my cell, or at my law
yer’s.”

  “The shit’s hit the fan?” I repeated aloud, my voice high. I thought it had done that before I left. Distracted from my driving, I almost swerved into the wrong lane. The warning flash of lights from an oncoming vehicle corrected me just in time.

  I didn’t know, couldn’t dare to think, what else might have gone wrong.

  Reflexively, I dialed his number. He picked up within two rings.

  “Claire. Where are you?”

  I hesitated before replying, “Out of town.”

  I didn’t want to tell him I’d fled the country. It was none of his business now that we were separated.

  “You’ve lost the Tempest sponsorship,” he told me, his voice grim. My heart sank.

  Tempest rental cars, with whom I’d had a small reciprocal sponsorship agreement, was the second of my sponsors to pull out, after College Sport. At least they weren’t threatening legal action and demanding their money back, like College Sport was doing.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Nobody wanted to be associated with a tainted heroine. My career cut short through injury, and now my reputation indelibly smeared.

  Dave sighed heavily. “I’m doing what I can. But we don’t have legal grounds to fight this.”

  “Don’t fight it then.” My voice sounded small and trembly. “Just let them go.”

  “We have to fight it, Claire. There’s a lot of money at stake.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Money was something we both needed—Dave because he had expensive tastes and a love of fast cars, and me because I was desperately trying to help my parents, who had recently gotten into a tough financial predicament after my father lost his job. It was only after I had started trying to help my parents out that I’d realized how Dave’s lifestyle was causing us to hemorrhage all the money we made. I’d felt a sense of panic as I looked through the account statements. The mortgage on the house was costing a huge chunk every month, and had it really been necessary for Dave to buy a brand new luxury car? I frowned down at the numerous cash withdrawals. What on earth were they all for? Was Dave remembering to keep the slips for tax purposes? Somehow, I doubted it. I had to scrape together enough to pay for my parents’ rented house, and cover my mother’s enormous medical expenses. Perhaps I could dip into our savings account…but another bombshell had been waiting when I opened those statements.

  It had seemed bad enough at the time, when I’d assumed there would be more money coming in. Now, with my sponsors canceling and demanding payback, our situation was an unmitigated disaster.

  “Let me know what I can do to help,” I said to Dave.

  “I would have hoped you’d be thinking what you could do. Not waiting for me to tell you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  There was a pause. Then he let out another breath. “Whatever, Claire.”

  “I’ll speak to you later,” I told him. “I’m losing signal.”

  “Okay, then,” he said and disconnected.

  I put my phone back into my purse. It rang again almost immediately, but it was an unfamiliar number, so I ignored it. Rain spattered the windscreen. Above me, clouds were gathering, but ahead, to the southwest, the sky was clear.

  I was going to get to Castle Hill as soon as I could; try to outrun the storm which was pursuing me literally and figuratively.

  I turned on the radio, cranked the sound up high, and headed for the Ring of Kerry highway.

  The drive to Castle Hill took place in increasingly glorious weather. By the time I reached my destination, soon after lunch, the sun shone brilliantly from a sky flecked with clouds, casting a magical green brightness over the trees and hedges that lined the road.

  The Ring of Kerry proved to be as magnificent as the rental car attendant had promised. The highway curved through idyllic farmland, passing quaint farmhouses set among patchworks of fields, and hugged the coast, where the cliffs dropped dramatically away toward the sea below.

  I pulled into a service station for fuel when I was just a half-hour away from my destination. I was glad to get out of the car. My muscles felt stiff and sore from their cramped position, and my left wrist was aching from grasping the wheel. I was surprised by how tired I felt. I told myself that it was no surprise, given the stress I’d been through. But the truth was that my body was leaden with an exhaustion which felt like it had been accumulating for years.

  How long since I’d properly rested, since I’d gone more than a few days without the endless regimen of gym, training, training, gym? How many years since I’d eaten anything other than the strict diet which Dave had prescribed, after consultation with experts?

  I remembered the conversation we’d had, a few years ago now, when he’d called me to tell me the good news.

  “Claire, you’re not gonna believe this! We’ve gotten you a really great sponsorship here. With College Sport. My brother Daniel’s just been made a partner in the business and he’s organized it all for you. They’re expanding, going big, getting into all kinds of different gear—running, fencing, football—specializing in sales to schools and colleges. And they’re looking for a frontline girl. I suggested you, and Daniel and the other partners agreed.”

  “Oh, Dave, that’s amazing! How wonderful!”

  “You’re gonna fence professionally for them, but it’s more than that. They really like your looks. Part of the deal is you become their face, appearing at events, doing PR, modeling for some of their new lines. It’ll mean losing a few pounds – yeah, yeah, I know you’re normal weight, and that’s fine for fencing, but the camera fattens. And you need to be thin to look good in sports gear. So, you up for it? I got a diet sheet here for you already!”

  Since then, I’d been hungry so often that it seemed like a constant in my life. If I wasn’t getting fit for competition, I was gymming and dieting. Staying thin for the cameras. To please my sponsors.

  The array of chocolates on the shelves inside the service station seemed to call to me, their colorful wrappers luring me in. Sugary bliss, no longer on the forbidden list.

  I chose a bar of milk chocolate with caramel and hazelnuts, and to drink, a strawberry shake. I stabbed the straw through the lid of the shake and the smell filled my nostrils, saliva flooding my mouth.

  I sucked hungrily at the shake, savoring the cold, creamy, faux-strawberry taste. And then, my thirst quenched, I turned my attention to the chocolate. I peeled back the wrapper, breathing in its cocoa-rich fragrance, before sliding it between my lips and sinking my teeth into its delicious softness. Caramel stretched out in rich, syrupy strands; the crunch of the nuts added another dimension to the texture.

  I wanted to laugh aloud from childish delight, but instead I found my eyes flooding with tears. I attacked the sweet, cramming it into my mouth, craving it all, suddenly starving. I closed my brimming eyes, wiped away the wetness on my cheeks as I chewed voraciously on the enormous mouthful of fattiness and sweetness and sin.

  A half-hour later, I drove into the town of Castle Hill, feeling slightly sick from my bingeing, but awake and alert thanks to the sugary energy.

  Where to stay?

  The Park Hotel that Patrick had mentioned was still open. More than that, it seemed to have been recently refurbished. It didn’t look rundown, the way he had described it. It looked shiny and up-market, a five-star establishment in a town center that was quaint and beautiful, but also looked to be busy and thriving; a mini-hub of commerce.

  I was suddenly tempted to turn away from the town center and drive out into that glorious, green countryside. Find a cheap and friendly farmhouse or a B&B and hole up in quiet, rural tranquility.

  I decided to allow myself a short stay in the hotel. My remaining voyager miles, which were about to expire, would cover two nights there. I might as well use them. After that, I’d find somewhere else to go.

  But while I checked in, I started to feel I’d made a big mistake.

  The young, dark-haired receptionist was polite and charming, but
I couldn’t help noticing that she raised her eyebrows when she looked at my passport, and I felt a knot of dread tightening. At a five-star hotel, with satellite television and guests from all over the world, the staff might be more up to date with international news. I didn’t want to be recognized, but I feared that it was too late.

  “There’s your room key.” She slid the card across the polished mahogany counter. “Breakfast is from seven to ten a.m., and I’m giving you the brochures for our two restaurants. Booking is advisable, especially for the Terrace. It can get very popular in the evenings, especially with our Associated Press conference on.”

  She smiled again, and I smiled back, my lips feeling tight.

  The press? Just what I didn’t need.

  “How big is the conference?” I asked her.

  “Oh, it’s four hundred people. About two hundred are staying at the hotel—the ones from out of town and the international delegates. The others are coming in for the meetings. The conferencing area is very busy today, and the restaurants will be booked up later.”

  Four hundred journalists?

  Suddenly this spacious hotel seemed very small. I glanced behind me and saw a young, slim man with a short, black beard. He was obviously waiting to be attended to. He had a camera bag slung over his shoulder and was wearing a Boston Red Sox T-shirt.

  American journalists?

  I knew I should have kept driving and looked for an old country house with milk churns outside the barn and an Accommodation Available sign at the gate. And now, here I was, sharing the hotel with four hundred journos who would sell their sister to get the scoop on my story.

  “The conference finishes tomorrow,” the receptionist told me. “So we’ll be back to normal then.”

  That news made me feel better. All I had to do was lay low for the rest of the day. That would be possible, wouldn’t it?

  The porter wheeled my bag across the marble tiles and we rode up to the fifth floor, where he showed me my room. It was lovely—spacious, airy, beautifully decorated, and the view was as glorious as Patrick had described, but I had the Associated Press on the brain, and to me, it felt claustrophobic. When the porter left, I opened the window, staring out over the bay while I breathed in the fresh sea air.