by Darcia Helle
I wanted to get up off my chair and give her a big hug—it was such a relief to see her again—but somehow I couldn’t move. I was stunned because of the events of the past couple of weeks.
The rest of our colleagues in the office sat open-mouthed, as if not really believing that they were looking at Joan. We had all feared the worst. We’d all been fingerprinted and questioned. We’d been talking about nothing else since the police came into the office, two weeks ago.
Anna, from accounts, was the first to say something. ‘Joan? Where the fuck have you been?’ Anna had never been one to mince her words.
‘I’ve been in sunny Spain with Carlos, my new boyfriend.’ She fished out her purse from her handbag, and took out a photograph. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ She flashed the photograph in front of us.
‘Have you been home yet?’ I asked. Surely she couldn’t have failed to notice the yellow police tape sealing off her door?
‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘I've come straight from the airport. That’s my next stop. I need to sort out some stuff; you know, find someone to look after Tiddles, put the house up for sale. Then I’m off, back to Spain. I’m getting married!’
Then I noticed the diamond ring on her finger.
She held it up for all to see. ‘Can you believe it? Me? I’m getting married! Life really does begin at forty! Oh, and you’re all invited.’
‘There’s something you should know,’ said Anna.
Joan smiled in her direction, waiting.
‘Did you not think to contact anyone, to let us know where you were?’ I asked.
She looked at me, as if surprised by what I had just said. ‘I was too busy being happy. I knew I wouldn’t be coming back to work here, anyway. I only remembered to phone my mum yesterday! How bad is that! Apparently, she’d reported me missing and the police were looking for me!’
‘You don’t say,’ said Clive, the security guard, sarcastically.
Then, Anna told her all about the police investigation (leaving out the fact that I’d written the Valentine’s card—and I felt too embarrassed to say anything about that). Finally, a look of remorse crept over Joan’s face. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry; I just didn’t think anyone would miss me.’ Now she looked more like the old Joan we knew and loved.
I stood up and gave her a hug. ‘It’s good to see you again, even if you did put us through weeks of hell.’
She smiled at me, and I could not be angry with her. There was a new sparkle in her eyes, which suited her. I was happy for her.
‘Oh, James, if there is one person I’m going to miss, it’s you.’ She kissed me on the cheek, then left the office as quickly as she had come in.
So after that, I forgot all about the Valentine’s card. It didn’t seem important anymore. That was a mistake—I should have said something to her when she came back to the office. Now it’s just too late.
You see, when she went back home, her neighbour, Mrs. Davy, told her all about the police—and the card:
‘What card?’ Joan asked, her forehead creasing in confusion.
‘Well, dear, you got a Valentine’s card; and because the police thought you’d been murdered, they investigated to see who’d written the card,’ explained Mrs. Davy.
‘Did they find out who wrote it?’
‘They said it was a lad called James Holloway. They asked me whether I’d ever seen him come here to visit you.’
‘James? James wrote me a Valentine’s card?’
The next thing I knew, Joan was back at the office, declaring her undying love for me: ‘If I’d known you felt that way, I would never have agreed to marry Carlos. I didn’t think you’d want me—I mean, what with the age gap. Oh, James, I’ve always loved you...’
I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. By the time she’d finished and was looking at me with such a big smile on her face, as if all her Christmases had come at once, I didn’t know what to say. How could I turn around and tell her that the card was just a prank?
‘Let’s get married, James.’
I had no idea she felt that way about me. If I had, I would never have written the card. I went along with the wedding arrangements because she seemed so happy; she’s always been a good friend to me. I didn’t want to break her heart. And it all seemed to happen at breakneck speed. One minute we were talking about it in the office, the next, she was picking out a venue for the reception and talking about sending out invites. I should have said something sooner.
Our work colleagues were so happy for us. Her parents were over the moon. My parents were a bit quiet about it all, especially my mum; I think they were concerned about the age difference.
Finally, I found my tongue. Joan and I were out having dinner a few weeks ago, and she was telling me she’d seen the ideal wedding dress. I just snapped. ‘We’re not getting married!’ I said loudly. The restaurant went quiet, I could have sworn there was music playing before, but now you could hear a pin drop. It was like the world had stopped for a moment.
‘What did you say?’ she asked, quietly.
The rest of the customers in the restaurant were now slowly getting back to their own conversations, so I felt able to talk. ‘I said, I can’t marry you.’ I spoke more softly this time, seeing the disbelief in her eyes.
‘But I’ve booked the registry office, and ordered the...’
I cut her dead. ‘Did I ask you to do all that?’ I said sharply, but not loudly like before, not wanting to draw the attention of the other diners.
‘Well... no, but you asked me to marry you,’ she said, tears forming in her eyes. Then she appeared almost distressed and covered her hand with her mouth. She looked embarrassed. ‘Okay, well, you didn’t ask me,’ she said. ‘I asked you, but you said...’ she stopped.
I shook my head.
‘You didn’t say anything,’ she said. ‘Why have you waited until now?’
It was Joan’s turn to raise her voice and startle the diners now. She stood up. ‘I thought you were my friend!’ she shouted. ‘You’re just like all the others!’
Why didn’t I tell her all this somewhere private? I cursed myself. Everyone in the restaurant, it seemed, was now staring at me. I stood up. ‘Calm down, Joan,’ I said, deluding myself that I was talking to her without an audience. It really felt bizarre, like I was the star in some reality TV show. I had to get out of the restaurant, I was sweating profusely.
She ran out of the restaurant and I was about to follow her, when the waiter noticed me leaving and stopped me. ‘Where do you think you are going? You haven’t paid for your meal.’
I was then forced to stand in that place being ogled by people who thought I must have done something terrible to Joan for her to behave that way. Well, I suppose I did do something terrible, leading her on... but she was the one who had jumped to conclusions too quickly. Anyway, that waiter seemed to be enjoying keeping me waiting. When I finally got out of the restaurant, Joan was gone. I couldn’t find her anywhere.
She never came back to work. The rumour around the office was that she’d fled to Spain to try to get back with Carlos, but I’m sure I saw her on the no.22 bus last week when I was coming back from shopping. I only caught a glimpse of her face because she turned away when she saw me. I was in the street, and she was looking out of the window. Her eyes were full of disdain. I could be wrong, it might not have been her... I guess I’ll never know.
I only hope that she can forgive me one day. I hope she does go back to Spain and finds Carlos. I hope she gets to be happy.
I always thought that you had to do something, or say something really bad to hurt someone so deeply and to lose a friend, but it just goes to show that keeping quiet can be just as destructive.
###
Trevor’s Song Excerpt
The following is an excerpt from Trevor's Song by Susan Helene Gottfried. Fame and fortune have destroyed many a rock star, but not Trevor Wolff. ShapeShifter
band dynamics will never be the same even before Trevor's two girlfriends, a world tour, and a bunch of secrets complicate life. Trevor may have to make common cause with his worst enemy -- his best friend's girl.
You can learn more about Susan and her books at: www.WestofMars.com
Trevor's Song
PART ONE: Take the Stage
ONE
TREVOR
Redheads
"Motherfucker."
One heart-felt word ended Trevor Wolff's third try at jimmying his best friend's front door, and common sense -- let alone his back -- was screaming at him to just give up already. As if it was so easy; Mitchell had actually blown him off the night before, and when Mitchell Voss blew someone off, it was serious. Like any other person on the planet, the big idiot had his faults, but dependability wasn't one of them. Never had been, never would be.
Nope, something had to be up. Something big.
That alone squelched Trevor's thoughts about giving up and going home. After all, Mitchell was, in his own way, family. If things were different and it were Mitchell worried about Trevor, there'd be no quitting until the damn door opened. There was no way Trevor could just abandon Mitchell, even if he truly wanted to. Which he didn't. Truly.
He straightened up to stretch that kink out of his back, push his hair over his shoulders and out of his face, and take a few deep breaths before facing the lock for the fourth fucking time. It made no sense; when his sister's life had been at stake, he'd jimmied her door with his eyes swollen shut, but now, when he doubted the big idiot was actually dead, he was, once again, a useless shit. Just like Hank had spent all those years insisting he was.
Just like Mitchell's parents had spent more recent years trying to tell him he wasn't. And just like ShapeShifter fans proved beyond any doubts, at every record store and every concert. Trevor Wolff was not a useless shit. He was important. His fans said so.
The lock clicked. Trevor was in.
His first thought was that if Mitchell had died, he hadn't started to stink yet. Trevor wondered how long it took before a corpse smelled; he almost regretted passing on his chance to find out. "Woulda served that motherfucker right," he mumbled, remembering Hank's almost nightly transformations.
Trevor shook his head in disgust, choosing to believe that particular asshole was wrong. Hank might have been good for nothing, but that didn't mean his Number Two Kid was the same. Not even close. He was Trevor Fucking Wolff. Accept no substitutes. Or losers.
Trevor looked around for signs of a struggle or any sort of clue that might explain what had happened to Mitchell, but the apartment looked like it always did: an electric guitar abandoned on the otherwise empty couch, the coffee table piled high with music magazines. Paperwork overflowed the small filing cabinet in a nearby corner and had begun an urban sprawl across the small dining table, sparing only a single, crumb-covered placemat. Amps, cords, picks, strings, videos, and mountains of CDs littered the rest of the small room.
Sadly, the walls hadn't been disturbed. The ShapeShifter posters, the promo pictures, and the flyers advertising shows played years ago were all fine and good; they looked exactly like the walls at his own place. What grossed Trevor out about this collection was the thick concentration of pin-ups featuring ShapeShifter's very own Mitchell Voss -- a.k.a. the asshole he was currently worried about.
Someone who didn't know any better would think the guy had a narcissitic complex or something, even though it made sense that Mitchell got all the attention. It wasn't just because singers were hot, especially when you gave them a guitar. Mitchell was a total chick magnet, a fact that got exploited shamelessly by the band's publicity team. It was that long, silvery-blonde hair that Trevor had always hated and those hazel eyes that changed from green to blue that did it. The girls couldn't get enough -- and neither could the losers who did the band's publicity.
Mitchell's bedroom was dark, but Trevor peeked his head inside anyway, hoping he'd find something helpful. He didn't really expect to find the guy himself; sometimes, a man had to be flexible about where you slept. It was a policy that had served Trevor pretty damn well in life until he discovered Mitchell's parents. They'd answer his knock at the door no matter what time, clean most of the blood off his face, and point him to the floor of Mitchell's bedroom. All without giving him a sermon or too much fake sympathy.
No sympathy needed here or now, either. Mitchell was sleeping. In his own bed. Alone, too, although that was the only non-surprise. The guy was fanatical about his refusal to bring girls home. Onto the tour bus, no problem. Backstage with the guys around and watching, even less of an issue. A hotel room… so long as she didn't spend the night, but then again, Eric was the only one of them who didn't have that as standard operating procedure. But his apartment?
Forget it. That bed he slept in was probably as virginal as Mitchell would have been without Trevor around to fix things. Girls were not welcome in Mitchell's home. Hell, most people weren't.
"Wake up, rock star, and tell me how you almost died last night." He jiggled Mitchell's foot through the blanket.
"No," Mitchell said. He wrapped his arms around a pillow and rolled onto his side, kicking his foot free.
"Dick, you blew off Stacia last night."
That got his eyes open. "Fuck."
"Somehow, I doubt you got to," Trevor told him blandly. He sat down on the edge of Mitchell's bed and reached for a cigarette. There had to be at least three ashtrays in the room, and at least one of them probably wasn't overflowing.
"Eh, it was worth it," Mitchell said, stretching. He kicked some more until Trevor stood up and glared back at the guy, his cigarette still unlit and the ashtrays still hiding.
"Nothing is worth missing Stacia for," Trevor told Sleeping Beauty, not sure what was going on here. Mitchell had learned the art of properly appreciating women from the king himself, and Stacia deserved more attention and appreciation than any four other girls combined. So what was Mitchell's problem?
"I don't know, Trev," the big idiot said and yawned. He sat up and tossed his hair over his shoulder, a totally gross glamour-boy move that had the women two apartments over sighing. "This one's something else."
Trev felt his jaw drop as it sunk in. Mitchell had blown off the city's best stripper for … what? Some random chick that he'd found all by himself?
Impossible. Mitchell didn't find women on his own. On the rare occasions when he tried to, they couldn't come anywhere close to Stacia. "So who is she?" Trevor asked eagerly, expecting to hear of a new dancer in town, one who'd somehow managed to avoid his detection.
Mitchell shrugged and scratched his chest. Trev ignored him; he knew the motions of Mitchell's waking up as well as he knew his own. Too many years of sleeping on the guy's bedroom floor, followed by years of touring -- first packed into the back of Mitchell's truck; then, when the band graduated to hotel rooms, as the guy's roommate again. In another minute, he'd light up a cigarette of his own, offer Trevor the flame, produce one of the missing ashtrays, and spill every last detail about this girl. All Trev had to do was wait.
"She's this artist chick I've been talking to at the grocery," Mitchell said without reaching for the traditional wake-up cigarette. "Wait 'til you meet her." He stood up and took the two steps to the bathroom. "And, Trev? She's a redhead." With a wink, Mitchell closed the door behind him.
Trevor gasped audibly as his brain tried to do the calculus. A redhead… an artist… instead of Stacia? The only woman whose hair was as blonde as Mitchell's, and as natural? The only woman who could do that thing with her tongue while she did that thing with her little finger?
He decided he couldn't wait for Mitchell to reappear, so he stormed the bathroom. Mitchell, mouth foamy with toothpaste like some rabid dog, gave him a mildly inquiring look.
"What's this chick got that Stacia doesn't have? She can't be better in bed. No one is. Trust me."
"No thanks." Mitchell spat the rabies foam into the sink and rinsed. "S
orry, Trev. I know that hurts."
Trevor staggered a few steps to the side, needing the wall to hold him up. While he wasn't surprised that Mitchell ignored his antics, he wasn't pleased, either. Those had been good theatrics, his hand clasped to his chest, his breathing coming short. For maximum authenticity, he'd even dredged up the old feeling of trying to swallow his panic. "How can you not care about Stacia?" he asked. "If you're interested in women at all, you're interested in Stacia."
Mitchell just shrugged, and that's when it hit Trevor. The big idiot had gone and fallen in love with this redheaded artist chick.
Trev wasn't faking this time when his legs gave out from under him and he wound up sitting down hard on the bathroom floor.
"I wouldn't sit there," Mitchell said, as mildly as ever, as he stepped past Trevor and pulled a pair of jeans out of one of his dresser drawers. "Howard's refusing to pay Michelle again so she hasn't cleaned in awhile. Some fucking tax thing; he's gotta lighten up already or I'm firing his ass and I don't care how good an accountant he is. I won't live in a filthy apartment."
"You could clean it yourself."
"You could stop whining at Ma until she does it for you."
"Tell me about the girl," Trevor groaned. He got up mostly to follow Mitchell; like he cared about a little dirt on the bathroom floor? Please.
"Last night was the first time we really talked," Mitchell said, this sort of awe creeping into his voice. Trevor peered carefully at him. "We got started over by the bananas," Mitchell said like it was too weird to believe, "and the next thing I knew, we were closing Victory's."
"Bananas will do that to a girl," Trevor agreed, wagging his eyebrows at Mitchell, who reached out to swat the back of Trev's head.
"Get serious."
"Okay. What'd you get at the grocery?" He was, as always, hungry. Never having food in his place didn't help, and his day so far hadn't produced many chances to grab something. Which was all Mitchell's fault, anyway. He'd wound up in such a rush to make sure the asshole hadn't died that when he'd gotten gas for the bike, he'd ducked inside a Quick Mart and wound up with stale cupcakes. For breakfast.