Mr Remarkable

by J J Monroe

  Chapter Seven – Dog with a Bone

  As soon as the hotel suite door closes behind him I feel a sharp, stabbing pain to my heart. His leaving is such sweet sorrow, which is ridiculous since we have only just met and I have never really believed in true love or love at first sight, but why do I suddenly feel anxious? I breathe in and breathe out slowly, closing my eyes and dispelling these feelings of worry. Then I seek out my phone and call my editor.

  ‘Hello, Trouble,’ Charlie greets me. ‘So what news do you have for me?’

  ‘I have the story.’

  ‘Really, because I thought it might be a story too far.’

  ‘The deed is done and now I just have to create 2000 words on my mid-air hook-up.’

  ‘That’s great, so why are you calling me?’

  ‘I think I might have stumbled upon a better story.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t give names. You know a reporter never reveals her sources.’

  ‘Give me an outline then,’ suggests Charlie.

  ‘It’s a feel-good piece about a man who undertakes remarkable deeds for the benefit of his fellow man.’

  ‘It’s a puff piece.’

  ‘No,’ I correct. ‘It’ll be uplifting.’

  ‘It sounds like your mind is already made up,’ remarks Charlie.

  ‘It is,’ I say.

  ‘Send me the Mile High article immediately. Your adoring public expects,’ says Charlie.

  ‘What about the other article?’

  ‘If it’s any good I’ll publish it.’

  ‘That’s a yes, then,’ I confirm.

  ‘It’s a maybe,’ insists Charlie.

  He’s never benched me yet over any of the articles I’ve sent him and this will be no different. I have a really good feeling about this one. But where to begin is the question? I wander and roam the hotel suite seeking out inspiration or clues to the man behind the deeds. I check his walk-in wardrobe, I open up my laptop and surf the net, but information on Henry Hopper is brief and clearly very well marshalled. The world reads what he wants it to read about him and nothing more. This is going to be a problem.

  I shower and images of an earlier encounter beneath this gargantuan shower head resurface in my head. I think about acting on these images but no, there is work to be done, and there will be plenty of time to play later.

  I research and dig. I hit my contacts list, panning for any little nuggets of information that may fall my way. I beg, I bribe, but no one knows anything or if they do they’re not saying. This conspiracy is sealed up tighter than Area 51. My phone ringing is a distraction.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello! Is this Izzy Renwick?’ asks a voice that seems vaguely familiar.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling, but you said I should call if I ever needed help.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, keeping my tone neutral, desperately trying to locate the details to go with the voice from the ether of my brain.

  ‘My name is Natalie Cook. You were on my flight back from Los Angeles and were kind enough to help me when I lost my ticket.’

  A vision of the crying girl settles in with the voice.

  ‘That’s right, I did. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you,’ she says. ‘I thanked Mr Hopper, and my father was really impressed with what he did but can’t seem to get through to him to express his gratitude.’

  ‘Have you tried calling his father, George Hopper?’ I suggest.

  ‘He has but it’s no use. It’s like trying to talk to a ghost so I was hoping that you might be able to help me.’

  ‘How do you think I can help?’

  ‘I spoke to one of your colleagues after the flight and she indicated off the record that you might have left with Mr Hopper and may be able to help me to contact him.’

  Sometimes hard work does pay off. Here, before me, the perfect opportunity is evolving. I say a silent prayer to the newspaper gods and smile.

  ‘You know what, Natalie! I think I just might be able to help you and your father out. I don’t suppose you happen to be in town tonight, do you?’

  A plan forms, the details sliding easily into place. I can’t stop smiling. No more digging required, as tonight’s meeting will form the centrepiece to my developing story. I surf the net, picking up other relevant titbits to add to the ingredients of my story. It may not be Pulitzer Prize-winning material, but it’s good.

  Henry calls to organise the evening’s entertainment. Dinner and a trip to the theatre are on the cards. The timing will be tight but I think it is still possible. I agree and smile and try not to think wicked, X-rated thoughts about Henry Hopper. I call Natalie. I call the restaurant. I change the booking. I smile. I feel a plan coming together. My thoughts drift back to the shower and last night and I am thankful there is no one else in the hotel suite with me.

  I wait for Henry wearing just a tie. It has the desired effect. Within minutes he is naked, layering kisses upon my body. My temperature rises as he massages my clit. He presses me against the wall, he fucks me hard. I come even harder. I could get used to this. I could seriously get used to this.

  We shower separately. I complain but he won’t hear of it, throwing some rubbish out about being late to dinner. I pretend to sulk and get ready. He has bought me presents; a new little black number and sexy lingerie to match. It is Christmas and as I slip into my new lingerie I think ahead to later and the fun we can have taking it back off again. He takes my hand in his and kisses my neck. He smells gorgeous and I almost regret having to go out.

  People are courteous and respectful towards Henry Hopper. He knows names. He knows lots of names; he talks to people asking after their wives and daughters, friends and colleagues. His ability to remember names and family connections is extraordinary but that is exactly what he is in my eyes: extraordinary. He guides me into the limousine and talks to the chauffeur and then, when we are alone, he is attentive, as if I am the only girl in the world, and it makes me feel so special. I feel a warm glow in my heart knowing what is about to happen.

  As the limousine pulls up outside the restaurant I feel uneasy and I don’t know why. I put it down to nervous excitement and smile at Henry as he steps out ahead of me, my knight in a stylishly cut black tuxedo.

  When we enter the restaurant the maître d’ approaches Henry. I notice he looks worried. Perhaps the job makes him permanently worried, but then I see Natalie and two older men waiting at the bar. They are early. This is not the plan. The maître d’ and Henry exchange words. Henry looks back at me and the warmth has been replaced by a frown.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I reply, trying not to allow the panic to rise up and engulf me.

  ‘You’ve added guests to our party. Why would you do that?’

  ‘You remember Natalie Cook, don’t you?’ I say. ‘You bought her a ticket in LAX. Well, she called and told me her father wanted to thank you personally but he was having trouble reaching you so I thought why not let them join us?’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘You do remember Natalie, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I remember her, but that’s not what I’m talking about.’ Now he looks really serious and the butterflies are starting to wake up in my stomach.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I made some calls. You completed stewardess training in record time and then got bumped almost immediately to long-haul flights. That’s interesting.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘There’s a rumour that Missy Misdemeanour, the blog queen, is writing an article about the Mile High Club as we speak.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘You can have the one story but the other is completely off-limits. You try and write it and see what happens.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.’

>   ‘I think maybe you’re still jet-lagged.’

  ‘So you deny, it then?’ says Henry.

  ‘What are you accusing me of?’

  ‘That you’re this mysterious blogger and you’re going to write an exposé about me.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘So you don’t deny it?’

  ‘I’m not writing an exposé about you, but I think your story is interesting and inspiring so why shouldn’t other people get to read about it?’

  ‘Because it’s none of their business!’ He keeps his voice low, but where there was warmth before there is just coolness in his eyes. ‘It’s my life and I won’t have it splashed across the internet.’

  ‘You’re wrong about this.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘We will!’ I retort, the anger growing at this complete turnaround. In my head I am struggling to come to terms with what is happening. I feel like one of those giant super-tankers taking for ever to turn around. I can see events unravelling before me but I am powerless to stop them or change the course of the evening’s events. It isn’t supposed to happen like this. This is not how the fairy tale is supposed to go.

  ‘Have a pleasant evening with your guests.’ He nods in their direction and before I can stop him he is walking towards the door exchanging a curt nod with the maître d’. This is all wrong but now I am lost and I don’t know what to do. And just like that he is gone; I feel completely alone.

  ‘That didn’t look good,’ murmurs a strange voice.

  Looking up, I see a man in an expensive charcoal suit is standing by me; his silvery hair trimmed neatly, the lines of age creating their very own road map across his face. ‘My name is Hugo Masters. I believe you’ve met my employee’s daughter, Natalie. Since your companion seems to have been called away, why don’t you join us for dinner?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think I’ve lost my appetite.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with Henry Hopper. He generally has that effect on the girls he meets,’ says Hugo Masters.

  ‘You know Henry Hopper?’

  ‘We’ve met once or twice.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s unlikely that you would,’ he says with a warm smile. ‘So why don’t you join us and let me explain?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I’m going to the theatre now anyway,’ I murmur.

  ‘You look too lovely to be dining alone,’ he remarks. ‘Come and join us and I think I can help explain Henry’s reaction tonight when he saw me.’

  Once more I am intrigued and the reputation of the food at this place is supposedly heavenly, but I can’t quite put the way Henry Hopper looked at me out of my mind. How has it gone so badly wrong quite so soon? It normally takes me longer than this to fuck things up with a guy I like.

  Natalie smiles at me. She looks so different from our previous meeting at LAX. She introduces her father and, in between ordering, Hugo Masters tells the story of George and Henry Hopper. And then he tells me about the proposition and I think, maybe, that all hope is not lost.

  My bags are waiting in the hotel lobby. I collect them, thank the staff, and take a hike. It’s fine. After all, I do have a story to write and then there’s the small matter of the proposition.

  As I climb into a black cab, I start composing my thoughts as the sights of London pass by and I am strangely warmed by the glow of the neon lights.

  Chapter Eight – The Proposition

  Blog entry: 11.12 a.m.

  Greetings to you all! It has been some time and I have a story long overdue to tell. I set out on this adventure knowing that it might well be Missy Misdemeanour’s last. I feel you recoil in horror from your laptop screens, but do not fear: there is a shelf life for everything and everyone in this world and perhaps Missy Misdemeanour has reached hers. We have had a good run and you have been kind enough to follow her adventures, but it is time to close the book.

  Wait a minute! I hear you cry. But what of the Mile High Club? Surely you cannot be bowing out with failure because that would never do. Well, friends, perhaps I did and perhaps I didn’t, but the truth is you will never know because I will never tell. I am a changed woman, and as I write this final blog I feel the world changing around me. For so long we have been beaten down with austerity cuts and global double-dip recession news and how we long for a good news story, something that will lighten our hearts and bring a spring into our step. Well, I think the wait may just be over. Just yesterday I read of a footballer and his wife driving the streets of his local city, handing out food parcels to the homeless and needy. There is goodness in this world. There are people who care about the plight of their fellow man and I have seen it with my own eyes.

  On a flight from Los Angeles to London I witnessed an act of common decency by a man who shall be called Mr Remarkable. A crying girl had lost her ticket and it was imperative that she return home immediately because her brother had been rushed to hospital. (He is now fine, of this I can assure you!) The airline was struggling to get her onto the plane when a passing stranger bought her a ticket to get her home. He is a rich man with plenty of money to spare so were his actions truly that remarkable? I was intrigued, and like the seeker of truth and facts you know me to be, I investigated and the stories tumbled out. A girl in a fix in Dubai is helped to return home by Mr Remarkable. A wedding wrecked by storms is rehomed and paid for by our very own Mr Remarkable. And the more I dug the more the stories came to light, but in all of these stories Mr Remarkable asks for nothing except for those helped individuals not to talk about their stories, to keep his deeds a secret. Why does he not want the world to know of his kindness and generosity? Because he is a private man and the reward is not the recognition for the good deed but in doing the good deed itself.

  I have met this man and now I have lost this man. He is no longer taking my calls and I expect, after publication of this article, he will choose to remain incommunicado. If this is to be his choice then I will respect it. They say, after all, that it is better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all. Yes, I believe I love Mr Remarkable, even though our time together was brief and I have never believed in love at first sight, until the day I walked into LAX.

  But now I have a proposition for you, Mr Remarkable. For your kindness and good deeds the world thanks you, but the world also needs you, and Mr Hugo Masters, owner of Masters Inc., would like you to join with him in eradicating the world of polio and other diseases. There is a battle ahead and he has the stomach for a fight, but do you?

  For those of you who want to know the real identity of Mr Remarkable I will never tell. Though you did not want you story told I did it so that the world may know you do exist. Like the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, we need to believe!

  So thank you, Mr Remarkable. May you continue to do remarkable deeds!

  I sign off and shut down my laptop. My heart is beating but the deed is done. Whatever will happen next is in the lap of the gods. I feel a little bit sick. It has been ten days since the restaurant debacle. I have heard nothing from Henry Hopper. I do not even have his mobile phone number, which is probably a good thing in hindsight as I am absolutely certain that I would have drunk-texted him, or worse, drunk-dialled him, and that is not becoming. Charlie is unhappy that I have put Missy Misdemeanour well and truly to bed, but it’s time. She’s had a good run but in cards you need to know when to hold and when to fold and this is exactly the right time. So he can scowl and complain but I am moving on and so is Missy.

  The light is starting to fade. As I sit at my desk next to the open window of my apartment I am trying not to wonder what my Mr Remarkable is doing right now. Sometimes I torture myself and believe that he is out there at this very minute charming the pants off some sweet, young thing, but at others I just sit and wonder. It’s not healthy to mooch like this, but I think any girl who has had her heart broken will agree that mooching is an important step to self-recovery and to moving on, and I’m determined to move on, just not yet
. The mooching phase must continue for a while longer. And that’s where the wine comes in. It’s just sitting there on the kitchen table smiling at me, willing me to open it up and sample the fruits of its endeavour, and I intend to, but in a little while. I look out the window at all the millions of people living their lives around me and know that there are others who feel my pain. It is a part of life and I am a fully paid-up member of the living club so I accept my pain. It will surely pass and I will be fine, but not yet. For now I must savour the pain.

  The knock on my apartment door is as unexpected as it is unwelcome. I’m not expecting visitors nor do I want any. This is my evening of solitude. It is an important ritual I need to perform. I consider ignoring the knock, pretend it never happened and move on with my evening, but the owner of the fist that banged on my door has other plans and knocks again, this time louder and with more insistence, and now my curiosity is piqued and I have to know. So I walk to the door and open it.

  That face, those dark eyes, and my attempts at a controlled evening of private drinking are knocked out of the park.

  ‘Hello, Izzy,’ he says.

  ‘What do you want?’ Yes, my heart is beating super-fast, but he doesn’t get off that easily. I have suffered these last ten days. If he thinks just showing up on my doorstep is going to make everything all right then he is mistaken.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  That’s a start.

  ‘I was wrong. I walked into that restaurant and I saw Hugo Masters and I flipped out a little bit.’

  ‘Only a little bit?’

  ‘I’ve been doing the good deeds a while and it’s been going well, but I’ve kept it a secret and when I saw Hugo I knew the game was up and I just panicked.’

  ‘You jumped to your own conclusions.’

  ‘I did,’ admits Henry. ‘I don’t trust many people, and I’d found out that you weren’t really who you said you were. I was angry about that but I figured we could talk about it later, and then I just decided to deal with it right there.’