Tempt Me

by S. E. Lund

  When I returned home to Manhattan, I cleaned out the apartment we had shared and put it on the market, moving into a different one owned by the company in the new building. I hadn't taken the time to find a proper apartment elsewhere and so had stayed in the apartment with my few personal possessions. I got a storage space for a year, to store the rest of the stuff I had accumulated until I felt recovered enough to search for a home of my own.

  Now, I'd wait for my future wife so we could find a place together.

  Part of me knew I would have to seriously focus on meeting women and being real with them, but at that moment, the sting of my breakup with the woman I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with was still real enough that I didn't want to deal with it.

  So I didn't.

  Instead, I'd let Marcella do the work, not really believing she could find me a wife. With the money I'd get access to, I could invest in hiring a full complement of staff and finish furnishing and appointing the offices I'd had custom built in the Fifth Avenue building that Michael and I had teamed up to work on.

  In truth, I suspected that I was approaching it this way to protect myself from caring too much about the outcome, even though this was probably the most momentous life decision I could make. That small part of me that knew I was acting foolishly was shoved aside for the part of me that thought hiring someone to do the legwork was just a smart business move.

  If Marcella was right, I figured that in a year or two at most, I'd be on my honeymoon with my new wife, and we'd spend the first month on a vacation, trying to get her pregnant. Then, in nine months, our baby would be born. A year later, I'd inherit the second instalment of my trust account.

  I didn't believe it for a moment, but at least I could put it out of my mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Ella

  I did my best to organize the small number of possessions I brought with me from New Hampshire. Three sleeveless dresses, three cashmere cardigan sweaters, two pairs of slacks, five t-shirts, a jacket, boyfriend jeans, undies and bras, socks, yoga pants and sleeveless t-shirt, and scarves galore. Add a pair of pumps, a sexy pair of strappy pumps, running shoes, and boots, and that was the extent of my wardrobe. I'd have to be creative with my scarves and sweater/dress combinations so that I didn't seem to be wearing the same thing every day.

  I spent that night alone in my tiny apartment, eating some curry from a take-out restaurant down the street – my one indulgence. The next morning, I'd start my new position, and I wanted everything to be perfect.

  Before bed, I laid out my black sleeveless dress, a pink cashmere cardigan, my sober black pumps, and hose, hanging everything on a hanger on the back of the door. If I timed everything right, I could hop out of bed at seven fifteen, eat my breakfast, have a shower, dress, and leave the apartment by eight fifteen, arriving at the publishing house at eight fifty, with ten minutes to pick up a coffee and make it inside to my destiny.

  At least, that was the plan.

  Things turned out to be very not according to plan.

  I stood in the middle of Grand Central Station where I had to change trains and realized I'd been robbed.

  I had arrived only moments earlier, and decided to check out the subway map to make sure I was taking the right train to get to work when I got an email. I heard the ping and opened my backpack, then removed my cell.

  Sure enough, there was an email from Sharon.

  Ella!

  I'm sorry but I have to cancel our meeting this morning. Can you come at 1:30 instead? My filling fell out when I was eating a pumpernickel bagel and one of the pieces of caraway must have knocked it out, so I'll be at the dentist. Please, take the morning off. I do need you this afternoon though. Bring a notebook and pen and be ready to take notes. I would usually have supplies for you, but we're in a temp office until renovations on our new one is finished, and the stock room is all packed up. I'll reimburse you for anything you spend until they finish the new office space. Thank God, you're here. I've been without someone to help since my last intern left two weeks ago so believe me, I'm so happy that I have you. Meet me at my office at 1:30. I have a 2:00 and want you to take notes, but I'll have time to show you around the office and get you set up in your temporary space before the meeting.

  Can't wait to have you as my assistant and help organize my day.

  Sharon

  I sent her a response right away.

  Sharon!

  So sorry your filling fell out. I'll be there at 1:30 sharp.

  I'm really glad to be working with you.

  Ella

  So there I was, having arrived downtown for my first day of work, and I had the morning to kill. I stood in Grand Central and glanced around, admiring the beautiful art deco building. Just then, a nice little old lady wearing a polka-dot kerchief over her grey hair stood beside me.

  "Excuse," she said in a thick Eastern European accent. "Could you please to help me find?"

  "Sure," I said and leaned closer, checking out the address scrawled on a piece of paper. Then I examined the large transit map she opened, trying to help her find a specific stop on the subway that would take her to an address in Brighton Beach.

  That was my first mistake.

  I mean, who was I to think I should be helping someone else find their way around the city when I had only just arrived? But I was sure I could read a map... Besides, she was such a sweet old lady.

  Suddenly the old lady folded the map up. "Thank you," she said. "Now I go."

  Then she sped off, suddenly and amazingly agile. The thing was, she left the station instead of going down to the platform and taking the train I'd suggested.

  "Hey!" I called out. "You're going the wrong way!" I gestured to the escalator leading down to the platform she was supposed to be taking, but she disappeared out the door and into the morass of pedestrians. I shrugged to myself, figuring she must have her reasons, and leaned over to grab my backpack.

  In a completely comedic fashion, I reached into thin air where my backpack had once been, only to find it was gone. Unbeknownst to me, while I was so kindly and naively studying the map to figure out how the little old lady could get to her destination, her accomplice was busy snagging my backpack. The super-fantastic backpack specially designed to contain all my most valuable possessions.

  My laptop. My cell. My wallet. My passport. My freaking money order for the apartment in Chelsea – the real apartment, with the real exposed brick and private bathroom.

  I turned and saw a person rushing out another door, my backpack in hand.

  "Hey, you! Stop!"

  I chased after the middle-aged woman, my black heels clattering on the stairs, but before I could get to the street, she disappeared into a wall of people.

  Feeling helpless, I went back into the station and stood there speechless, at a loss for what to do next. I had to take a train to Fifth Avenue, for my first day as an intern. I should never have put my backpack down and let my attention be distracted elsewhere, but I was trying to be nice. The poor little old Slavic lady had looked confused and helpless. My instincts were to help her.

  I was freaking out internally that I'd just lost all my ID, not to mention the cashier's check for my first and last month's rent, which represented months of savings. I was supposed to give the landlord the check when I went to pick up the keys to my new apartment on Monday after work.

  I'd have to go to my bank and get another check, but of course, since I didn't have my ID, how would they know it was me?

  Oh. My. God...

  Now, what the hell was I going to do? I'd be homeless unless I could somehow get a new cashier's check. Without it, I'd have no apartment.

  As it was I had no cellphone. No laptop. Worst of all, no wallet. Even my damn keys to the Airbnb were gone. I'd have to call the landlord to get her to let me in.

  But... my cell was in my damn backpack!

  I went to a payphone and called Steph, my best friend in all the world, who was going to join me in Ma
nhattan as soon as her exams were finished at Christmas.

  I called collect.

  As soon as she answered, the words just spilled out of me.

  "Steph, oh my God, I can't believe what happened – I just arrived in Grand Central Station on my way to my new job and was just helping this little old lady with a babushka and someone who was her accomplice took my backpack and--"

  Finally, she stopped me.

  "Ella!" she said in a firm voice. "Slow down. Slow down. Don't panic."

  Don't panic? How could she tell me not to panic? She knew me better than anyone. Panic was my middle name.

  "What do you mean, don't panic?" I said, glancing around the station. "Everything's gone! I've been robbed. I have nothing. No money, no ID, no laptop."

  "Nothing?"

  "I have my suitcase with clothes in the Airbnb I rented but everything else is gone and I can't even get into my apartment because the key is in my backpack. That's why I'm calling collect."

  "Oh, God," she said, and even she was starting to sound panicked. "You have to call your bank immediately and cancel your credit cards and debit cards. You have to go to the police and report the theft. If you want, I'll buy you a ticket so you can come home. I'll pay for it and you can pick it up."

  "I don't want to come back," I replied, glancing around the station. Even if it was big and scary, I had a job here and I was damned well not going to go running back home, tail between my legs. "I've been wanting an opportunity like this for years."

  "Sometimes you have to admit defeat. Besides, the internship is unpaid. I'll buy you a ticket. All you have to do is pick it up."

  "With what?" I asked, running my hand through my hair. "I can't even prove who I am."

  I heard a huge sigh on the other end of the line. "I don't know what else to do. Go to the American Consulate?"

  "Seriously?" I chewed my nail. "Maybe I can go to the Social Security Office and tell them my card number?"

  "I don't know. My brother lost his wallet once and it was hell trying to get everything replaced, but he had his Social Security card at home. You're not supposed to carry it in your wallet, you know. Just in case someone steals it or you lose it. Identity theft? John used his Social Security number as proof of ID. Plus he had all his banking info. Letters to him from the bank. The only other option you have is to call your dad. He probably has friends in Manhattan. They could provide for you, get you some money until you can replace everything – but it'll be expensive. New cell, new laptop. All that ID."

  A surge of adrenaline went through my veins. "He'll more likely to send a private plane and make me come back to New Hampshire."

  "He might, but only because he loves you."

  I rubbed my forehead, feeling the first tinges of a headache coming on. "I can't call him and ask for help. It'll just confirm in his mind that I can't take care of myself."

  "Which, obviously, you can't..."

  "Steph! I'm the victim here. You're supposed to be my bestie. You're supposed to be sympathetic."

  "I'm supposed to tell you the unvarnished truth. You're clearly too inexperienced in the ways of the world to be in Manhattan all on your own. You were robbed your first week."

  "My third day."

  "Even worse," she said. "Call your dad."

  No freaking way. Yes, I got taken in, robbed in the middle of the morning in a public space. That wasn't lost on me. But I wasn't going to give in so easily.

  The very last thing I'd do was call him – Mr. Future President, as I liked to call him teasingly. He'd shake his finger at me and tell me that he was right, I shouldn't have moved to Manhattan. I should have stayed in Concord and lived with him and my mother until I found another husband.

  "Look, I have to go to my job, talk to my boss. Maybe she'll accept an email transfer and give me some cash so I can at least get a new cell. I could probably get by with a tablet instead of a laptop. That would be cheaper. I could use my computer at work to access my bank account and send her my money."

  "Ella..."

  "Well, it's worth a try, right?"

  "Okay, but she'll think you're a total loser if you tell her you were robbed on your first day on the job and need to hit her up for money."

  "What's worse is that my cashier's check for first and last on the Chelsea apartment was in my bag. I don't even have that or my keys to the Airbnb."

  "Oh, God, Ella. You are so screwed. Where are you going to stay?"

  "I don't know. I'll have to contact the landlord to get into my place in Chelsea. If I can get money to my boss, maybe she can get a cashier's check for me? The least I can do is go to the meeting and explain what happened and ask for her help. If she won't help, then I'll call my dad."

  "Call me as soon as you know what's happening. When you get back, we can get drunk."

  "I'm not coming back," I said, a little too firmly. I took in a deep cleansing breath, trying to calm myself. "If I have to come back, I'm just going to do it all again, and you know it, so I might as well soldier on."

  "I do know it. Why you can't be happy here I'll never know. What's Concord? Chopped liver?"

  "It's not Manhattan. Manhattan is where the literary world lives."

  "I know, I know. Call me collect as soon as you know what's going on. Love you."

  Steph ended the call so I hung up the payphone receiver and stood there for a moment, debating whether to call my father now or later. I had about $4.95 in my pocket and wanted to save that in case I needed to eat or make another call.

  First on my agenda – find a library so I could use a computer to let Sharon, my boss, know I was going to be late. Then, I had to go to the closest police precinct and report the theft.

  I found a nearby public library and sat at a terminal, thankful that there was some public access to the internet in the city. I had less than five dollars in my pocket and didn't want to have to buy a coffee just to use the internet café down the street.

  I opened my Gmail and sent Sharon a note, wanting to ensure that I hadn't been scammed about the internship on top of everything else. I didn't believe Sharon was a fake boss, but after the start to my morning, I was beginning to think I was the most naïve person alive.

  I walked the ten blocks to the 17th Precinct and stopped at the front desk.

  "I need to report a crime."

  The duty officer, tall and older with thick dark hair shot through with grey, looked up from his roster and stared at me through his reading glasses.

  "What crime?"

  "I was robbed. In Grand Central Station."

  He looked me over and I could tell from the expression on his face that he could barely keep from laughing out loud.

  "You're in luck. We're unusually quiet right now. Fill out a form and you'll meet with an officer to give a statement." He turned to the large room where several police officers sat at their desks.

  "Hey, Barnesy," he called out to a police officer sitting a few desks over. "I've got a live one for you."

  Barnesy – aka Sgt. Barnes – was equally unsympathetic to my plight. Middle-aged, balding, with a tiny red swizzle stick clamped tightly between his teeth, Barnes sat at his desk and hesitated when I related to him what happened. I could see him trying to hold back a grin.

  He took the swizzle stick out of his mouth and jabbed the air with it. "So, you say you sat down at a bench, and an older woman approached you and asked for help with a transit map."

  "Yes. Exactly. She seemed nice and sweet. Like a grandmother, a recent immigrant. All dressed in black like an old widow. She sat beside me and opened this big map of the subway system. I leaned over and tried to figure it out."

  "And on your second day in Manhattan, you felt capable of explaining the transit system to someone else?" he asked, an expectant expression on his not-sympathetic face.

  I shrugged one shoulder, feeling like a total idiot.

  "I wanted to help an old lady. You know, be kind to your elders? Besides, I spent hours studying the transit map
before I came here, so I know it pretty well. We tried to figure it out together. Or so I thought..."

  He finally cracked a smile, but it wasn't a mean smile. I thought I saw some sympathy in his eyes. He turned back to his computer keyboard. "What did she look like?"

  I gave him details about the woman and watched while he typed with two fingers on his keyboard. Elderly with grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a black scarf over top. Blue eyes. Slavic accent. Thick black overcoat. I didn't really look at her too much, wanting to be polite.

  "And when did you realize your backpack was gone?"

  "After the woman left. She seemed in a hurry to leave but she didn't take the train I said she should take. I reached down to get my backpack to catch my own train and it was gone."

  He glanced at his computer screen over his reading glasses. "It's a common scam in public transit spaces. Distract the target, then snag the purse or bag. Happens pretty much every day." He typed on his keyboard for a moment.

  "I saw a woman leaving with my backpack in hand. I chased her but I was wearing these," I said. and showed him my heels. "I couldn't run fast enough to catch up."

  I described the younger woman – dressed in ordinary clothes, jeans, a long black sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  "What's the chance that I'll ever see my backpack and ID again?"

  He turned to me and looked me squarely in the eye. "I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, but you will probably never see any of your possessions again. It's highly unlikely that we will recover your property. In the future, keep your backpack on or keep it between your knees. The place is teeming with pickpockets and thieves."