by Rumer Haven
Crap. “Eh. Well. Yeah. I thought so.” She brought her other knee up to her chest.
“Where? What did you see?” Derek’s voice sounded more fascinated than incredulous—desperate for a diversion from his admin tasks, likely—so Margot ran with it and explained what she could’ve sworn she’d seen in the window of Rand’s bedroom the first day she’d arrived in London.
“Whoa, so you’re not talking a shadow out the corner of your eye? You saw an actual person, distinctly?”
“Distinctly enough that I saw a face.” She heard an odd bravado in her voice as she asserted this. Am I so hell-bent on proving it to be true?
“Are you sure you weren’t looking at the window above?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Now that she thought about it, though, a tinge of second-guessing flapped in her memory.
“Were you the only one there?”
“Rand was here, too.”
“Was he with you when you saw it?”
“No, I made him leave because I had to use the bathroom.”
“So maybe he went to his bedroom and it was him you saw.”
“I guess, but he was in the kitchen when I came out. And it looked more like a woman’s figure.”
“Maybe it was housekeeping.”
“I don’t know if he has a service, and wouldn’t I have seen someone? Or at least heard them if they were busy cleaning?”
“I guess. But doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Maybe she’d spent the night and was still over?”
That hadn’t occurred to her.
“No, I didn’t see anyone else all day.” Who was to say, though, that Gwen hadn’t been there? Rand’s door had been closed, as usual. Probably Gwen does sleep here, or did before I came into the picture. Maybe she was pissed Rand left her to pick me up from the airport. Maybe she loitered around to check me out and piss on her territory. But then why didn’t she come out and stare me down? Maybe she’s shy. How could I not’ve seen her the whole rest of the day, though? Oh, right. She could’ve left while I was napping.
But these thoughts were all too Mr. Rochester’s-secret-wife-in-the-attic for Margot to speculate aloud.
“And you could see clearly enough through the window,” Derek said.
“Well, it was daylight, so there was a glare from outside.”
“Were the lights on inside?”
“No.”
“It’s tough to see inside during the day, especially with no lights on.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But you saw actual movement?”
“I thought so, like she was crying, or maybe it was more her posture that implied that. But still.”
“That could’ve been a reflection of another building or trees. Or objects in his room.”
Hmm, that bike rack. But what she’d seen was shapelier than that, like a bust and hips. “I guess these windowpanes are a little distorted, too. I don’t know if it’s their size or age or what, but the glass is slightly rippled.”
“So the windows could’ve twisted a reflection into what you saw.”
“Possibly, yeah. But I can’t check now ’cause it’s dark.” Sinking in her chair with a frown, Margot replayed her memory over and over before brightening and sitting up. “Hold up. There was a movement. I thought I saw the woman raise her hands to her face!”
“A branch blowing in the wind? A bird swooping up?”
“True.”
The computer monitor switched to screen-saver mode. Tapping the keyboard to return to the chat window and blue desktop background, she watched an eye floater drift through Rand’s file icons.
“You know, my floaters are getting worse.”
“I get those, too. I pretend they’re sea monkeys.”
Margot laughed. “Thanks. So much cuter to think I have parasites infesting my eyes.”
“So you think maybe that’s what you saw move? Your floaters?”
Pause. “Damn, I bet you’re right.”
“You almost sound disappointed.”
“No, just concerned my own eyes could trick me like that. But I did have a migraine right around then. God, do you think I’m batty?”
Derek sighed. “Of course not, darlin’. I think yer paranoid, but you’ve also had a lot on your mind.” He chuckled. “That game of Ouija probably didn’t help with putting ideas in your head.”
“Seriously! Neither does being in this country where everything’s haunted!”
Margot went on to describe her excursions outside the city. This included the ghost tour in Stratford-upon-Avon, which reconfirmed their new theory that her fright was fed by frequent exposure to all-things-haunted lately. Derek, for one, was settled on the case once they’d tried to change the subject to their latest book and film recs, and Margot described her current reading: Gregory Maguire’s Lost, the story of an American woman who visits her male British friend in London and suspects his flat is haunted. She felt incredibly stupid as she heard the words leave her mouth.
“Oh Christ, Margot! Duh?”
“Okay, I know.”
“Since when are you this impressionable?”
“Shut up, I know.”
“I mean, life might be different right now, but it doesn’t mean you’re in an alternate universe.”
“Yes, I get it. It is a novel. A novel is fiction by definition. I am real, living a real life.”
“You sure about that? I picture you lying on a chaise-longue eating bon-bons and getting totally absorbed in bad British soaps all day.”
“Yep, you’re right. That’s all I do, all day.”
“Oh, c’mon, I’m kidding…”
“No, really, I get it. I’m the neurotic loser without a job, right, so I have nothing better to do than make shit up with my idle mind.”
“Damn, I was only saying—”
“Yeah, if only I could embrace life like you. You’re really livin’ the dream behind that desk, aren’t ya, man? Before playing for free beer at some bar tonight?”
“Right. Because we can’t all be so worldly and attend summer school again in our twenties.”
“It’s professional development. It’s not like I’m making up for a failed class.”
“Just a failed career?”
“Ha.”
“That’s right, because you don’t stick with anything long enough to fail at it. You just quit while you’re ahead so no one can see that even you are capable of failing, Margot.”
“Don’t sound so sure of it.”
“I guess the world will never know, will it?”
“Oh, because you have it so figured out, Derek. I hope you and Sylvie can have a good laugh about this later, when you continue comparing notes on what an arrogant, overachieving, antisocial, tight-ass prude I am.”
“Easy. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything I said.”
Margot caged her next words behind clenched teeth. Breathing deeply through her nose, she maintained an uncomfortable silence until her spite passed as quickly as it had come on. Maybe she was still pretty drunk.
“I’ll let you go, all right?” he said. “I know it’s late there, and I’d better get going if I’m gonna earn my beer tonight.”
Ouch. Time to reboot. “God, Derek, I am so—”
“Ah-ah-ah,” he tsked. “Love means never having to say it. Not another word. Just let it go and have a good night.”
With those parting words, Margot of course knew there’d be nothing good about her night. She dragged her feet down the hallway and back into the bathroom to draw another hot bath.
Dipping into the steaming water and curling her knees into her chest, she slipped down against the slick porcelain until her chin met the bathwater. In over ten years, she and Derek had never spoken to each other that way, not even as hormonally imbalanced adolescents. And she’d been the one to provoke it, poking at her friend with a stick until he bit back. Why? When good friends started to feel like enemies, it left her with such a strong feeling of distrust in…who, exactly, she
didn’t know.
Mostly herself.
Chapter 5
Une Nouvelle Amie
THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY droned with research as grad students kick-started their first projects of the term.
Cranky after Monday classes, Margot was brisk with her assigned partner, contributing her ideas and dividing tasks so she could quickly dismiss herself until their next meeting. Not the best improvement in social graces to follow her call with Derek, but Rand hadn’t returned until late the night before, and she’d wanted to wait up for him. They had stayed up for a while chatting—and trying to do something about that awful wine stain on the carpet—so neither had gotten very much sleep.
Margot yawned as she paid half attention to her classmate’s final thoughts. Chloé Loiseau was a sprightly, doe-eyed Frenchwoman in her late twenties who’d quickly agreed on Margot’s suggested topic, pertaining to how twenty-first-century women were portrayed in advertising. So, soon enough, Chloé primly snapped her leather tote shut and departed the lab.
Contentedly sitting alone, Margot zoned into social media. She had a notification that Sylvie had finally replied to her message.
OMG, Derek did tell me about that. I wouldn’t take it personally, though. He’s hurt, but feels bad about what he said, too. Am sure he’s always been a little jealous of your achievements and let it get the better of him, but he’ll come around soon. You know he loves to push buttons and will eat crow when we run the vintage shop. :)
Both embarrassed and relieved by the kind absolution, Margot decided to let the matter drop as Derek had asked. She’d just give him the time he needed, which was easier to do half a world apart.
But she couldn’t shake off Sylvie’s last comment as easily. The vintage shop was their secret—and imaginary—escape route whenever real life got annoying. It was a game Margot had started, in which they assumed the alter egos of old-lady shop owners “Marge” and “Sylvia.” More and more, though, Sylvie had been talking about it as something they would actually own someday, and Margot hoped she was still kidding. Optimism was one thing, delusion quite another. Margot considered playing along in her response but didn’t see the point in taunting her friend or herself with pipe dreams. She replied with a thumbs-up emoji and left it at that.
Slowly gathering her things with growing fatigue, she stood to leave. But a flash of dusty pink pranced into her peripheral vision just as she reached the main exit. She felt a touch on her arm that sent a shock through its muscle.
Catching her breath, she turned to see bony fingers resting there, then looked up into Chloé’s gaze. The woman’s heart-shaped face and dark eyes were sweetly framed by a pixie cut. Her cardigan of tea rose, thin as tissue, softened her visage with a dreamlike effect.
“Margot, would you like to join me for coffee?”
Tongue-tied, Margot held Chloé’s intent stare and fought off a sudden vertigo. “Oh, yeah, sure. When were you thinking?” she finally stammered, feeling tall and gawky beside the petite figure. She was also self-conscious of her harsh Chicagoan accent that must have sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Chloé’s fine, elfin ears.
“I’m free now, if possible. We can go somewhere closer to home. To where you’re staying.”
Margot longed to go home and hole up in her bedroom so badly she could have cried. Yet, “Um, sure,” was her reply when she felt her cheeks burn in a moment of hesitation gone on too long. A hesitation that also had something to do with the feel of Chloé’s hand still on her arm.
“Please don’t feel obligated.” Chloé shook her head. “We can do another time that’s better for you. Or not, too.”
“No. I mean yes, yes, I can join you now. I’m totally free and would love that. Sorry if I’m a little out of it.”
Margot’s recovery appeared a success when Chloé squeezed her arm with an excited “Allons-y.”
Dusk was falling as they walked toward the nearest Underground station. Chloé’s meekness evaporated with the raindrops that had briefly showered the glistening pavement; she twittered how glad she was to be paired with Margot and researching their topic.
“Aw, thank you. Likewise.”
“You have a casual kind of chic that I like, so I was surprised when I first heard your accent.”
“Thanks? I think?”
“It’s a compliment. Most Americans I see looked dressed for exercise even if they’re at a museum.”
Margot got a kick out of how Chloé didn’t seem to realize her stereotypical comment could offend her present company. That she was, on the other hand, fully aware was another possibility.
Chloé continued. “You at least know to wear a scarf. I can teach you ways to tie it.”
“Thanks. Though I confess I just bought this the other day ’cause I was freezing! I didn’t expect that in June.”
“It’s a dreary island.”
Margot sniggered. “At least now the music makes sense. I grew up on a lot of British rock.”
“Oh, please don’t start singing The Beatles,” Chloé implored rather seriously.
She chuckled again, shaking her head. “More like the eighties British Invasion. The alternative stuff that actually sounds like gray sky.”
The exchange of tastes in music and fashion continued on the Tube ride, flowing naturally if not for the frequent jostling of commuters given that rush hour was underway; feeling like sardines, they were lucky to even have room to stand. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into Earl’s Court Station, where Chloé said it would only be a few minutes’ walk to the Troubadour.
Margot’s inner social butterfly suddenly rared to unfurl its wings. She still felt like an inadequate ogre around her petite classmate, though, so was grateful to sit down once they entered the café. She just needed to mind how she moved her long limbs beneath the vintage table to not kick anything, a frequent hazard for an American used to grazing in the wide-open spaces of freestanding franchise restaurants.
A lanky waiter in a plaid cap brought them laminated menus of the evening’s cocktail specials.
“Salut,” Chloé said to him with a smile before suggesting to Margot, “Perhaps an apéritif would be nice instead.”
“Twist my arm. Coffee would keep me awake all night anyway. I think I’ll go with wine, though.”
“Ah, me as well,” she agreed and, getting the okay from Margot to try a dry white, she turned to the waiter and ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “A proper French wine, not Napa Valley.” This time the teasing was plainly intentional.
“Ever hear of the seventy-six wine-tasting in Paris?” Margot couldn’t help asking. Chloé seemed keen on enlightening the Ugly American, so Margot reckoned she could teach a thing or two herself. “The blind taste-test that included Californian wines? Guess who came out on top.”
Chloé maintained a poker face. “I have a cousin named Margot. It’s a very pretty French name.”
The abrupt change in subject took Margot aback, but she granted that maybe conversational esteem-boosters like smiling and nodding, with a sprinkling of uh-huh? here and there, were a distinctly American trait. “Thanks, I like yours, too. Also French?”
“Greek, but merci. I was named for Ravel’s ballet, Daphnis et Chloé. My mother, such a romantic like me.”
Margot smiled but didn’t wish to indulge starry-eyed fancies or end up having to confess her own romantic sob story. She veered clear by asking, “Do you like ballet?”
“Not particularly, though I did train as a young girl. My mother always dreamed of becoming a prima ballerina. She hoped to live vicariously through me.” She shrugged. “But, I didn’t enjoy it, and she was good to know her dreams aren’t mine to fulfill. I do content her by accompanying her to ballets, though I prefer other performances.”
“Like Moulin Rouge?”
From Chloé’s incredulous expression, she clearly missed the sarcasm.
“I’m just kidding, Chloé. That’s my immature way of asking what types of performances you do like. Plays, mu
sicals, concerts…” Mimes…
The conversation had become work, and apparently the teasing could go only one way. So, from that point, Margot divided her concentration between listening to her classmate’s replies and thinking up new questions to stockpile as ammo. She dreaded awkward silences as much as cultural misunderstandings.
Spying their waiter rounding the corner with wine in hand, she thought, Gee, if only there were some serum that could make this less uncomfortable. Oh, what have we here?
Once he arrived at their table, she wished she could speed up his flaunted pouring process, which allowed them to taste first. She’d never send a bottle back anyway if it was already opened on her behalf. Not even James did that, even when the wine was obviously corked. With Chloé, though, she supposed she couldn’t be so sure what to expect, and, almost with trepidation, she watched her new friend sniff then swill the wine.
“Yes, very good. Thank you.”
Once her glass was filled, Margot gulped the Sauvignon Blanc too quickly to appreciate its bouquet and flavor, but it did what she needed it to after four full sips.
Feeling the burn in her belly, she settled back more comfortably in her seat with her fingers intertwined on her stomach, finally taking in the atmosphere. This was a cozy place with its dark wooden fixtures, art mingling with antique instruments, and miscellaneous teapots along the walls. In a period of silence that she felt increasingly at ease in, she snatched a flyer from between the condiments and read a blurb on the establishment’s history, impressed to find that its downstairs club had hosted the likes of Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello. A bohemian spirit was alive and well here, and she felt contentedly displaced in time.
“You like it here, yes?”
“Yes.” Margot smiled. “Very much.”
“I thought you might.”
“It reminds me of my favorite café in Chicago.”
“An Al Capone hideout?” Chloé smugly offered.
Margot found it amusing that all her home city was ever associated with was gangsters, Michael Jordan, and wind.
“No. Although…” She figured she could indulge her. “It’s only a few blocks away from where the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre occurred, right in Lincoln Park.”