Holiday Loves
Page 37
Despite the dozens of sessions I’d had with him, it always amused me that they started this very same way, with Elliot methodically pouring tea from a chipped pot into a small teacup, resting precariously on a mismatched saucer.
“Why don’t you Brits drink out of mugs?” I crossed my legs, trying to get comfortable in the squeaky chair.
Elliot peered into the teacup.
“You’d get more tea for your buck,” I offered.
“It’s not about quantity but quality.” He looked up. “Let’s get back to the memories, you were saying—” He peered down at his notepad. “They’re not even seeping in.”
“Nope.”
My thoughts drifted back to the girl I’d just met and our imminent meeting, and I felt uneasy. These weren’t the typical nerves of a customary first date, but a sense that there was something about her.
I’ve got something you have to see, she’d said, leaving me with an eeriness I couldn’t shake, as though deep down I knew my life was about to change.
“Zach,” Elliot said, bringing me back into the room. “Have you considered another hypnosis session?”
“Doesn’t work.” I clutched the armrests.
“The good news is your MRI, CT scan and sleep study were all normal.”
“But failed to answer any of my questions.”
Elliot peered down at my open file.
“I have to make up for three years of study I lost.” I glanced past him and out of the window. “I was meant to be teaching art history at UCLA by now.”
“This girl you met earlier, what’s her name?” Elliot took another sip of tea.
“Why?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Feebs.”
Elliot nodded and his lips turned down in a frown.
“What, you know something about her?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
I scratched my cheek. “I like tea too. Why don’t I get a cup?”
“Thought you preferred mugs?”
“How many more times do we need to do this?”
“As many as it takes,” he answered. “Seeing me was part of the agreement when the Board accepted you back.”
“I’m getting top marks.”
“You’re also adept at changing the subject.” He leaned forward. “The last thing you remember?”
“Waking up in the Savoy two months ago. Alone. Kidneys intact, which was nice, and the date on the London Times newspaper made me think it was a hoax. I’d lost three years.” I shook my head, hardly able to comprehend it had happened to me.
“This girl you’ve met, Feebs, how does she make you feel?” Elliot asked.
“She makes me want to remember . . .”
Outside a car alarm sounded and I felt my tension rising.
“How are those dreams?” Elliot continued.
“Disturbing.”
“The dungeons again?”
“Yes.” My eyes were elsewhere.
“Is the occurrence the same?”
“Like clockwork, every night.”
Elliot scribbled away in my file and I tried to read his upside-down note.
“The chamber I’m in is familiar,” I said, softly. “It feels like . . . home.”
“Tell me more.”
“It feels as though the place is not just part of my memory, but part of me.”
My mind drifted, reaching to grasp the fragmented images, recalling a stark coldness within the candlelit dungeon and sensing no fear, merely a familiarity with my surroundings.
“I know it’s frustrating,” said Elliot, “considering what you’ve been through.”
“Do you think my dreams might reflect what really happened to me?”
“Hard to say.”
“If I could just find those missing years.”
“Amnesia is one of the most difficult psychological experiences anyone can go through.”
I gave a sigh.
“Give it time,” he said.
That gloomy dungeon was my only precarious link to those lost years, and my gut was telling me that my past was ever-beckoning my return to its bewitching mystery. My fingertips caressed my tattoo through my shirt sleeve and I was once more within those dark walls of that chamber, quickened with the idea of something alluring looming in the shadows, waiting for me.
The tick of the wall clock was deafening.
* * *
THE COLD, OLD LIBRARY, with its low ceiling and high windows, was deserted, which was how I liked it; quiet and still, the atmosphere conducive to studying and mulling through books that very often held no relation to what I was actually meant to be reading.
Though this time, instead of finding my usual place at the back, I settled at a table positioned out in the open, closer to the doorway, easier for Feebs to find me if she did indeed turn up.
I opened my book, a study of the life of painter Jan de Beer, feigning fascination with its well-worn pages.
The hushed voices of the library gave the place a reverent feel.
Anxiety hit me when I tried to reach back for those lost memories, my gut twisting with fear for what I didn’t know, and though I’d somewhat come to terms with these blank episodes of my life, the frustration of not remembering was wearing.
I massaged my temple, trying to ease the tension.
“Boring,” came a female voice.
I looked up to see Feebs sitting opposite, resting her chin casually on her hands and her attention fixed on my upside-down book.
There came a rush of exhilaration to see her, but I tried to hide it, saying, “Jan de Beer was considered one of the greatest painters of the Antwerp Mannerists.” On her blank stare, I added, “It’s how they referred to the style of a group of anonymous painters from Antwerp during the sixteenth century.” I wondered if I’d impressed her.
Her raised eyebrows served as her an unenthusiastic response. She waved a small, black book in front of me. “Poe!”
She waited for my reaction and when none came, she said, “The gift I promised.”
With the back of her hand, she nudged my book out of the way and placed hers down in its place. “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.”
I sat back. “The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe.”
“The second I saw your tattoo it was the first thing I thought of.” She opened the book. “Your raven is the exact same one that Poe sketched with his poem in his secret memoir. See?”
I leaned forward and studied the upside-down drawing.
“It’s Gothic,” she continued. “It symbolizes a dark secret. And also—” She looked up at me. “A never-ending love.”
Something stirred within as I studied the small, black bird and then shifted my gaze over to my tattoo.
She pointed to my forearm, directly at the small, round circle “And this means—”
“Infinity.”
“Isn’t it intriguing?”
“Yeah, I just wish I could remember why I got it.”
She jumped up and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, I’m taking you somewhere.”
I shoved my books into my satchel. “Is this what you Brits call a date?”
She pressed her index finger to her lips. “Shush, this is a library.” She laughed loudly, leading me out.
* * *
I WAITED for the noisy double-decker bus to pass by us and then asked, “Do you have any idea how many tattoo parlors there are in London?” I dodged a pedestrian. “And yes, I have actually considered tracking down the artist myself.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
I hesitated. “Needle in a haystack.”
From the way Feebs stomped on, turning onto Oxford Street, my reluctance to keep this up had no effect on her.
She was breathless. “I have a feeling your tattoo might just be the key that unlocks your amnesia.”
Feebs paused to gaze into the window of Selfridges, her eyes locked on a pair of st
rappy stiletto shoes. She reminded me of those nature documentaries I’d seen, where the predator locks onto its prey.
I couldn’t help but smile.
Quickly broken from her trance, she continued on, navigating her way through the crowd of late night shoppers, speeding up her pace as she tilted her head upward to better read the store names, seemingly knowing where she was going.
Inside the cool, well-lit parlor, I took in the hundreds of tattoo designs showcased on the walls. To the left rested a bright blue leather couch and beside that, a coffee table strewn with magazines. At the back of the store were two work stations, each with their own metal cabinet, neatly stacked with the artists’ tools and multicolored inks.
“Come on,” said Feebs, leading me toward a middle-aged man standing behind the counter.
He looked up when we approached.
Feebs peeled back my left shirt sleeve for the fifth time tonight, pointed at my raven and peered up expectantly at the heavily tattooed artist. “Does this look familiar?” she asked him.
“You’re asking if I did it?” he said in a strong Russian accent, studying my forearm.
“Yes,” she said triumphantly and surprisingly with as much enthusiasm as she’d had when she asked the first tattoo artist we’d met tonight.
He pulled his lips back in a scowl and looked over at me. “You want to sue?”
“No.” I hated the idea of having to explain again. “Never thought I’d ever get one though.” I turned to Feebs. “Permanence scares me.”
“So you like it?” the Russian asked.
“Sure.” I rolled up my sleeves neatly and admired the craftsmanship.
“Makes you more interesting,” Feebs said, and grinned.
The Russian raised an eyebrow. “Now that I remember, it is one of mine.”
My jaw dropped, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He rested his forefinger on the circle. “This is a brand. Not tattoo. See, it’s darker. The man you came with asked me to camouflage this—” He slid his finger over. “With the raven.”
“Why?” Feebs asked the question I was thinking.
“Didn’t say.” He narrowed his stare. “How can you not remember? You were sober?”
I shook my head. “What’d this guy look like?”
He shrugged. “English. Tall. Redhead. Money, you know. You could see he had wealth from the way he dressed.”
“You don’t know where I might find him?” I asked.
The Russian hesitated, studying us suspiciously.
“Please,” I said. “It’s important.”
He exhaled, relenting. “Don’t tell him it came from me.” He turned his attention to Feebs.
She nodded in agreement she wouldn’t say anything either.
“Belshazzar’s, the club in Belgravia.” He raised a long, bent finger. “That’s where he goes.”
I turned to Feebs and she was already at work on her mobile finding the address.
“You’ve been fantastic,” Feebs said, hoisting her bag over her shoulder.
“Be careful,” the Russian said.
I was about to ask what of, but he’d already moved away and was busy restocking supplies at his work station.
This conversation was over.
* * *
BELGRAVIA WAS ONE of the wealthiest of London’s districts, if not the world, with its pristine stucco designs and the grandest of classical terraces complimented by the lavish green spaces surrounding it and perfectly tended streets.
Taking in the grandest of all the buildings, with its towering baroque pillars and opulent cream colored brickwork, Belshazzar’s appeared more like a luxury residence than a club, situated smack bang in the middle of Belgravia.
Feebs was visibly excited. “See, I told you your tattoo was important.” She beamed a smile and asked, “Does this place seem familiar?”
I shook my head, questioning her instincts as we approached.
The front door opened and a man appeared, easily passing for a bouncer, albeit a well-dressed one.
He seemed to be waiting for us to initiate the conversation and it suddenly dawned on me we probably needed a password.
“Well, show it to me then,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I cringed inside.
Without a word, he grabbed my left arm, eased back my shirt sleeve and gazed down at my tattoo.
Uncomfortable with his manhandling, I stepped back off the top step, bumping right into Feebs who was standing too close.
“Well that’s original,” the bouncer said, leaning forward to open the door. “That allowed?”
“What?” I stepped back up to his level.
“Adding to the brand?” He gestured that Feebs could enter too.
Once inside, we shared a congratulatory high-five and strolled down a long hallway decked with crystal chandeliers and a red lush carpet guiding our way.
When the double doors opened the music hit us. We entered what looked like a swanky bar, the majority of the sharply dressed guests elegantly donned in black.
Still wearing jeans and a plain white shirt, I felt underdressed and hated being so conspicuous.
Feebs nudged up against me and said, “Look around, you might know someone. Someone might know you.”
I gave a nod.
“I need to find a loo,” she told me and headed over toward the barman.
After exchanging a few words with him, he motioned toward the end of the sumptuously decorated room and Feebs started off in that direction.
Discreetly, I scanned the many faces, hoping to recognize someone. I settled on the twenty-something blonde sitting at a table just a few feet away, her tight bodice emphasizing her small waist, her pretty face a little too still as she listened intently to her friend’s conversation, her rouged cheekbones accentuating her paleness. The man beside her, a few years older, possessed startling chiseled features, and his movement was slow and deliberant as he gracefully lifted a glass of wine to his lips and sipped; his eyelids half closed in pleasure.
It was hard to recall ever seeing this many beautiful people in one place, many of them carrying an air of gothic elitism, a distinction I gathered from their majestic movement, bestowing a quality of preciseness that was compelling to watch.
Still waiting for Feebs to return, there came a growing unease brought on by the occasional piercing stares that met mine. It appeared the other guests were also sussing me out.
I was ready to leave and couldn’t wait for Feebs to get back.
My vodka and Coke was free, but as I tasted it, eyeing the bartender, I had a sneaky suspicion he’d poured two shots of liquor into my glass.
Only three sips later and I felt the drink.
“Zach?” A pretty, young, tattooed Asian girl wrapped her arms around me.
I waited for her to let go and smiled down at her, shouting over the music. “I’m sorry . . .” I could’ve sworn she’d said my name.
Her expression changed to confusion. “Zach, it’s me.” And then she looked away, her gaze scanning the crowd though seemingly not really seeing it and then she faced me again.
“What?” I shook my head. “Do I know you?”
The bartender leaned over and called out to her. “Anaïs, want the usual?”
There came the distinct impression she really did know me and a well of excitement rose in my chest that she might be able to shed light on those lost years.
Anaïs ignored the barmen. “Come with me.”
“I’m with someone.” I gestured toward the elevator.
Anaïs gawped. “Who?”
“A friend . . .” I hesitated, unsure how much to share.
“But you pointed to the lift?”
“She just went to the restroom. Look, um, Anaïs, pretty name by the way, how do we know each other?”
She was glaring toward the lift. “She shouldn’t have gone down there.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Why’d she go in there?”
“The barman—” I gestur
ed to him. “He said that was the way to the ladies room.”
“It’s not.” She studied my face. “Why are you here?”
“Long story.”
“Why did you come back?”
Her words stunned me.
Anaïs clutched my shirt sleeve and tugged me toward the elevator. “We’re getting your friend and you out of here.”
We edged our way through the crowd until we reached the elevator. She punched the down button.
“I need you to keep quiet. Understand?” Anaïs stepped inside the cart.
I followed her in. The doors slid closed and we began our descent.
I tried to read her. “What’s going on?”
“You should never have come back.”
“Where are we going?”
“To get your friend—”
“Feebs.”
“Feebs, and then you leave. You do not ask any more questions. You never come back here.”
“Have I been here before?”
The elevator doors slid open and we were met by what looked like another bouncer, only this one appeared slightly more refined, dressed smartly in black.
“Which way did the girl go?” Anaïs asked him.
“End door.”
“She still in there?”
“Yes.”
Anaïs guided me on. “This isn’t good. What were you thinking?” She seemed close to tears. “You made your decision. I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You weren’t supposed to come back.”
At the end of the sprawling hallway, a door opened and a tall, stunning redheaded man appeared and shut the door behind him.
His face lit up when he saw me. “Impossible.”
The Russian tattooist had mentioned a redhead, and this man was also stylishly dressed; it was too much of a coincidence for it not to be him.
Anaïs looked frightened. “I’ll take care of this,” but it was barely a whisper.
There was something about him that was difficult to ignore. Perhaps it was the contrast of his pale skin enhancing his shocking titian locks or the way his irises glistened in the dimness. He too carried himself with an unusual elegance, the quiet confidence of authority.