by Tara Moss
I’d never in my life been so high off the ground, except for the aeroplane trip that had brought me to New York. This amazing tower pierced the sky one quarter of a mile over Manhattan and the view was even better than I had imagined. The enormous buildings below seemed less formidable from this angle, like dense clusters of man-made stalagmites. The geometry of the island finally made sense from the sky. From this angle the grid of streets appeared strikingly ordered. Fifth Avenue was wide and straight as an arrow. I gazed at the Chrysler Building, and the Statue of Liberty in the distance. I began to feel that I was really in New York, after dreaming about it for so many years.
I leaned forward and gripped the mesh surrounding the platform. At some point in the years since Robert Wadlow had towered over the governor here at the top of New York, they’d had to erect this mesh and a large guardrail to stop jumpers. I stepped back from it. Despite all the people, and the spectacular view, something about the moment ignited a deep, pressing loneliness.
It was then I noticed the familiar coldness in my belly, and I frowned. Something was happening. I should have felt elated, exhilarated to finally stand on this platform and take in the sights of the town that would make me all I could be. All around me were tourists, happy, smiling, and taking pictures. And yet something was wrong.
He is much better off without me, came a voice.
I stood at attention, spooked, and darted my eyes from side to side. Who’d said that? A blur of ivory and apricot caught my eye. There was movement at the edge of the platform to my right. A woman. I saw that she was climbing up to stand on the thick concrete railing next to one of the round, coin-operated sets of binoculars. I realised I’d sensed her grief, not mine. It wasn’t my own loneliness I’d felt, but hers. She intended to jump.
I rushed towards her, and a child and her mother stepped back to let me pass.
‘Rude,’ I heard the mother say under her breath, but I was too panicked to care. Couldn’t anyone else see what was happening? I looked for help, but no one else had noticed her. If I hesitated, it could be too late.
I stopped only two feet from the woman. Her purse was on the ground at my feet. She’d left it on the platform.
This young woman was only a few years older than me, and was dressed in a forties-style matching apricot jacket and skirt, with a pair of ivory gloves and a scarf, looking every bit as elegant as Grace Kelly. The wind pushed at the waves of her hair. Aware of my presence, she turned, still balanced on the rail. She regarded me with a sad, haunting smile.
‘Please come down,’ I told her gently, my arms extended and palms open.
I wouldn’t make a good wife for anybody, she told me, though I could see that her lips hadn’t moved. It was then I realised I could see through her to the buildings below. The edges of her form were indistinct somehow.
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ I said in a low voice, confused by what I was seeing. ‘You would make a great wife.’
The wind caught her ivory scarf, and it lifted away. We watched it drift and fall towards the street below, eighty-six deadly floors beneath us.
When she turned to face me again, I thought I saw a flash of recognition. How sweet you came, she told me.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked, wishing like hell that someone would help me talk her down. I could grab her arm but she might still jump and try to take me with her if she was desperate enough.
I’m Evelyn, she explained to me. Evelyn McHale. You are the chosen one, Pandora. She seemed fascinated by that. Her heartbroken expression lightened just a little.
‘How do you know my name? What do you mean by “chosen”?’ I asked, and then I decided I didn’t care about any of that just yet. I wanted her to step down off the rail, away from the edge. ‘Please come down,’ I pleaded. ‘Take my hand,’ I said, and reached out slowly.
Evelyn looked to my outstretched hand but didn’t accept it. Don’t worry, Pandora, she assured me. I’ve been doing this every day for years.
And before I could stop her, she turned and leapt through the mesh.
In a blink she was out of view. My heart stopped and all the breath ran out of me. I didn’t dare lean to the edge to watch her fall. I closed my eyes.
When I opened my eyes I was still alone. Inexplicably, Evelyn’s purse was no longer at my feet. There were only milling tourists, and me. I’d cleared a small section of the platform. The other tourists were giving me space because they thought I was crazy, I realised. I’d been talking to myself.
I pressed my cold fingertips to my temples.
Evelyn McHale. She jumped in 1947. A famous photo had been taken of her body in the crumpled wreckage of a car. I had seen it in LIFE magazine. I was sure of it.
Active imagination. It’s your active imagination, Pandora.
I walked back to the elevator with my stomach in knots. I tried not to think of what my father would say.
I sent my Aunt Georgia a postcard informing her that I had arrived safely, and that my new home was lovely. I also mentioned that I would call her when I had my own phone. (When I could afford it . . . once I got a job . . .)
I chose a black and white postcard image of the Empire State Building, with the words ‘Empire State 1947’ written in one corner. I hoped Evelyn would have liked it.
Central Park was where I spent most of my day. It was beautiful, and free. I loitered there for hours, and fancied that any lone figures I spotted were also rejects from small towns, wandering through New York in search of a place to belong. I ate a simple hot dog and sat on a bench near a deserted carousel, resting my feet while I finished reading my novel. I watched dog walkers, joggers and strolling couples pass me as though I were invisible. It wasn’t cold enough for the celebrated Central Park ice rink, but the joggers made clouds with their breath as they ran. I froze slowly, degree by degree as the hours passed, until I felt like a stone statue. Upon the end of my novel (which featured a Viking vampire and a hot werewolf, with a romantic ending quite unlike any I’d personally experienced) I got up and walked off the chill in my bones.
At one point in my wanderings I crossed a single-lane road with light traffic, and thought I saw a car very like the one Celia’s silent chauffeur had driven. I almost waved, but of course that would have been silly. I didn’t know anyone in this place.
In the late afternoon the weather grew a bit strange. I was at the northern end of the park, walking a path through the trees and thinking of how much my feet were beginning to hurt, when I found myself enveloped in a surreal wall of fog. The fog was thick and odd-smelling – like the scent of old books and mothballs – and I was unable to see more than six feet ahead of me. Then, as quickly as the fog had appeared, it lifted and I found myself on the quiet streets of Spektor, standing in front of the corner store Great-Aunt Celia had mentioned.
HAROLD’S GROCER the sign in front of me said.
It was one of those old-fashioned shopfronts with a hand-painted sign, and there was something familiar and pleasant about the sight of it. I looked down the street and saw Celia’s large, Gothic Revival building on the corner. My sense of direction could not have been better. I took a breath. My briefcase felt like a dead weight after all my meandering. If I was going to do that much walking, I’d need a satchel, I decided. (Like the one on the cover of the magazine that didn’t hire me. But I wasn’t going to think about that anymore.)
I stepped inside the musty store, and a bell tinkled to announce my arrival.
I looked around. The shelves were lined with basic grocery goods, though I didn’t recognise the brands. There were a lot of old tins and things in boxes. The shop had a really cool cash register, though, I noticed; one of those big old metal ones with typewriter-like keys and white number tabs that pop up to show the total. A real antique. Behind it, a man was bent over some shelves, searching for something.
‘Hi there, you must be Harold,’ I said.
At the sound of my voice the man turned.
Oh good lord.
‘And you must be Pandora English, Ms Celia’s friend.’ The man smiled with Granny Apple cheeks and I nodded uncertainly.
‘Uh, yes.’
‘Ms Celia has really been looking forward to your arrival. She is one great lady.’ He was lost in his thoughts for a moment. ‘Now, what can I get you, young lady? I can get you anything you want.’
That seemed unlikely.
I swallowed. ‘Um, I don’t really need anything.’ I wanted to leave. I’d just head home and make myself something in the kitchen. ‘I was just —’
‘Oh, Pandora, don’t be afraid. You’ve got no reason to be afraid of me.’
I shook my head, mortified at the astuteness of his observation. I suppose I looked as terrified as I felt. ‘Oh, no, I’m not afraid. I’m fine. Just a bit out of sorts with all the travel,’ I told him, not wanting to admit that in my current fragile state his complexion was peculiar enough to send me running.
‘Yeah, that’s some little town, Gretchenville.’
‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘Oh yes. Celia talked about it. Population of three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, with your departure, huh?’
‘That’s right.’ Exactly right. Creepy.
‘Now what can I get you, young lady?’ he pressed.
I looked around the store. ‘Well . . . I’ll need some fresh milk, I guess. And do you have any cheese?’
‘Milk is in the fridge over there. Just tell me which cheese you want and I’ll make sure I have it for you next time you’re in.’ He moved forward a step and leaned on the counter with one elbow. He didn’t have a lot of hair, and the faintly green wisps atop his head moved a little as he spoke, like seaweed in a soft current.
‘Oh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I said.
‘You, trouble me? No! This is just what I’m here for, Pandora. Just tell me what type of cheese you like.’
I had half a mind to ask for something unusual, like Stilton or something, but I’d never tried anything like that and I just wanted plain old cheddar. I told him so.
‘Come in any time and I’ll have it ready for you,’ he assured me, and smiled at me with such genuine kindness that I found I could overlook his unusual appearance. ‘Anything else you can think of? Anything at all?’
I bought some soft drink, some milk and a small box of cereal and Harold put it on Celia’s tab without even giving me an option to pay. I felt funny about using my great-aunt’s tab, despite her insistence, but I was determined to pay her back as soon as I had a job. (Whenever that might be.)
‘Now you come back tomorrow, okay, Pandora? Any time. I’m open all hours.’
I nodded. ‘Thanks, Harold.’
‘And remember not to go wandering after dark unless you are looking for trouble, okay?’ he said.
I nodded at his warning, grabbed my shopping and briefcase and made my way out of the store.
‘But of course, you can look after yourself,’ I heard him say as the door shut behind me.
I waved at him through the glass pane in the door and thought it odd that Celia had said almost exactly the same thing.
The winter sun was beginning to set by the time I heaved on the bafflingly heavy door of Celia’s building, my arms filled with groceries and my heart battling with the day’s disappointments. After all that rejection, I was in no mood for further resistance.
‘Oh, come on door, open,’ I muttered at it, and it gave slightly.
I struggled inside, cursing under my breath, and dragged my groceries and myself into the lift along with my I-thought-it-was-fancy-when-I-bought-it suit and briefcase, which was decidedly bereft of assignments and full of as many résumés as it had contained when I’d left that morning. To add to my melancholy, I was sure my flat shoes were half an inch flatter than when I’d left in the morning. And I’d given myself blisters. A fit of sadness hit me as the elevator ascended, and I did my best to brush it aside. It wouldn’t do to feel sorry for myself. I had a lovely and generous host. My first day in New York had not gone how I’d hoped, but that was probably to be expected. I’d been naive, that’s all. I would get there.
But with no Helen Markson, who will I see about a job?
I arrived at Celia’s penthouse, used the key I’d been given, and stepped inside. Such was the day I’d had, it felt like it had been weeks since I’d left the place bursting with optimism and too excited to eat. The apartment was dark and I guessed my host was out, or perhaps having a nap. I flicked on a light in the open lounge room, and put down my bags.
‘Oh!’ came a cry. It was my Great-Aunt Celia, who was reading an enormous novel in the small halo of light of her reading lamp, half hidden in a book-lined alcove in the lounge room. Freyja the white cat was curled up on the hassock next to her resting feet, and in a flash she leapt up and hid behind the chair. Celia, too, sprang quite suddenly from her upholstered chair, and her book fell to the floor with a dull thud as she literally leapt away from her reading lamp and slipped into the shadows beyond it with a deceptively youthful agility.
‘Great-Aunt Celia?’ I asked. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, darling Pandora, you startled me,’ she said from the shadows. ‘I hoped you would knock.’
I’d forgotten. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I apologised, and then stopped short.
My eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and what I saw amazed me. Celia wasn’t wearing her hat and veil, and I could see that her face was beautiful. Her skin was white and luminescent, her eyes wide and dark, and though I would have deemed it impossible, she seemed barely to possess a crease or a wrinkle. Celia’s eyebrows were high and sharp, as were her cheekbones. With her crimson lips and her glossy dark hair set in perfect waves she looked like a 1940s movie star. It was impossible to guess her age, but even in the low light I was utterly shocked by her appearance. This was Great-Aunt Celia, who would have to be around ninety years old by my calculation? No way. She looked younger than my own mother would be, were she alive.
‘You startled me, my dear,’ Celia repeated, reaching blindly behind her. The fingertips of one elegant hand found her black hat, and in seconds she had fixed it expertly to her head with a bobby pin. Once again, the thin mesh veil fell over her face, obscuring her luminous skin and oddly youthful features. She took her cane in one hand.
‘I forgot you asked me to knock,’ I said, quite stunned. ‘I’ll remember in future.’
‘Thank you,’ Celia said, arranging herself to lean casually on the head of the cane she didn’t really seem to need. ‘How did you go today?’ she asked, expertly changing the subject.
‘Good,’ I said automatically. But that wasn’t true. ‘Actually, not so good,’ I corrected myself. ‘I don’t think there was any interest at the magazines I went to, and my contact at Mia no longer works there and no one had bothered to inform me.’
My miserable first day of job hunting was upsetting, as was the embarrassment of bursting in on my generous host and startling her, but most of all, I was distracted by the vision of Celia sans veil. I thought about the face I had just seen. I thought about reasons why a woman would wear a veil all the time, even indoors, and reasons why a woman would jump up and act all odd when she was seen without it. Perhaps this wasn’t my Great-Aunt Celia at all? Perhaps this woman had done something to Celia and was living here under false pretences? Is this woman an impostor? But, if so, what possible reason could she have for allowing me to stay?
‘Celia, I have to say, you look beautiful without your veil,’ I told her, and watched her face. ‘You are my Great-Aunt Celia, right?’
She smiled through the little squares of fine netting. ‘Well, yes. Thank you, darling Pandora, but I think y
ou are the one who needs complimenting. You have lovely features. Great bone structure, just like your mother.’ She moved forward into the light and touched the edge of my hairline, sweeping the hair back behind my ear.
I did look very much like my late mother when she was my age. That was true.
‘Yes. Now, let’s see what you are wearing. This is a new suit?’ Celia tilted her head, examining me. ‘Hmm. Polyester. The fabric is inexpensive, but the colour suits your complexion.’
From a former fashion designer, I didn’t really mind the comment about the material. It was made in China, I knew. But still.
‘You didn’t make the impression you wanted to today, did you, Pandora?’
I pursed my lips. ‘No,’ I replied tightly.
‘These magazines interviewing you, they are fashion magazines, yes?’ she asked.
I nodded, a touch guilty. Even when I was ten, my parents had disapproved of their sole offspring’s preference for glamorous magazines rather than the Journal of Archaeological Science or the Annual Review of Applied Linguistics. Mostly, this was a disappointment to my father, from what I can tell. (One of a few disappointments, actually, my ‘active imagination’ being the primary one.)
Celia nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’ She placed her hands ever so lightly on my shoulders, then my waist and my hips. Her touch was quick and efficient. ‘I have a couple of things I’d like you to try on,’ she told me.
‘You do?’
Celia disappeared and returned a few minutes later with some garments folded neatly over her arm. In one hand she held a pair of Mary Janes, a bit like the ones she wore herself. This pair, however, were ruby red.
Oh . . .
My eyes widened at the sight of them. ‘Those are really back in fashion,’ I said, recalling that I’d seen something like them on the cover of Vogue (I remembered how the Chanel woman had so rudely kept me out of the office, then hastily banished the thought . . . )
Celia placed the clothes over the arm of her chair. She shook her head gently. ‘Fashionable? Oh, darling, fashion is merely an exercise in spin,’ Celia told me. ‘True style is not about fashion. Style is individual. Style is part of the great theatre of life.’ As she spoke, she gesticulated in the air with one hand. It was a theatrical movement, and she performed it with elegance.