by M. M. Mayle
“Hey! Whaddya think you’re doing?” Bemus bellows and staggers a step or two. Still off balance, he makes a clumsy move to reenter the car, but Colin beats him to it, slamming the door and locking it in one swift motion. “We can’t unload here in the middle of the road!” Bemus yells against the window glass.
“We can if it’s just you gettin’ out,” Colin yells back. “Here,” he drops the window a crack and slips his last American hundred through the opening, “hire yourself a car and driver and ride home in style.”
“But you can’t. . . .”
The rest of Bemus’s protest is lost when Colin accelerates into a break in the traffic bypassing the terminal.
A more direct route to Glen Abbey, New Jersey might exist, but familiarity ranks higher than efficiency at the moment. Colin backtracks into Manhattan and across the island to the Lincoln Tunnel escape chute without any serious impediments. In Jersey, he’s not unhappy to encounter a slowdown on Route 3, till he reminds himself there’s no reason now for stalling; he’s missed the plane for dead certain—by more than an hour.
At the turnoff for Holbrook Road, he starts thinking about opening remarks and whether to arm himself with anything beyond his heart worn on his sleeve. At the connector road for her street, he starts thinking about what he’s going to do if she isn’t home and doesn’t come home before his window of opportunity goes shut. The prospect is too dismal to dwell on.
Activity at Old Quarry Court appears normal for ten o’clock on a suburban Saturday morning. A few residents are stirring, walking dogs, hosing off driveways, sprucing up flower beds, and attending to general outdoor chores. The one vehicle parked on the street looks like one he’s seen before. But not here. If he’s ever seen a sleek hybrid truck with a sign on it that reads “Superior Home Maintenance,” it wasn’t in this neighborhood.
As he rounds the curve and her house comes into full view, his heart leaps off his sleeve and into his throat because the garage door is up and her car is inside with the tailgate wide open.
He eases the Jag to a stop midway along the drive and gets out, taking with him the small duffel that now contains so many valuables he’d be justified in shackling it to his wrist. At the precise moment he steps into the garage, Laurel comes out of the house, her hair loose, her clothing nondescript, and her expression downright serene till she spots him and gasps.
“Good lord!” Her hands go up as a shield and remain that way as she backs herself into a corner. “Were you following me? I just got here . . . I haven’t even had time to . . . Wait! You’re supposed to be—”
“Save it! I’m not going anywhere till you and I are sorted. Shall we get on with it here in the garage and maybe attract an audience, or do you wanna take it inside?”
She’s docility itself as she removes her familiar carryall from the back of the Range Rover, closes up and locks the car, but leaves the garage door up when she starts into the house.
“Did you mean to leave that open?” Paused on the threshold behind her, he indicates the overhead and squints up at the drive mechanism. “It hasn’t died on you again has it?”
“No, it’s been working fine, but when I was unloading my things a few minutes ago I thought I heard scratching noises from above. Wouldn’t be the first time a squirrel got in, so I’m just giving it a chance to get out.”
“Fuck the squirrel, okay?”
She gives a little shrug and he flips the wall switch that closes the door.
In the kitchen he should go to the phone straightaway and book another flight home. But Anthony’s not been given specifics; Anthony’s not been told other than to expect him home sometime during the weekend. On that technicality, he’s got another thirty-six hours to make good on the promise. Ringing Brit Air can wait a bit.
He could wonder why a pair of large plastic rubbish bags are leaking perfectly good clothing onto the floor next to the phone desk if he weren’t so absorbed with getting everything right, including where best to sit and how best to begin.
Laurel takes care of the seating arrangements by choosing a chair on the long side of the farm table and indicating that he should sit opposite. He could distract himself with thought of precedents—those other occasions when they faced off across table barriers with stultifying results—if he weren’t so determined that this time be different.
He settles in, places the duffel out of sight on the neighboring chair, and gives her the nod to begin. He’s neither losing nerve nor shifting responsibility by inviting her to go first; the way he sees it, any light she cares to shed can only advance his argument that they’ve been victimized by a long string of fuckwitted misunderstandings and failures.
She shrinks down in the chair a bit, rather hugs herself as though cold, bites her bottom lip as though undecided whether to contribute anything at all, much less what.
“Very well, I’ll begin,” she says, “Thursday night . . . Was that only night before last? My goodness . . . seems like a week ago . . . don’t know where the time goes . . . just flies right by, doesn’t it?”
He’s not anticipating an overture of any kind, let alone this rambling stream-of-consciousness approach that could throw him off his game.
“Anyway,” she continues, “the night of the party . . . I thought the evening might end . . . differently.” She summons a frown that could make him forget anything promising was heard in the remark.
“Didn’t strike me that way when you leapt at the chance to hare off on your own.” He amps up a scowl to demonstrate the petulance that’s been constant companion since he was left in limbo Thursday night.
“I can see where it wouldn’t, and I’ve been remiss not to explain before now that my reaction that night had more to do with David’s behavior than yours. When he put words in my mouth by saying I wouldn’t mind if you abandoned me because I wasn’t really your date—capitalizing on an inane remark I’d made to him earlier—all I heard were the dozens of other times he manipulated me when he had bigger fish to fry. And I reacted as I had dozens of times before when David and I were together and he knew he could count on my compliance because I was in thrall to him . . . because I had this exaggerated sense of what was owed him.”
“But I had no way of knowing any of that, did I then.”
“And I had no way of knowing you weren’t subjugating yourself when you leapt to follow David’s lead. That’s why I wasn’t bowled over the next day when you let me know Nate was history and—”
“Wait, wait, wait . . . one thing at a time. I wasn’t following David’s lead, and if I was bowing to anyone, it was Sarjit Singh of Rajah Records, who was offering an interim deal that took care of the copyright issues that could’ve prevented my recording and performing with Rayce yesterday. I had to act right then or lose the chance. You weren’t in the loop because I wasn’t dead certain any of it could be made to happen till practically the last minute and—”
“Do we really have to do this?” She squirms in her chair.
“Yeh, we do. No more misunderstandings. You’re gonna hear me out, even if it is tedious and boring.”
“I’m not bored, I’m embarrassed. I don’t mind admitting I screwed up—big time, as Amanda would say—but do I have to have my nose rubbed in it?”
“My nose is in it too, don’t forget. You think I’m placing myself above blame? You think I haven’t been kicking myself for not explaining things sooner . . . for not speaking up sooner? I love you, Laurel Grace Chandler. I always have. Right from the first time I saw you there in the hotel entrance, where I recognized you, actually, where I saw straightaway you’re the reason I survived—survived so I’d find you and be given the chance to make you happy for the rest of both our lives. I’m so convinced of that I bought this the day after I coerced you into naming it your favorite in a window display.” He brings out the spectacular diamond ring that’s been safety-pinned inside one pocket or another for the duration and slides it across the table.
Motionless, she regards him wi
thout saying a word. Her face is unreadable as he explains why he’s held back till now, why time couldn’t pass fast enough when the passing of each day increased his chances of being taken seriously.
“I can promise you this is no whim. No matter how fast it happened, this is no sudden notion I’m talking about. You’re no passing fancy. I want you for long as you’ll have me. I’ll still want you when we’re old and grey and wrinkled and wrapped like Russia in mysteries and enigmas and riddles that we know all the answers to because we’ve never ever given up and . . . and. . . .”
He hesitates. To take a breath and to confront the possibility that with the cork at last out of the bottle, he’s gone too far too fast. He won’t retract anything said or withdraw anything offered; he’ll just slow down a bit, show some restraint. That’s it. She’ll be relieved to know this; she’ll be able to react one way or the other if she’s not hit with everything at once.
His mouth is open to make this pledge when, in one swift and improbable motion, she palms the ring and propels herself onto and over the table—rather launches herself at him. Beyond thunderstruck, he somehow manages to jump to his feet in time to steady her landing and be rocked by her full-body embrace.
“Bloody hell!” The epithet bursts out of him along with garbled expressions of amazement, of relief, of the sheer joy of having her clamped to him saying things he never quite dared hope to hear.
“You cannot imagine how much I love you,” she says for the third or fourth time, “or how long I’ve wanted to love you,” she repeats without making a whole lot of sense. Holding onto him like a determined groupie come in the window and not to be denied, she goes quiet for a moment, then presses even closer, murmuring reasons for this and regrets for that, praising him, scolding herself, renouncing, embracing, blaming, forgiving.
Talk about the cork being out of the bottle. He listens long enough to know she’s still got it wrong about David, and that can be set straight another time—anytime but now when he’s about to die of desire she can’t be unaware of.
She gets the message without delay and answers with upturned face and parted lips. Her mouth tastes of everything made exquisite by denial—he’ll never get enough of it—and he can’t be dead certain her body isn’t actually vibrating with want.
He’s in the most exquisite agony of his life when she grinds against him and whispers, “We’re gonna have makeup sex.”
“God yes, but maybe not right here,” he gasps.
His last rational thought is of the neighborhood nutter who might already be lurking beyond the wide expanse of uncurtained windows, about to rush in with her broom.
Laurel leads him by the hand into the back hall and up a staircase he didn’t know existed. Given the magic of the moment, she may have conjured these stairs out of thin air.
SEVENTY-TWO
Midday, April 11, 1987
Hoop hasn’t moved since the racket from below sent him scuttling across the rafters of Laurel Chandler’s attic to the narrow ledge behind the chimney. That was forty-seven minutes ago by his glow-in-the-dark watch dial. If someone heard him, they would have come looking by now, so he gets ready to edge back toward the hatchway into the house. His wide-open, tipped-over gym bag is still on the platform where he dropped it when the sound of the garage door going up sent him scrambling for cover.
The same gut feeling that brought him here an hour ago told him to bring the bag. Although the newspapers and the music television said Colin Elliot was flying home to England this weekend, nothing was said about the lawyerwoman going with him. Nothing now says it wasn’t her that put up the garage door or that she won’t be coming upstairs sooner or later. Sooner than he’s ready for, as it turns out.
He’s covered only half the distance to the platform and the gym bag when he hears the billygoat clatter of feet on wooden stairs, followed by the sound of voices. Two voices. A man’s and a woman’s.
He quick returns to the far side of the chimney and climbs back onto the narrow perch which may be easier to tolerate now that he’s got something to look at. He doesn’t even have to stretch to see through the gap he sighted through the first time he came here. And, like before, he’s looking straight at the lawyerwoman’s bed, but this time she’s standing next to it. And so is the rock star that’s not supposed to be here.
Hoop takes a couple of deep breaths and adjusts the range, leans in close and then distances himself some before squaring with what he sees. And what he sees makes him understand once and for all why oaths and swears slip out when no other words come to mind. If he knew any good ones, he’d say some now.
He was right to rank her a harlot. Look at how she’s tearing off her clothes and tearing off the rock star’s clothes that he hasn’t already pulled off on his own and tossed on the floor like someone will be right along to pick up after him. And look how she’s touching the rock star in his most private of places before easing back on the bed and gaping her legs open to show off her most private of places. She gets her comeuppance when the rock star falls on top of her. He grabs at her titties and she claws at his buttocks. They grapple like wrestlers, him getting the upper hand when he pokes into her entranceway and starts giving her a good pounding. Her legs thrash every which way and her whole body rocks back and forth like she’s desperate to get away. Her head rolls side to side and she yelps and moans like she’s hurting bad. The punisher goes on grunting and giving her what for till the lawyerwoman lets out a sharp cry and exposes her neck as though for a blade while the rock star bashes his head into the bedstead several times over and comes to a shuddering stop.
Given this chance to measure the two of them for size, strength, and how able-bodied they are, he’d be a jackassed-fool to try taking both on at once. That calls for use of a firearm—a cowardly white man’s weapon that’s only acceptable for hunting those things you can’t run down on foot.
Hoop feels no great sense of disappointment as he wipes his brow on the back of his sleeve. He’s got more than one trick in his bag, so this isn’t seen as a total loss. Hasn’t he learned by now that nothing’s ever a total loss? Wasn’t he just talking about that with Audrey, telling her about the backup plan he was working on and how patience is second nature to him these days?
He takes another look at the quarry. He’d better hope they both fall asleep—not just the man—or he’ll be stuck here without a chance to try the other plan.
They’re both still stirring, and it looks like the rock star did hurt her because he’s dabbing and brushing at her eyes and kissing her cheeks and forehead like he’s real sorry—terrible sorry because the lawyerwoman’s having to wipe his eyes with one corner of the bedsheet.
Hoop shuts his own eyes against more nasty business and waits a good five minutes by his internal clock before he checks again. When it looks like they’ve both dozed off, he counts out another five minutes before trying a move of any kind. Then it’s only to work the cramps out of his legs from having stood stock-still for so long.
As soon as he’s able, he inches across the rafters to where the gym bag is. He rights it, continues with what he was doing before the interruption, only now he’s going at it twice as fast. When he’s done with all the transferring, he fills his pockets with doses of substitute medicine, closes the gym bag, and secures it with the combination lock. He slips through the hatch-way and down onto the closet floor without making a sound or hearing a sound. So far, so good. But when he turns to close the door to the hatchway, he sees what too much hurry made him do.
There, on the attic floorboards to one side of the opening, is a spill of the little envelopes he just emptied of powdered aspirin and filled with dope. A dozen or more got away from him for being extra slippery and refusing to crowd into the side pockets of his tight-fitting jeans. He scoops them up quick as he can, without a ready answer for what to do with them. Working them into those pockets is too much trouble, the padlocked gym bag’s a bother to open, and common sense says he’s running out of time.
The answer’s right in front of him as soon as he’s ready to see it: A lineup of hanging bags for storing extra clothes fills up one side of the closet. The nearest one is mostly empty and dust-covered like it’s fallen out of use, but the zipper works fine when he slides it open and tosses the extra envelopes inside. The fine powder left on the attic platform he brushes down into the rafters where no one would notice in a hundred years.
He pauses to take a reading before moving out of the closet and into the hallway. The only thing he hears is the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears, a sound that stays with him while catfooting along the hallway to the front stairs—the more distant front stairs because they’re carpeted and less likely to give him away than the bare treads of the nearby back stairs.
He stays close to the wall, where boards aren’t as apt to creak. Same on the stair steps and along the downstairs hallway till he reaches the kitchen, where all he has to worry about is making scraping noises on the clay-tile floor.
Everything is neat and orderly the way it was the first time he was here, so the two open garbage bags dumped on the floor near the phone table are real attention-getters. A closer look shows that they’re filled with women’s clothes; nothing there to interest him.
The other out-of-place items—the worn suitcases left standing at one end of the big kitchen table—don’t look like they belong to a celebrity, either. He nevertheless stoops down to read the nametags on them, and something else catches his eye. On a chair pulled up to the long side of the table and hidden from normal view is a bag he knows for a fact belongs to a celebrity. Now his head is really pounding. It’s pounding so loud he can’t be sure he’d hear reveille if it was tooted right next to his ear. His one hand is unsteady and doesn’t want to uncurl when he sets down his own bag.
He has to move the chair some to get at the familiar celebrity bag with the LV markings all over it. He maneuvers it onto the table and opens the zipper a little at a time, just the way he did at the hotel in Los Angeles. And just like in Los Angeles, he takes out a smaller LV-marked bag full of toilet items, opens it with similar caution and removes the box marked Polks Extra Strength. Only this time he doesn’t puzzle over what that is or help himself to any samples; instead, he empties out his pockets and switches the rock star’s supply with his own.