by Carrie Elks
Richard pulled Hanna toward him, putting his arm around her shoulders in a friendly gesture. She curled her arm around his waist.
“I’m going to miss you when you move to California. Will you be coming over here for Christmas?” Her voice was soft.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back in London, or even New York, come to that. If Chris and I want to get this business off the ground, then I think we’ll be working too hard to leave San Francisco for any length of time.”
“Tell me again what you’re planning to do?”
“Okay, have you heard of Friends Reunited?” He decided to try and start at the basics, to help her understand the concepts.
“Yeah, my mum has made contact with some of her old school friends through that.”
“Well, Chris and I want to use that sort of concept, but make it wider, and more modern. Not just catching up with old friends, but keeping in touch with your current ones, chatting, letting them know how you are doing. Maybe even playing games against each other, that sort of thing.”
“Why would you do that when you can just pick up the phone and call them?”
“Because this way you can keep in contact with hundreds of friends at once. With a click of a button, you can let everybody in your life know what’s going on with you. Say, for instance, you want to tell them that you’ve graduated. You either have to phone or email them, send them a letter, or rely on word-of-mouth. With our site, you’d be able to write a line to say you’ve graduated, and all of your friends will read it at once. You’ve spent less than a minute updating them, and can spend the rest of your day reading Jane Austen, or whatever the hell it is you want to do.”
“Hmm. I can’t really see why I’d ever want to do that.”
“Did you ever think that you’d want to have a cell phone?”
“A what?”
“Surely you know what a cell phone is?” Richard felt incredulous, pulling his Nokia 8250 out of his pocket and showing it to her.
“Oh! You mean a mobile phone?” Hanna took the phone from him, looking at the chromatic display. “Ooh, this one is nice.”
Richard shook his head. “As I was saying, although you may not have thought about needing a mobile phone,” he drawled the last two words, “now everybody has either got one, or wants one, and it’s changing the way we communicate. It will be the same with websites like ours. We’re fulfilling a need people didn’t even know they had. That’s the way to innovate.”
“Well, I’ll let you know if I ever feel the need to tell hundreds of acquaintances that I’ve just bought a loaf of bread. Until then, I’ll reserve judgment.” Hanna smiled, as if she was enjoying winding him up, and Richard realized he was enjoying it, too.
“I’ll expect a very public, web-based apology. Perhaps some groveling, too.”
“I can do dribbling, if that helps?”
“I noticed.”
They had reached Hyde Park Corner. Hanna jammed her hands in the pockets of her shorts. “You’d better get back. Ruby won’t be happy if you’re not there when she gets home. It was so nice to see you again.”
“And you. I’ll miss you.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’ll have time to miss me.”
“I’ll make time.”
“Then make sure you email me. Or invite me to join your website. I’m still all about the groveling.”
Richard laughed, running his hand through his hair. He looked down at her smiling face. “I can’t wait for the groveling.”
“Seriously, good luck with it all. Don’t be a stranger.” Hanna pulled her hands out of her pockets and threw her arms around him, pulling him closely for a brief hug before she released him and stepped back.
He leaned down and brushed his lips against the soft skin of her cheek, taking a moment to breathe her in. Hanna turned and walked down the steps, into the depths of the underground station. Standing at the top of the steps, Richard watched her retreating body until she had reached the bottom and he could see her no more. Touching his lips briefly with his fingers, he turned and walked along the sidewalk in the direction of Chelsea.
Seven
September 11th 2001
The shrill sound of the telephone, ringing in the kitchen, cut straight through the silence of the apartment, and it took some moments for Hanna to drag her mind from her book and back into present-day London. Looking around desperately for something to use as a bookmark, she finally pulled her hairband out, placing it in between the pages as her hair cascaded down her back.
Running through the living room, she made it to the kitchen just as the phone rang off. It wasn’t the first time this had happened to her, but the frustration still tightened her jaw as she realized that her mad dash had been for nothing. Feeling her stomach growl with hunger, she decided to make a sandwich.
As she walked over toward the refrigerator, she was interrupted once again by the sharp tones of the telephone. She lifted the handset, speaking a loud “hello” into the mouthpiece.
“Hanna? It’s Josh.”
“Did you just try and call me?” She bit her lip in confusion. He wasn’t supposed to be calling her until tomorrow.
“No, I’ve just escaped from a meeting. Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Are you watching the news?” There was murmuring in the background, and she wondered just how many people were at this meeting.
“No, I was in my room, reading. What’s going on?”
“There’s been a plane crash in New York. Two planes, actually. They’ve smashed into the World Trade Center.”
“Oh my God, Josh. That’s right next to my dad’s building.” Her hand was shaking as she held on tightly to the telephone, as if it were a lifeline to her father.
“It’s fucking mayhem over there, nobody knows anything. I’ve been called back to the office in London to man the phones for the night, so I’m leaving now. I’ll try and call you when I get there.”
Hanna’s heart dropped. All she wanted was for her boyfriend to come home to her, to hold her, to tell her it was going to be okay. She placed the phone back in its cradle, her legs walking as if on automatic toward the living room, her arm reaching out robotically to press the “on” switch.
She couldn’t bring herself to sit down as she watched the coverage, though her stomach was churning in response to the visual disaster playing out on the screen. Her whole body was shaking, and a sob escaped from her throat as she watched the panicked responses of both the public and the journalists. They were already describing the attacks as “an act of war.”
It wasn’t just her father and his family she was worried about; there was Richard and the Maxwells, and all those other unknown members of the public who were being hit by tragedy before her very eyes.
Still trembling, she walked back into the kitchen and tugged open the drawer that contained their telephone books. Pulling out the tattered, black leather journal and flicking to the page with her dad’s numbers, she systematically dialed each one only to get the same response.
A busy tone.
Trying again, and again, she could feel the tears starting to tumble down her cheeks as she hit the buttons in frustration, knowing before even pressing the final number she would just hear a dead, monotonous response. Yet she still did it.
Pulling at the skin around her thumb with her teeth, she hunted through the book until she came to the Ls. Running her finger down the page, she found the number she was looking for and dialed it quickly, her heart lifting slightly at the familiar sound of a ringing tone vibrating down the earpiece.
“Hello?”
“Claire? It’s Hanna.” As soon as she heard Claire’s soft voice, the tears started to run thick and fast. Another strangled sob escaped from her mouth, and she heard Claire’s soft gasp in response.
“Sweetheart, have you heard anything from your father?”
“No. I can’t get through. Have you heard from Richard?” Her heart hammered against
her ribcage. She wasn’t sure she was ready to hear Claire’s response.
“No, we’ve heard nothing. Steven is locked up in his room trying to get some information. He’s pulling in all the contacts he has,” she said, referring to Richard’s father.
“When was he supposed to be flying to San Francisco?”
“He’s meant to be flying this morning, Hanna.” Claire was audibly crying now, emotion punctuating every word as she spoke. “We don’t know what time, or which airline.”
Hanna started to rock forward and backwards on the balls of her feet, setting up a rhythm that was somehow comforting to her.
“Is Diana with you?”
“She’s organizing a party in Hertfordshire. She won’t be back until later tonight.” Hanna sniffed at the thought of her mum.
“You’re alone? Oh, Hanna.” Claire sounded aghast at this revelation. “I’m going to send a car over for you. You can’t be on your own at a time like this.”
AS SOON AS she arrived at Cheyne Walk, she was swept inside the house by Claire and Nathan, the two of them almost carrying her until she was placed gently down on a slouchy sofa. Their eyes were rimmed with red, wetness shining off their skin as they mourned the passing of life as they knew it. They tried not to vocalize the fear they had for Richard.
“Steven is putting feelers out for your father,” Claire said as they sat and watched the muted TV. “He has contacts in the embassy and the state office. They’re doing everything they can, but it is a mess over there. Nobody can contact anyone, all of the communications networks are down. It’s going to take a long time before we find out anything.”
Hanna could feel a numbness wash over her skin as she continued to watch the news coverage. She didn’t flinch when footage of a third plane crash into the Pentagon was broadcast, nor did she comment when a fourth plane crashed into a field in rural Pennsylvania. She just sat, her eyes wide open, her mouth still breathing, her heart still beating. She didn’t want to see the recordings of the plane crashes being played on a continuous loop, but she could not tear her eyes away. It was like being hypnotized against her will.
They sat, and they watched, and they remained mute, until a loud bang came from Steven’s office. It sounded like something being thrown against a wall. There was a noisy, splintering sound, followed by the frantic wail of a grown man.
Claire stood up and ran over to the office door. Hanna and Nathan stared at her moving body as she moved, their faces frozen with fear.
As Claire reached the door, it was flung open to reveal Steven standing there. His normal suave façade had disappeared, replaced by that of a desperate man. His shirt was askew, his hair falling all over the place. What really pierced Hanna through the heart was the expression on his face. As long as she lived, she would never forget that look. It was a mixture of fear and misery, frustration and inaction. It was a father fighting for his son.
“The fourth plane was heading for San Francisco,” he whispered.
Hanna’s shaking returned. She hugged her arms around her stomach in an attempt to stop herself, but instead found herself rocking forward and backward again.
“Where did it take off?” Claire asked.
“Newark.”
“Steven.” Claire’s voice was a wail. She flung herself into her husband’s arms, her sobbing increasing as he held her tightly.
Hanna started to shake her head, as if she was trying to deny what was happening. She looked over at Nathan, to see him sitting with his hands covering his mouth. His blue eyes stared straight back at her.
“Was he definitely flying from Newark?” she whispered to Nathan, grabbing for any flicker of hope, like a drowning man searching for a life jacket.
“I don’t know. I don’t think Dad knows which flight he was getting. But he’s flown from Newark before.”
Glancing at the television screen, Hanna could see from the clock in the right-hand corner it was almost 2:30 p.m.
“Ruby,” she whispered, trying not to watch Steven and Claire’s desperate embrace. “If I leave now I can get to school in time to pick her up.” Hanna needed the fresh air, and the purpose that such a trip would give her. Distance and time were what she craved.
“I’ll go with you. I don’t want her to hear about this from anybody else,” Nathan whispered.
“Do we tell them we’re leaving?” Hanna looked over at Claire. It was like she and Steven were in their own bubble. Nathan’s gaze followed her stare, and his face crumpled again as he watched their misery unfolding before him.
“You go and grab your coat, I’ll tell them we’re picking her up.”
HIS MOTHER WAS awake when Richard walked in, curled up on the silk-covered sofa in the drawing room. He was pleased to see her hand wasn’t wrapped around the stem of a crystal wineglass, although they were pale and shaking, just like the rest of her. Her hair fell around her face in pale strands, and her lips were red and dry from the constant scraping of her teeth.
“I’m going to shower and then come right back,” he told her. She looked up at him with glassy, blue eyes.
“Hurry, darling. I don’t like being alone.”
The shower was necessary. His hair was covered with dust, and his skin was itching from the effect of the wind and detritus in the air. More than anything, he wanted to wash away the memories of today, and watch them follow the grey sludgy water down the drain. Unfortunately, dirt was more easily dealt with than thoughts.
He went back downstairs with his hair still wet. His mother hadn’t moved; she was still staring at the same spot on the wall, looking at the pictures of their family and friends. Photographs of happier times, when life was predictably good, and evil was just a concept in an old book.
“Was it terrible out there?” Even Caroline’s voice seemed to have deadened. She spoke through thin, dry lips.
“It wasn’t pleasant. I gave blood then went to see the—” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, although he suspected at some point he would need to do so.
“Is there any hope?”
He knew she was asking if there were more survivors being rescued. He shook his head.
“Please don’t leave me, Richard.” A single tear emerged from the corner of her eye. It ran down her cheek, dripping from her chin to make a stain on the silk sofa. “I know I said I didn’t want you to move to California before, but I mean it. I don’t think I can do this on my own.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He moved to sit with her, took her hand in his own and squeezed it gently.
“They’re saying they’ll issue death certificates soon, even if no bodies are found. I’ve tried calling our family lawyers, but there’s never any answer. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“We’ll work it out. I’ll try calling them again tomorrow.” He scratched his head as his eyes wandered over to the drink cabinet. The whisky bottle was calling him like a siren. He tried to ignore the craving; he didn’t want to encourage his mother to start drinking again. Not when she was sober for the first time in four days.
Still holding her hand tightly, he asked, “Has Daniel come down yet?”
“Consuela took him up some lunch, and she said he was quieter, but he still doesn’t want to see anybody.”
“I’ll check on him in a minute. He shouldn’t be alone.”
“He told me he doesn’t want his inheritance, that he doesn’t want anything of Leon’s.” Her voice broke as she said her dead husband’s name.
“He’s mourning his father. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Richard closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine how he would feel if it was Steven who had died in the attack. The thought tore a hole in his heart. God only knew how Daniel was feeling.
“He’s going to own the majority of Maxwell Enterprises, so many people are going to be relying on him. I just know he’s going to crumble.” Caroline took her son’s face in her hands, pulling him closer so she could stare straight at him. “You know Leon bequeathe
d a share of the company to us, as well. You need to go in there and protect our interests. Leon would have wanted you to be in control, at least until Daniel is ready.”
“I’ve already spoken with the chief financial officer; we’ve decided to rent some office space uptown for now. We’re meeting tomorrow to discuss interim arrangements.” He didn’t tell her he’d contacted his friend and tendered his resignation from a company he had yet to set up. Such details seemed unimportant at a time like this.
EARLY THE NEXT morning, before leaving to meet with the board of Maxwell Enterprises, Richard sat in his deceased step-father’s oak-paneled study and used his state-of-the-art computer to check his emails. It was the first time he had done so since September 10th, and he was surprised to see so many unread notes there. Scanning his eyes down the list of senders, he saw the majority of them were friends, possibly concerned for his safety, seeking reassurances that he was okay.
Near the bottom of the page, he saw the words “Hanna Vincent.” Just seeing the lines of her name kick-started something inside of him, like a small pilot light was being lit in the boiler of his soul.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: You
Richard,
I hate that I have to write this email. I hate that I can’t be there for you, and that I can’t even contact you by phone. Everything about this situation is horrific, and I’m going crazy trying to imagine how you must be feeling right now.
I spent the day of September 11th with your family, and I was amazed not only by their fervent love and worry for you, but also for the support they showed me at a time when we were all at our lowest ebb. They adore you so much, and the relief we felt when we heard that both you and my father were safe was indescribable.
