Anonymous Sources

by Mary Louise Kelly

  But in our way Hyde and I have quite an intimate relationship. This is because he knows my secret. Or most of it, anyway. He’s the only one besides my parents, and he’s known for years, since my early days at the Chronicle.

  I was hired as a summer intern right out of Columbia. After the summer they offered me a trainee reporter slot. I was assigned to the night cops shift, where I was supposed to listen to the scanner and call around the police precincts every few hours to check what was going on. I was terrible at it. I couldn’t make sense of the codes the dispatchers used, and the big busts always seemed to unfold when I got up to use the bathroom or to make another pot of coffee.

  After a while I lost interest. Started calling in sick. And I was sick, in a way. I had started the crying jags earlier that year. Crying, and scratching myself. I would take my fingernails and rake the soft, white skin inside my elbows, down toward my wrists. Scratch and scratch until red welts opened and the blood came. I was too chicken to do it with a knife. One particularly bad week I lay on the kitchen floor for two straight days. Didn’t bother to call in sick. Didn’t call in at all. I just couldn’t move.

  On the third day I slunk into the newsroom.

  I had prepared an elaborate lie about food poisoning from dodgy sushi. The salmon nigiri, I was going to tell them, I’m pretty sure it was the salmon. But I was unlucky, or so it seemed to me at the time: Barry, the regular metro editor, was out that week. Hyde Rawlins was filling in. He was still foreign editor then, and I barely knew him. He had a reputation as a hard-ass. He liked to fire people. Our Johannesburg correspondent had lost his job recently for missing deadline. So had an assistant foreign editor. She had confused Mubarak and Mugabe in a headline and then misspelled Hamid Karzai on the front page.

  Hyde had spotted me not long after I walked in and summoned me to his office.

  “How kind of you to join us today, Ms. James. I hope you’re rested. But might I ask where you’ve been?”

  I clutched at my stomach and launched into the sushi story.

  I hadn’t gotten far when he cut me off. “Save it, Alex. Let me ask again: Where have you been?”

  I stared at my feet. Couldn’t think of what to say. Then the truth popped out. “I’ve been lying on my kitchen floor. For two days. I couldn’t move.”

  He looked interested. “Go on.”

  “I—I hadn’t really planned to get into this.”

  He waited.

  “It’s because—I—because—of my daughter.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t realized you have children.”

  “No. I mean, I don’t.”

  Hyde looked confused.

  Once I’d started I couldn’t stop. It was almost a relief to tell someone. I told him how I’d gotten pregnant at seventeen. The father was a guy I barely knew. Stupid, so stupid. My mother had cried. Said I was ruining my life. Said there would be plenty of time to have babies when I was ready, when I was older, when I wasn’t a child myself. I was too far along by then to consider an abortion, and so I’d gone away until it was time.

  But I’d lost the baby, I told Hyde Rawlins. She had died at birth. I never even gave her a name. And then I went back to school and tried to forget about her.

  For a long time it had worked. And then, suddenly, it didn’t anymore. It seemed crazy to mourn a daughter I had never intended to keep; the plan had been to give her up for adoption. But here I was, I told him. Going through the motions of my first grown-up job. And then going home after my shift and sobbing on the floor of my apartment.

  When I finished, we had sat in silence for a while.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

  “Thank you.” I sniffled. “I bet you’re wishing you’d let me stick with the sushi story.”

  He frowned and shook his head. Then he swiveled around in his leather chair, pecked at his keyboard for a minute, and printed out several sheets of paper. He handed them to me. “This came up at the futures meeting this morning. It’s the metro desk’s notes so far on the city’s new contract for trash collection. Something shady about it. They can’t follow where the money’s going. I want you to look into it. You can update me directly until Barry gets back.”

  I don’t know what reaction I’d been expecting, but this was not it. “You’re assigning me a story?”

  “That would appear to be my job around here.”

  “I thought you were going to try to console me. Or else fire me.”

  “Still an option, Ms. James. Definitely still an option. But I think right now the best thing all round might be for you to work.”

  “Oh.”

  “I want you to go get me this story. Knock it out of the park. And when you’ve nailed this one, you’re going to go get the next one. And then the next. See? I need stories. And you, my dear, you need to work.”

  So I did.

  The trash contract story had taken me months. I learned all kinds of things about racketeering and the cartels that control the garbage-collection industry. The kickbacks flowed in all directions; our graphic-design team had a field day producing flashy charts and diagrams. In the end we ran a four-part series. It won a prize and cost the chief of the Department of Public Works his job. But most important, from my point of view, it kept me off my kitchen floor for a while.

  That was five years ago. I am now twenty-eight years old. Hyde has never spoken of my daughter again. Neither have I. He just keeps assigning me stories, and I keep trying to knock them out of the park.

  16

  That night I lay sprawled across the green-and-yellow-flowered duvet of my hotel bed, leafing through the new issue of Tatler. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine whenever I’m in the UK. Tatler is a British society mag, written for and about girls like Petronella Black. If you absolutely must know which West End bar Prince Harry is frequenting, or which caterer can whip up champagne cocktails for a soiree on your Notting Hill roof terrace, or how to score a ticket for the Stewards’ Enclosure at the Henley Royal Regatta, then Tatler is the magazine for you. Sadly, these are not the concerns that dominate my waking hours. But who can resist living vicariously once in a while?

  The July issue featured a cover spread on an Irish starlet I’d never heard of, and a fashion column by someone named Isabella Sterling. Ms. Sterling pronounced that high heels were now officially out, especially stilettos. This autumn, she predicted, fashionistas would be sporting square toes and sensible wedges.

  Riiiight. Isabella Sterling obviously knew nothing about shoes.

  I tossed the magazine onto the floor and was just wondering what to do next when my cell phone rang.

  I looked at my watch. It was nine at night. I looked at the phone. A London number I didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Alexandra James?”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “This is Petronella Black.”

  Spooky. Almost as if my Tatler reading had channeled her.

  “I need to speak with you quite urgently,” she said in her posh little accent.

  I sat up straight.

  “Petronella, if this is to threaten me with your lawyers, I’m really not in the mood. And if you bothered to read my story today, you’d know there wasn’t much about you anyway.”

  “What? Oh. Good. But this is about something else.”

  Something else? “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “It’s—it’s perhaps nothing, but I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone. It’s just very strange.”

  “Well, feel free to come over. I’m at the Crowne Plaza.”

  “No, no, that won’t do. I’m down in London, you see. I fly to Boston tomorrow. For the funeral. Why don’t we meet for breakfast. Let’s say at my club. The Groucho, on Dean Street, in Soho. If you could be there at eight.”

  Good grief. The girl was too much. Her private club. And the last bit had been issued not as a request, but as an order.

  “Let’s say eight thirty,” I said, just to be petty.

 
; Truth be told, I was a little curious what was on her mind. And I was going to London tomorrow anyway, to fly home myself.

  Then there was the fact that if I wanted to annoy Petronella Black, there were more enjoyable ways to do so than turning up half an hour late for breakfast.

  THERE ARE BAD IDEAS, AND then there are really bad ideas, and this one probably ranked as one of the worst. But the prospect of flirting, knocking back a few drinks, and irritating Petronella all in one go was too alluring to resist.

  By nine thirty that night I was penciling in my lips with a deep-plum color and digging through my suitcase for the highest pair of heels I’d brought. Take that, Isabella Sterling. By ten minutes to ten I was outside the Eagle pub.

  Above the main door a blue plaque informed me that Watson and Crick had come here in 1953 to celebrate mapping the structure of DNA. Cambridge is like that. No matter where you go, someone more brilliant than you has already been there and done something far more interesting than whatever it is you’re about to do.

  I stepped inside.

  He was easy to spot. Lucien Sly and two other guys were at a table in the far corner. Lucien had his head tipped back and was howling with laughter again. I stood there watching him. This was what made him attractive, I realized. You wouldn’t trust him for a moment. But he radiated happiness. There was a vitality about him, a sense of someone completely comfortable in his own skin. It was foreign to me, but I admired it.

  I walked over.

  When he saw me, he stood and pulled out a chair. Wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. Introduced me around. “Alex, meet Peter and Nigel. Peter and Nigel, meet Alex. Pete, you wouldn’t be so good as to go buy the next round?”

  Pete had the glazed look of a man who’s already consumed one too many. But he staggered off obediently. He returned with four pints of warm beer. They slopped across the wooden table. Then he shook a pack of cigarettes at Nigel, raised his eyebrows in a questioning look, and the two of them stepped outside for a smoke.

  Lucien smiled at me. His eyes were warm. He didn’t seem particularly surprised that I had come.

  “Well then. How was the rest of your day?”

  “Fine. Interesting. Petronella called me.”

  “Did she? Splendid.” He didn’t ask why.

  “She asked me to meet her tomorrow.”

  “Smashing.”

  “Not to pry, but may I ask how long you two have been seeing each other?”

  “You may. A few weeks, I suppose. Maybe longer. Off and on. Nella and I aren’t exactly exclusive, as you may have gathered.”

  “Mm-hmm. What about Thom Carlyle then—did you know him?”

  “No. That is, not well. In passing, as it were.” He looked not the least bit embarrassed. “Wretched luck, what happened. Poor chap. Have you figured it all out yet?”

  I shook my head. “No. Still trying. There are bits that don’t make sense.”

  “Like what?”

  “Too many to count.”

  “Mmm. And must you still fly home tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to get back for Tuesday. For the funeral.”

  “Rotten business.”

  “Yes.”

  “So.”

  “So.” I kept my eyes on the table and traced my finger along the slippery rim of my glass.

  He smiled again. “Allow me to change the subject. Would you think me a terrible scoundrel if I suggested we leave right now so I could take you home and take you to bed?”

  “Lucien!”

  “Just asking.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to work a bit harder than that.”

  “The lady’s wish is my command.” He grinned. Pretended to give a little bow. “But you do know where this is going, don’t you?”

  I did. I’d known it from the moment I’d walked in the door. Perhaps from the moment I’d bumped into him that morning. The anticipation was delicious.

  “Another drink then?” he asked.

  “Yes. Gin and tonic this time. Hendrick’s if they’ve got it.”

  Another two rounds later we left the Eagle. Pete and Nigel had never reappeared. Perhaps they too could tell where things were going.

  Outside it was starting to drizzle. The cobbled street was slick and quiet. I pulled my sweater tight around me and started to walk. It was a moment or so before I realized Lucien was no longer at my side. I turned around.

  He was still standing outside the pub. Watching me.

  “Bloody hell, woman,” he groaned. “Those legs. I could stand here all night, just watching you walk.”

  And then he jogged over and picked me up and kissed me. My head was spinning. This was wrong in all kinds of ways. But at that moment—Lord, did it feel good.

  AFTERWARD IN BED I LAY awake.

  Dawn would soon come. This time of year in England, true darkness lasts a few hours at most. I tried to figure out what time I had to get up. Breakfast in Soho at eight thirty, so I’d need to arrive at King’s Cross station in London by eight. That meant catching a 7:00 a.m. train from Cambridge. Assuming they left on the hour. I needed to pack. Shower. Check out. None of that would take long. If I was up by five, I should have more than enough time.

  I glanced over at Lucien. He was out cold on the other side of the bed. In the moonlight his heavy features—the full lips, the slightly hooked nose—looked softer, graceful even, like a statue, or the profile on an ancient Roman coin. Luscious man. He had been very good. Pure pleasure. Of course, it helped that we would never see each other again. Soon I would be tucked back home in my flat in Cambridge, Mass.

  My legs were aching. From the sex or the jog or both, it was hard to say. I let my thoughts wander. My best friend, Jess. I needed to call her and grovel. We’d traded messages, but I still hadn’t properly apologized for standing her up outside Shays on Tuesday. My hairdresser. Must call and get my highlights done. Hyde. He’d be wanting another installment on Thom Carlyle. My parents, still living in the house in Brooklyn where I grew up. I should go see them. My daughter. My baby. I still thought of her that way, although it would have been her tenth birthday this year.

  I shook my head. Mustn’t go down that path.

  Mustn’t try to make sense of it tonight.

  I closed my eyes. I should try to sleep for an hour or two. Tomorrow I could tackle putting my life in order. Yes. That seemed like a reasonable plan. But that was before I knew quite how crazy my life was about to get.

  17

  In Harvard Square, Jess Mitchell turned her key in the lock and let herself into Alex James’s apartment.

  She had come for the shoes, and it only occurred to her now that she should have brought along orange juice and bagels, so her friend wouldn’t return home to an empty fridge. Not that Alex deserved any special kindnesses. What she deserved was a good kick up the backside. Jess was still seething about being stood up, again.

  But that was Alex. Sometimes she just disappeared, as if she had fallen off the face of the earth. She could go weeks at a time. You learned not to ask.

  Jess turned and walked into the kitchen. It was a pretty flat, wide windows looking out over stout birch trees and the Charles River. She checked the fridge. Empty. Alex was a decent cook, actually, but she appeared to survive on a diet of coffee and take-out spicy tuna rolls. And gin. Jess checked the freezer. No bottles. Probably the same strategy as Jess adopted for chocolate: best not to keep it around, or it would just get consumed.

  The bedroom was a total state. Alex must have been in a hurry when she packed for England. Dresses, apparently considered and discarded, were strewn across the bed. Lipsticks littered the top of the dresser. Books were pulled off the shelves and dropped in piles on the floor. It looked as if a tornado had blown through. Appropriate.

  “How is the Force of Nature?” Jess’s father would ask when his daughter’s best friend came up in conversation. You knew what he meant. She had a ferocity that was either reassuring or quite frightening, depending on whether it was d
irected at you.

  Take the night a man broke into their student flat. It had happened their sophomore year at Columbia; the two girls had just moved in together. Around four in the morning they had been woken by a crash. In the shadows of the hallway they found a man. Big, mean looking. Jess remembered the jolt of terror she had felt, the instinct to flee back into the bedroom, bolt the lock, call the police. But Alex had charged him. Just run at him, pounding him with her fists. Insane. He had kicked her off but she kept attacking, until he must have decided it wasn’t worth it, and he ran, back out the door and into the night. Alex had stood there, sweat and adrenaline steaming off her skin. And Jess had understood that her friend had a side to which Jess did not have access.

  That said, the girl had great shoes. Jess rummaged around the closet until she found what she had come for: a slinky pair of Bruno Maglis with thick, gold heels. Fabulous. They would go perfectly with the outfit she had planned for tonight.

  She left her friend a note on the kitchen counter:

  Welcome home, Stranger.

  I am holding your gold Brunos hostage. Part of your punishment for ditching me at Shays. You can make it up to me over dinner when you get back. Your treat. The Indian place?

  Grumpily yours,

  J

  ACROSS THE RIVER IN BOSTON, Hyde Rawlins tightened the belt on his silk kimono and poured himself another glass.

  The champagne was an indulgence he permitted himself on the weekend. During the week he tried to stick to dry white wine. He kept a bottle chilled at all times, in a small refrigerator tucked behind the sofa in his office. Another flagrant violation of newsroom regulations. Personal fridges were banned, both because they gobbled up electricity and because their stashes attracted mice. But Hyde doubted the mice were interested in sauvignon. And he liked to pour himself a generous glass every evening, just to take the edge off the workday.