by Linda Coles
With her bags on the pavement and the sound of car doors slamming, a bronzed, open-shirted elderly man appeared on the front steps, his smile as big and bright as a Colgate advert. He wasted no time in greeting her as he rushed forward.
“Miss Chrissy, it’s so good to see you again,” he said enthusiastically. “Good trip?”
“Great, thanks, Joseph. Glad to be back. Are you well?” She picked up one bag, and Joseph picked up the other. While Chrissy was more than capable of handling her own luggage, the elderly man would have been offended had she taken them both. He slung the lighter bag over his shoulder as they went up the front steps and indoors.
The ceiling fan was spinning full tilt, sending a cool breeze wafting through the place tinged with both the smell of both LA and the ocean. After her bags were deposited on the wooden floor, Chrissy headed straight out onto the patio, where she stood stock still, head tilted towards the sunshine, eyes firmly closed. The sun was relaxing on her tired body and she wondered if she’d make it until bedtime without a nap. The clinking of ice cubes against the inside of a glass caught her attention, and she opened her eyes to see Joseph coming towards her, bearing a tall jug of fresh homemade lemonade on a tray, alongside a tall glass. There was also a tiny bowl of mixed fruit and nuts to nibble on. He’d been doing the same routine for as long as she could remember. She took a seat on the lounger, and Joseph set the tray on the low stone table by her side.
“Thanks, Joseph,” she said taking a long mouthful of chilled nectar. “Will you be coming back this week? I thought we might go out for lunch if you’re free.” They did the same thing each visit—like they did the lemonade.
“Then I will be around. Thank you. You know where to find me,” he said, bowing slightly as he left her to it, his Colgate smile wide and bright.
Flipping her legs up on the sun lounger in the dappled shade, she waved and thanked him again. She kicked her shoes off and let them fall to the deck, then wiggled her pink-painted toes, thankful for their freedom and the light breeze caressing them. There’d be sand between each of them later on when she hit the beach before dinner. Until then, with her head back and the lingering sweetness of lemonade on her lips, she felt herself drift off to sleep, like being carried off to a soft cloud in the sky, the local sounds of a foreign town propelling her to her destination.
It was close to 7 PM when she awoke again; the sun behind her was lower in the sky. Realising the time, she groaned, then resigned herself to the fact she’d have missed any chance of seeing Philip Banks or Alistair Crowley leaving their office for the day.
“No matter,” she said. “There’s always tomorrow morning.” Pouring another glass of lemonade, she drank it down, quenching her parched mouth. No matter what class you flew, dehydration and jet lag were something that invariably arrived in their own time.
The ice had long ago melted, but the drink still tasted good and the sugar hit was a welcome addition. Since she’d promised her toes some sand, she quickly changed into shorts and a T-shirt, stuffing a few dollar bills and her credit card into a pocket.
Chrissy Livingstone was hot to trot.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Her longer-than-expected afternoon nap the previous day had meant an early rise. There was only so much sleep your body could consume, and when you lay there wide awake at odd hours knowing that sleep was not about to return, it was just as well to get up. Joseph had organised fresh juice, which she’d sipped watching the sun rise, then progressed to making a pot of fresh coffee as her energy returned. She needed the caffeine if she was going to go for a quick run; right now, her body felt more like an old snail carrying its house on its back than that of a regular runner. By her second mugful, she felt better; fuel was surging around her veins. She took out her running kit and trainers then added her armband pouch that contained her phone and playlists. By 6.30 AM, she was out and hitting the pavement, destination the boardwalk than ran south to Venice Beach. And Abbot Kinney.
As usual, a crowd was already out—those getting their exercise fix in before work, and those getting it out of the way before their day began, depending on how they looked at it. Not everyone enjoyed running, or exercise, Chrissy knew; most tolerated it as a way to eat more of the things they enjoyed or to keep up a level of fitness. For Chrissy, it was both. Calories in meant calories had to leave, too, if she wanted to maintain a healthy weight and a decent a level of fitness. In a previous life, she’d been a good deal more serious about it and had attended a gym daily for strengthening exercises, but since her ‘retirement,’ she’d dropped that entirely.
By the time she’d got to the concrete track, the surf breaking gently on her right, her face was already covered with a wet film of sweat that would soon turn into tear-like trickles that would run down to her cleavage and soak into her crop top. She liked to think that each trickle was the crap leaving her body. Her cloth cap kept the liquid from stinging her eyes.
In the distance, she could see the street cleaning machine long before she heard it, but then Taylor Swift was dominating her eardrums through her headphones. She fixed on it as she moved forward. It slowly made its way towards her, meandering in and out of the recesses of the boardwalk, past benches that still contained sleeping bodies, shopping trollies full of belongings by their side. A running group headed towards her, the pacer at the front keeping them up to speed. As the group drew closer, Chrissy smiled good morning to the pacer, who blanked her completely. As did the front row of her charges.
Welcome back to LA, Chrissy.
She’d adjust by the time she was due to leave. The culture was somewhat different than lush and leafy Englefield Green, where greetings were warm. In LA, the sun was warm, the greetings few and far between. It could, at times, be a lonely city.
By the time she’d got to Muscle Beach, she was soaked and panting hard. She pulled up to a walk and sauntered over to an empty bench. The toilet block behind her was being hosed out. Water ran in narrow rivers towards the drain; the building would be saturated inside, but clean for the day ahead. Chrissy adjusted her soaked running cap slightly and wiped her sunglasses on the edge of her shorts before shielding her eyes with them again. With constant sunshine came constant brightness. Noticing the water fountain a few feet further along, she ambled over, her breathing almost back to normal, and bent to take a sip. It was slightly warm, but it was better than nothing. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she went back to her bench to watch the world go by.
Chapter Fifty
Philip had slept fitfully again and woke up to his alarm clock blaring. His hand reached out and turned it off, then flopped back down onto the bed. He groaned to himself, then turned over onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. Memories of his placed being rifled through stomped into his head like a marching band and he groaned out loud. An image of Frank Jamieson’s face popped into his head, adding to the mayhem. Today, he’d organise someone to sweep his and Alistair’s apartments, to put their minds at rest that no one was watching them in the shower. They could ill afford it, but sleep was more important. He hated sleeping in boxer shorts, but under the circumstances, he’d made an exception. As he slipped out from under his sheets, he was glad he’d worn them. He valued his privacy, and liked to share only on his own terms.
Even though his energy level was trailing around the floor line somewhere, he changed discreetly into his running gear and headed out. At least the sunshine would lift his spirits. He grabbed a bunch of dollar bills and slipped them into his phone pouch to buy a breakfast muffin on his way back.
He headed south towards Santa Monica Pier. His body felt heavy as he tried to get into his stride; the rhythm felt out of sync somehow. He was clearly sleep-deprived. He slowed right down and tried to find his groove as a small group trotted comfortably past like an army unit out on a drill. He counted their rhythm in his head: ‘one, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.’ Then, on a whim, he slipped into the back, unnoticed, and began to run with them.
After a couple of minutes, he relaxed into it, and when he felt comfortable again, he dropped away from them to concentrate on his own workout.
He passed a bench, where he noticed a woman dressed in running gear similar to his own, soaked with sweat from her own run, plus a bright pink cap. He carried on forward.
Chrissy sat on the bench watching a male runner in a bright green cap awkwardly trying to find a rhythm. Her eyes followed him until he settled, found his stride and separated himself from his group. She’d had days like that herself, when she hadn’t slept well or something was on her mind. Chrissy sat for another couple of minutes before setting out on her journey home; the other runners were now a long way in front of her.
She needed to hustle if she was going to get to Philip and Alistair’s office in time to see them arrive; she didn’t want to miss either of them this morning.
Chapter Fifty-One
You never felt bad for going for a run, Chrissy knew. It might be hard mustering the motivation some mornings, but the feeling of accomplishment, and a beet-red face dripping with sweat on your return, made it all worthwhile. Chrissy stood panting on the pavement on Wilshire Boulevard.
Calories out meant calories in.
And vice versa.
Donuts!
Pulling out a handful of notes from her armband, she waited for someone who looked like they were about to head inside the donut store. A woman walked towards her and Chrissy politely excused herself.
“Hi. I’m a bit sweaty—would you mind getting a couple of donuts for me, please? Only I don’t want to put others off.” The young woman looked her up and down and grinned.
“I can see you’ve earned them. Sure. What flavours?” she asked.
“A huckleberry and a maple, thanks.” She handed over the money and sat on the nearby steps to wait for her breakfast. She didn’t have long to wait.
“Here you go,” the woman said, and again Chrissy thanked her, taking the bag and reaching inside for the maple donut. The woman grinned at her again before walking away, and Chrissy wasn’t sure if she was admiring her running efforts or thinking a sweat-soaked runner looked odd tucking into donuts for breakfast. It didn’t matter either way. Her teeth sank into the first one and she groaned at the sticky goodness. Nobody made donuts like the Americans, and it was one of the first things she bought herself every time she was in town. She chewed each mouthful slowly, relishing each crumb. When the first one was all gone, she peered into the bag at the other one. It was meant for later, after her shower. Tradition. Patience was one thing Chrissy had in truckloads, so she set off back towards home, vowing to resist and wait until she was clean.
Plus, she had somewhere to be.
Her Uber driver waited out front. She slipped into the rear seat and they headed out into the rush hour traffic, destination Abbot Kinney and the offices of Banks & Crowley. Her second donut was burning a hole through the brown bag beside her, but her plan was to grab a coffee and sit watching the door from somewhere nearby, looking like any other worker having breakfast before heading into the office. She’d fit right in. The morning haze was hanging around, and it was warm both inside and outside the car. The driver’s stereo was playing an Elvis song from way back. She hummed along with A Little Less Conversation and smiled at the irony of it.
I like my drivers silent.
Like this one.
Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up at her destination. Everything in LA was twenty minutes away, or so the saying went. Chrissy thanked the driver and stepped out onto the pavement. There were plenty of people about, and she stepped into a store doorway to gather her bearings and see what was what. Banks & Crowley’s offices were almost opposite, but as yet there was no movement. Chrissy hoped she hadn’t missed them.
A coffee shop a couple of doors down caught her attention; it had a long queue out the door. She joined it and kept an eye on the office door until the queue moved inside. A woman in the queue ahead of her caught her attention. She had stunning, long red wavy hair that beautifully complimented her tomato-coloured dress. As she collected her order and turned, her eyes met Chrissy’s for a second and she smiled a little. Chrissy smiled back to be friendly, and watched as the woman crossed the street and opened up the front door of Banks & Crowley.
Well, what do you know?
How convenient.
Her turn to order came quickly. She then took her own coffee outside and found a place to sit and finish her breakfast. If the redhead had unlocked the office, she reasoned, neither of the men had arrived yet. Shading her eyes with her sunhat, she staked out the doorway with coffee and a donut, smiling as she realised she was behaving like a typical American cop.
Less than an hour later, the two men approached the building, takeaway coffee cups in their hands.
“And we’re off,” she said under her breath.
Her plan had been to ‘accidentally’ bump into one of them, preferably Philip Banks, while he bought his mid-morning coffee or lunch, depending on his routine, and strike up a lame conversation. Somewhere along the way she’d be forward and either suggest a beer or pretend to need a divorce lawyer and get time with him under false pretences. But the sun was getting too warm on her bench, and the thought of sitting there until something happened didn’t thrill her. Plus, she needed to pee.
Change of plan.
Chrissy sat for ten more minutes, disposed of her cup, then headed over to meet Philip Banks and Alistair Crowley in person.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Wednesday 12th August 1987
I’m planning to take her back to the river this weekend. I must escape the normalcy of this house, of my life. I simply desire to smell her, touch that soft spot on her neck, let her bend into me as I hold her tightly but gently. I’ll take a soft blanket for us in case it’s cool. We’ll lie underneath it, with our skin touching, so that I might feel the warmth from her breasts as they press down onto my own naked chest from above. I’ll gaze into those deep emerald eyes of hers as we move together silently, and witness the ecstasy as she finds her release. It, as always, will be beautiful. My darling Sylvia, my river Sylvia. . . Soon.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Philip and Alistair were in the kitchen, chatting about nothing in particular, man stuff, when Carmen put her head around the door. They ceased their laughing, and Carmen wrinkled her face up disapprovingly, like a grandmother might do, though in truth she wasn’t offended. It happened all the time; it was man stuff.
Philip cleared his throat and turned his sensible face back on. “Sorry, Carmen. Men’s—"
“Yeah, I know. Men’s stuff. But listen up. I have a visitor in reception who’d like to buy some time with you—both if you’re free, but either will do.”
“Divorce?”
“Nope.”
“We got to guess?” asked Alistair.
“She didn’t want to say, actually. Just said she was happy to pay.”
Both men looked at each other. Philip spoke first. “Jamieson up to something?”
Carmen looked blank, waiting.
“Let’s find out, shall we? Carmen, show the lady into my office. We’ll meet her in there. What’s her name?” asked Alistair.
“Chrissy Livingstone. Not sure she’s from LA, by her accent; it sounds a bit mixed up. But I’ll show her through in a moment. You go and get settled.” Her red head disappeared back out the door and both men slipped into Alistair’s office, taking their seats at a small table rather than his desk.
There was enough time for Alistair to say, “It’ll be nothing to do with him. Let’s see what’s on her mind,” before the door opened and Carmen showed her in.
Philip did a double-take, his mouth open like a snake devouring a chicken. Chrissy sensed the unease, but if Carmen did, she didn’t show it; she offered refreshments. Everyone declined, and she disappeared, closing the door discreetly behind her.
Chrissy sat down without waiting to be asked, and the air in the office shifted as she looked at ea
ch man in turn. Philip seemed nervous. And pale for the LA climate. Like his colour had drained away temporarily.
Alistair spoke first. “Hi, Alistair Crowley,” he said. “And this is Philip Banks,” he said, pointing with his chin and both men reached out to her to shake hands. There was a kind of clash as their three hands moved in at the same time, and one hand was left empty. Awkward. Chrissy wondered why Philip seemed so nervous; she didn’t usually have that effect on people she hadn’t met before. But his colour was definitely gradually returning, so she’d been right about that. Weird.
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice. I realise I don’t have an appointment.”
“How can we help?” Alistair asked, since Philip was still mute.
Chrissy rustled in her bag for a folder and slipped out the paper with the photographs of the boys’ faces. She placed it on the table in front of them, then sat back to watch their reactions.
The little things.
The room stilled, but she heard two unmistakable intakes of breath. She kept quiet and waited. Alistair’s jawline moved a fraction; the corners of his eyes twitched as he looked across at Philip, who still hadn’t spoken and looked like he was going to vomit.
Chrissy said nothing. Neither did Philip.
First to speak loses.
What she wouldn’t have done to see inside their heads at that precise moment.
Philip finally found his tongue. “What are we looking at here?”