Charlotte took her hand and squeezed it. “No. I just… I think I need to sleep for now.”
“I understand,” she said. She leaned over and kissed Charlotte’s cheek softly.
Charlotte thought that she would go. Instead, Harriet kicked off her heels beside the bed. Charlotte allowed her to unbutton her cargo pants, which she discarded in a pile on the floor. Together they lay in her bed and before long Harriet drifted off to sleep, her body pressed up against Charlotte’s.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charlotte awoke to find Harriet had gone. She felt the sheets and pillow next to her, noting that they were cool to the touch. It was probably just as well. It was Charlotte’s day off work and she needed time for herself. She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, feeling inexplicably depressed. She tried to imagine what Erin would say if she saw her and could tell her everything.
“So you’ve been sleeping with a very sexy woman –” she would say.
“ – who’s married, and who isn’t Maggie,” Charlotte would interrupt.
“If you weren’t sleeping with Harriet, would that bring Maggie back?” Erin would gently ask.
“Of course not,” Charlotte would concede.
Charlotte would then argue with Erin that she was in over her head, that Harriet was the Grand Commandant of the rebellion. Erin would laugh at her made-up title and tell her that she needed a little adventure in her life anyway.
No, she wouldn’t laugh. She would be nervous. Maybe she would urge Charlotte to hide out and visit Erin’s relatives in Edinburgh. Maybe they would board a train together under the cover of night.
Or maybe she would panic and say they needed to call the Home Office and report her entire football team for being rebel terrorists.
“Well, not my entire football team,” Charlotte would interject. “Only five members.”
“And what about you?” Erin would ask. “Aren’t you the sixth?”
Charlotte sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. The possible scenarios didn’t matter since she had decided she couldn’t tell Erin anyway. This was information that she needed to keep to herself.
Instead of getting in touch with Erin, Charlotte decided that she should go for a walk to clear her mind. A quick survey of her pantry told her that it was in dire need of restocking, and it was a perfect night for the long walk to the grocery store. With her bag slung over her shoulder, her hands tucked into her pockets, and her baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, she strolled along the quiet city streets.
She passed a couple of former hotels that had been converted into efficiency apartments. The demand for hotel rooms had decreased substantially over the years, but residential crowding remained a problem.
She passed a curry shop, which set her stomach rumbling. She realized she couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. Deciding to ignore her hunger, she rounded the corner and entered the grocery store. She had been to this store several times in the past and thought the prices were reasonable, even if it was a bit of a walk. At the moment, she appeared to be the only customer in the shop, and a quick glance at the counter showed her that the single worker was busy watching a football game on his screen.
She picked up a small sack of oats and an even smaller container of sugar substitute. She eyed the coffee beans and surprised herself by thinking, I could steal some and get away with it. She realized that the store had every aisle under surveillance, but she imagined that she could get quickly absorbed into the warren of streets and escape getting caught.
Charlotte frowned at herself for having had the thought. Where had it come from, anyway? She rushed the rest of her shopping, picking up a few tins of fruit and veggies, some packaged protein flakes, and some cheap tea. She paid, swiping her digicard at the counter, and quickly left.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Another week passed. Joanna kept her distance at work, and Charlotte kept her head down, diligently focusing on her assigned project. She also hadn’t heard from Harriet. She felt a certain kind of sadness at how Harriet had slipped out while she was sleeping, leaving her to wrestle with the knowledge that Harriet had this file of facts about her life. And yet, although she was reluctant to admit it even to herself, perhaps she felt all the more hurt because she still wanted to see Harriet. Nothing Charlotte had found out had made her feel any less drawn to Harriet.
Charlotte knew she couldn’t simply show up at her door again. And if she sent Harriet another diginote, who would read it? Would it be Harriet, or one of her assistants, bodyguards – Thomas? And so she concentrated on her work.
Charlotte had begun to feel like her life was gaining some normalcy again. She arrived home from work after the six workdays in a row – a full week’s work – and found a metal box at her door. She vaguely recognized that it was the kind that shops would send out for special deliveries, and that she would need to leave it outside her door for collection after she retrieved its contents. Squatting to examine the box, she found the store name of Stella McCartney, which she knew to be a boutique clothier.
She brought the box inside and opened it. She held her breath as she examined the contents: a black suit jacket, black trousers with zippers up the front of each leg, and a white satin shell for a blouse. She frowned, thinking how formality was not her style. She also realized the cost of such an outfit probably exceeded her monthly rent. She then saw the tiny slip of paper that read: “The Courtauld Gallery, Charing Cross, seven o’clock. –H.”
Charlotte sighed, setting the clothes on a nearby chair, and returning the empty metal box to the hallway. She wondered what her neighbors would think if they saw she had clothes delivered. She’d probably be robbed within a fortnight, she thought darkly.
As seven o’clock approached, Charlotte carefully dressed in the provided clothes and a pair of nice shoes she hadn’t worn in years. As she wondered why Harriet would send her such an expensive gift and whether she should be offended at needing to be given appropriate clothes to wear, she caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror in the corner. The clothes were a perfect fit. She took off the jacket to wash her face in the sink and then brush her hair, deciding to wear it down. Finally, she put the jacket back on and headed out to the gallery.
Charlotte crossed the plaza in front of Somerset House, the building in which the gallery was located. She recalled that there used to be fountains, spurts of water in the middle of the plaza, but of course they were all turned off years ago. As she walked across the plaza, her footfall echoing off the surrounding buildings, she wondered if she could afford the admission fee. She was slightly irritated that Harriet would expect her to have money to spare on such an extravagance, but she knew she couldn’t bring it up when Harriet had bought her these clothes. Something seemed off, wrong, when Charlotte approached the main entrance. It took her a moment to realize what it was, but then she knew: it was too quiet.
She pushed through the main entrance and was confronted with only a sole man in a uniform. He kept an expressionless face as he asked, “Charlotte Parker, I presume?”
Charlotte stammered, “Uh – y-yes.”
He nodded and said, “Welcome to the Courtauld.”
“Charlie –” said a welcoming voice.
She turned and saw Harriet, who wore a smart black blouse and burgundy pencil skirt. Charlotte thought for a moment how fashionable they must look together – something she wasn’t accustomed to feeling about herself.
“I’m glad you made it,” Harriet was saying, but Charlotte was distracted by the atmosphere of the place. Where were the other visitors?
“It was no trouble,” Charlotte heard herself saying. Harriet was leading her away from the entrance, deeper into the gallery, but she seemed to be in no hurry. “Are they closing soon? There doesn’t seem to be anyone else here.”
Harriet laughed. “No, not at all. Not until we’re finished,” she said.
“I don’t understand,” Charlotte said.
“It’s a private
viewing, my dear,” she replied.
Charlotte began to realize that the only footsteps were their own. “How –?”
Harriet shrugged and said, “I’m a sponsor of the gallery. This is one of the perks.”
“I didn’t even realize a private viewing was possible.”
Harriet looped her arm in Charlotte’s and replied, “With enough money, anything is possible.”
“Isn’t this a problem, though? Isn’t it drawing too much attention to you?” Charlotte worried.
Even though no one was around to hear, Harriet leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Plain sight is the perfect place to hide. This is what’s expected of a person of my status. Wealth, power… patronage.”
Charlotte nodded.
Harriet definitely looked the part with the crisp lines of her clothes, her impeccably styled hair, and her self-confident bearing. Charlotte wondered about Harriet’s background and whether she had been born into money or somehow had risen to her position through merit and luck. Both positions, really. Charlotte really wasn’t sure what kind of start in life gave someone the career trajectory to be either a government propagandist or the leader of a rebellion.
Harriet said, “And for tonight, the gallery is ours to enjoy. Come, let me show you my favorite – a Cézanne.”
They made their way to Room Five. Above a small table, alone on its wall, was a single painting, a tree dominating the top and left sides of the composition and a mountain as the focus.
“The Montagne Sainte-Victoire, circa 1887,” Harriet told her with an enticing French pronunciation. “Aren’t impressionist paintings simply sublime?”
Charlotte hesitated before saying, “Some say Cézanne is an impressionist, others say post-impressionist. Supposedly, his work bridges impressionism and Cubism. At least, I think I’m remembering correctly.”
Harriet cocked her head and said, “I had no idea you knew about art. You surprise me, Charlie.”
Charlotte let the corner of her mouth turn upward and said, “I am, in fact, a fan of impressionism. It’s the kind of art where… I feel like I can feel the warmth of the sun, can smell the flowers. It’s familiar somehow, yet mysterious, like peeking into someone else’s dream.”
Harriet regarded her. “How beautiful.”
They walked on through the gallery, pausing to admire certain pieces.
Charlotte ventured, “One might think you’re more interested in me than in the paintings.”
“I’ve seen these countless times. But the look in your eye, how you seem so far away when you’re studying a painting… It takes me back.”
“To when? To before the war?” Charlotte asked.
“To when life was less complicated.”
“Harriet, I find it hard to believe that your life was ever uncomplicated,” Charlotte said.
She smiled. “I said less complicated, not uncomplicated.”
“Semantics,” Charlotte replied.
Harriet moved to close the distance between them and said, “You have a lovely smile. I think galleries might bring out a happier side of you, Charlie. Is it the art?”
Charlotte hesitated, her smile faltering, and said, “I haven’t been to a gallery since….”
“Since…?” Harriet asked, seeming genuinely confused.
“Since Maggie,” Charlotte replied, looking away to a painting – Bridge of Courbevoie, 1886-1887, by Georges Seurat, the plaque read.
“Oh, I see,” Harriet said, turning to also look in the direction of the same painting.
“It’s just… she worked at a museum. She was the one who was interested in art, culture, architecture, history in general. Not that I minded going to galleries and museums. I hadn’t even known there was so much to see, to learn. Before I met her, I could hardly have told a Monet from a Picasso.” Charlotte gave a short, bittersweet laugh. Harriet didn’t seek to fill the silence so Charlotte added, “I guess that wasn’t in my employment file.”
“There’s so much more to you, Charlie, than what was in that bloody file.”
Charlotte said, “I can play the piano, you know. Or rather, you probably didn’t know that. I bet that wasn’t in the file either. Maggie liked that about me, how caught up I would get in the music.”
They were walking again, slowly, when Harriet asked, “Do you still play? The piano, that is?”
“I haven’t even seen a piano in ages.”
“Well, we’ll have to remedy that,” she said, taking Charlotte’s hand and squeezing it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Charlotte found herself in the midst of a dream, one where she was foggily aware that she was sleeping, yet she didn’t want the dream to end. Maggie was there, sitting at their old wooden kitchen table with its chipped paint and one short leg that they’d evened out with a square of cardboard. Her hair was flowing loosely around her face, spilling out over her shoulders, forming an unruly, strawberry contrast to her stark white blouse and pale, freckled skin.
Was this a dream or a memory? Maggie was saying something; Charlotte could see her lips moving but couldn’t hear what she was saying. Maggie stopped and looked at her expectantly, a smile forming on Maggie’s face, as much in her eyes as in her mouth.
Knocking sounded, hard and urgent. Maggie’s lips were moving again and finally Charlotte could hear her voice. She said, “The door, my love. Won’t you answer it?”
The knocking brought Charlotte out of her sleep. The knocking was real.
“McGillicuddy,” she muttered, “Lights, half power.”
She had fallen asleep in her clothes – a tank top, button-down shirt, and trousers – so she stumbled to the door without needing to dress. When she twisted the knob, the door flung open to reveal Daniel, the speaker from the rebel meeting. His dark skin was shiny with sweat and he was breathing hard.
“You’re Charlie?” he asked in a hushed but urgent tone.
“Yes, what –”
“You need to come with me. Quickly,” he demanded. “Harriet sent me.”
“Is she okay?” Charlotte asked, her heart pounding, as she shoved her feet into her boots without bothering to unlace them first.
“Yes. You really need to hurry. There isn’t time to explain, but I have bikes waiting for us downstairs. You can ride, can’t you?”
“Yes, of course, but –”
“Then come on,” he said, grabbing her baseball cap from its peg just inside her door, and handing it to her. Charlotte momentarily registered how it must be mid-day and she hadn’t put on any sunscreen, but she knew better than to protest.
The light was blinding when they stepped out onto the sidewalk, where two bicycles were indeed waiting for them. A man who she’d never seen before was standing holding them – two equally sized and equally rusted bikes that had definitely seen better days. Daniel took hold of one bike, pushing off the curb as he threw his leg over the center bar, and said to her, “Let’s go.”
As Charlotte straddled the other bike, giving the handbrakes a quick squeeze as if to remind herself of how they worked, she wondered how much time had passed since she’d been in her bed, dreaming. Three minutes, maybe? And now here she was, on a bike for the first time in a decade, and following Daniel.
Following Daniel where? Charlotte tried to keep her paranoia in check as Daniel got off to a fast start, stomping his pedals down in a furious motion without so much as a goodbye to the man who had handed over the bikes. A glance over her shoulder revealed that the man was gone out of sight, presumably out of the sunlight. At least in the heat of the day, the streets were practically empty, making it easier to cycle quickly.
They cycled for a solid twenty minutes at a pace that felt like a competitive athlete’s. Charlotte’s thighs were burning from exhaustion and she could feel sweat running down the center of her back. She wondered how long she could hold out before needing to tell Daniel that she wasn’t in the kind of shape he was. Finally, Daniel braked to take a sharp turn into a narrow alley, and resumed pedaling bu
t at a much slower pace. Charlotte caught up to just behind him and huffed, “Where are we going?”
“Keep your voice down. Act natural,” he said.
They were weaving their way through a maze of alleyways in a neighborhood Charlotte had never visited. Her breathing was returning to normal as she was able to take deeper breaths, but her heart was still beating hard. She wanted to know what was awaiting them in this neighborhood – an ordinary-looking place with street after street of brick row houses with tiny windows, some shuttered and some not. It could have been any number of places in London but she knew from the direction they had headed from her apartment that she had never been here.
A brick and stone wall divided the alley from the back yard of the row houses. They had stopped at a seemingly insignificant and unmarked, wrought iron gate. Daniel hopped off his bike to unlatch the gate – which was no wider than a meter – and then walked his bike through the entrance. Charlotte followed. Once in the back yard, they leaned the bikes against the interior wall and hustled to the door. Daniel gave a hard knock and the door swung open.
The doorman had been expecting them. They were ushered inside and the door closed hard behind them.
“This way,” the doorman said to Charlotte. He had a plain look – a fair complexion, typical English features, and grey eyes – but his posture was rigid and this worried her.
Charlotte was led to the kitchen, where Thomas was sitting at the kitchen table. He held his left arm up, his elbow crooked and forearm resting on the top of his head. She could see that his arm was bloody, as was the side of his face, smudges of darkening blood smeared across his cheek.
Her eyes snapped to Harriet, who stood behind Thomas.
“What happened?” Charlotte asked. Thomas looked too pale to answer. Harriet was supporting his upheld arm.
“He needs stitches,” Harriet said. That wasn’t what Charlotte had asked.
“Do you have a medical kit?” Charlotte asked, going to Thomas’ side. She carefully adjusted his arm. A tourniquet had been crudely applied. His shirtsleeve was ripped open and bloody, and through the gap she could see jaggedly cut skin and a deep wound.
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