Cathy turned around and spotted Penny. “Oh. I wasn’t sure if you heard.”
“Thanks, Cathy,” Penny said. She pushed out a smile. “And will you call my husband and ask him to pick me up a bottle of gin from Zachy’s liquor store when he gets home?”
“Of course.”
Penny turned and began walking towards the boardroom. Running her index finger gently on the wall of the corridor on her right as a grounding wire. To keep the earth still below her and the walls on the sides.
And this is why she knew she couldn’t upend her life with Davis, as flawed as it may be at the moment. Because so much in her life was upending beyond her control.
She passed Connie’s office on the left. The door was closed. She glanced at Connie’s name on the door. “I fucking love you, please be okay…” she whispered.
She spotted Philip McLaren and Joan Sussman chatting down the hall. They stepped into the boardroom for the meeting Penny was about to attend.
Work. Just focus on work.
And with that, Penny took a deep breath and let it out. She straightened her shoulders and tilted up her chin. Stiff upper lip. British. Just carry on.
But even her will felt threadbare and broken.
39
An hour after she almost died, Bridget Dwyer stood next to a display of romance books by some lady named Jacqueline Susann.
She stared out the front door of the bookstore, watching all the people strolling by on East 10th Street who didn’t have to be her. She shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and felt a lump in her throat.
How was she going to face this and how could she possibly say goodbye to Jamie?
So instead she watched people go by out the front of the bookstore and prayed for an answer.
She saw a chunky gay guy with a walrus mustache wearing a satin jacket. He was walking a little orange Pomeranian that looked like a tiny lion.
She spotted people across the street moving fast down the sidewalk. Going somewhere. Coming from someplace. All the people whose lives were normal. Or normally bad. Not the terribly awful hers had become.
Bridget glanced down at the white envelope in her hand. Jamie’s name was on it. And inside, Bridget had written what she needed to say to Jamie.
If she could just gather the strength to go give it to her.
Because no hundred things would lighten her soul. And it was time to go home.
Bridget turned around and glanced at the stairs up to the second floor.
“I fucking can’t…” she whispered.
“Hey there…”
Bridget turned around and spotted Lynette Reyes on her way into the store.
“Hiya, Irish.”
“Hiya, Lynette.”
An idea. This she could do.
“Hey,” Bridget said, holding out the envelope. She pushed out a smile because she noticed her hands were shaking. “Will you give this to Jamie?”
Lynette slipped her giant sunglasses off. “Sure, babe. Everything okay?”
She took the envelope.
“Of course,” Bridget said, pushing out a weak smile. “It’s grand.”
A few minutes later, Jamie slid a copy of The Bell Jar across the counter to a New Jersey 20-year-old with a straight line for a mouth and baubly fun earrings that didn’t match her crabby personality.
“Enjoy the Bell Jar,” Jamie said, “It’s hilarious.”
The woman headed out.
Lynette plunked her bag down behind the counter. “Hey - ran into Irish downstairs. She asked me to give you this.”
Jamie looked at the envelope.
“What’s is it?”
Lynette shrugged. “Beats me.”
“She okay?”
Lynette shrugged again. “Didn’t say. But she looked a little weird.”
40
Jaysis, my life is over and this lady looks like Miss feckin’ Marple.
The white-haired old lady with the brown cardigan stared up at Bridget from behind the desk of the intimidating marble hallway of the British Consulate.
“Do you have an appointment, young lady?”
“No, ma’am. No appointment.”
Bridget glanced around. The Union Jack everywhere.
She took a deep breath and a heaviness filled her chest.
She slid her British passport across the desk.
“This isn’t me. But here…”
The woman took her passport, opened it, looked at the picture inside.
She squinted, attempted a smile. “This isn’t you?”
“That’s a fake passport.”
The woman’s lips pursed in concern. “Do you need me to call your family back in Belfast? Are you living here in the U.S.?”
“Not legally.”
“Ah,” the woman furrowed her brow. “Young lady, sometimes these things are best handled by just going home. You don’t have to turn yourself in. Just go home.”
Bridget felt the tears start. She had walked the forty-eight blocks up Park Avenue then over to 3rd Avenue, taking in everything she could of New York City. The whole way up though she thought, “Don’t feel. Just do it.”
But now reality was hitting her. And she needed it done.
“I’m from Andersonstown in Belfast. I came here six months ago, got on a plane and just left my life - ”
“Sweetie, lots of people -”
“I did something very, very stupid. That I can never take back. And I can never make right,” Bridget said. “I don’t want to alarm you, as you seem like a nice old lady - an’ I don’t mean old like a bad thing, just, like, y’know, elderly. But I’m turnin’ myself in.”
“You’re…”
Bridget paused in the last moment of her freedom. She knew the next words she said were going to carry her across the threshold into another life.
“I’m so sorry… for what I’m going to tell you, ma’am,” she said quietly. “But you need to call someone official in there. Because my name is Bridget O’Shaughnessy and I worked with certain members of the Provisional I.R.A."
Bridget let the words spill out before she could stop them.
“I’m responsible for a bomb that went off in front of a department store where three people died,” she said quietly. “And I’m turnin’ myself in.”
The woman held Bridget’s gaze for a moment. Her face changed. A quick series of faces – confusion, then shock, then fear, then calm.
“I see.”
“I never meant to hurt anyone, I swear to God,” Bridget said. “And you can’t think anything worse about me than I do.”
The woman picked up the phone. She pressed an extension.
“Michael, it’s Phyllida out front.” She spoke calmly and measuredly, no hint of panic. Almost a nice conversation about the office Christmas Party. “We need an officer… No, it’s no danger.” She looked at Bridget.
Bridget saw the lady’s sorrow for her. Not for what she’d done but for how fucked she was.
“It’s not a he, it’s a she,” the lady said. “She’s no danger.”
41
“Oh my god.”
Jamie was sitting on the counter upstairs of the bookstore. As her cigarette burned in the nearby ashtray untouched.
She read the words over again.
“Jamie Brennan - Let me start by saying I’m sorry. I’m goin’ home because I did something stupid that turned out to be something unforgivable. And I want you to know…how it turned out wasn’t how it was supposed to go, no one was supposed to be there. I would never have done that. That said - I take responsibility for what happened. I’ll be in Armagh Prison probably - that’s in Belfast. You can write me if you want. I’m not who you thought I was. But I hope I was like one of those people in your book - some part of the good part of me that maybe you saw once.
Love you heaps, Bridget.”
Jamie felt her heart sink to the floor. She slowly lowered the letter onto her lap. And stared out at the window across from the bookstore count
er.
“Oh my god, Bridget,” she whispered. “What the fuck did you do?”
42
July 13, 1977 (One week later)
“I’m okay.”
“Brennan, you’re not.”
Jamie listened to the bookstore air conditioning clunk and whir in the distance as she leaned against the counter on her day off.
Lynette was looking at Jamie from behind the counter.
“I’m okay,” Jamie said again.
“But you’re not.”
“No, I actually am.”
“Fuck, Brennan, you’re an awful liar.”
Jamie slipped open her paycheck envelope, the reason she came in.
Lynette eyed her while flipping pages of an art magazine she wasn’t reading.
“How’s your book coming? You at least doing that?”
“Sure.”
“You mean no?”
“Yes, I mean no.”
They stared at each other a minute. Jamie shrugged.
Finally, Lynette let out a little laugh. “Fair enough.”
Lynette hit the sale button on the cash register and popped open the cash drawer. She lifted the metal flap, pulled out a five dollar bill and slid it across the counter to Jamie.
“Here,” she said. “Dennis gave me petty cash to go buy paperclips and pens. Take $5 and buy one of those cherry cheese danishes you like and a coffee.”
“That’s stealing.”
“That’s why it feels so good.”
Jamie felt herself smile. First time in a week for one of those.
Lynette reached over and slipped the five dollar bill into Jamie’s front jeans pocket.
“Thanks,” Jamie said. “Don’t get fired cause of this.”
“Fired,” Lynette said dreamily. “Could be the nicest thing you ever did for me.”
“True. I should go.”
Lynette looked at her. “Did you see her in the Post a few days ago?”
Jamie felt a lump in her throat. She was hoping Lynette wouldn’t have seen the paper. Or if she did, they wouldn’t have to talk about it.
“Yeah.”
“She turned herself in.”
“I know.”
“Sorry, James. I know you guys were a thing.”
“Yeah - not a thing. Worse than that - we were friends.”
“Fuckin’ I.R.A.”
“I know.”
“It’s crazy.”
Jamie had read it a few days before, standing at this counter. The New York Post article about the arrest of the female IRA soldier wanted for the bombing of the department store. She’d turned herself in. The bombing that killed three people. It was so impossible to reconcile that person with being her Bridget.
But Jamie knew, the broken heart presents a choice. What you do with it matters as much as how you’ve ever loved.
She herself could have made a dark choice. She didn’t.
Jamie listened to the whir and clank of the second-floor air conditioner heaving.
“Where’s the music?”
“Fucking speaker busted up here,” Lynette said. “Because that’s what I need to hear more of, my own echoing thoughts and the occasional farting customer. Did I mention I hate this job?”
Jamie laughed. “You don’t need to.”
“Are you really okay?”
Jamie sighed. “I’ll be okay, how about that?”
“That’s something.”
Jamie could hear the tinny sound of the Beach Boys singing God Only Knows coming from the speaker downstairs.
Lynette fixed her with a look. “You hate this job too, Brennan.”
“True.”
“One day, James, my art is gonna be at the Pace Gallery and the Whitney and your book is gonna make you enough money to quit.”
“Promise?”
“Oh, I promise,” Lynette said. “Look, there’s an opening at the Metropolitan Museum of Art tonight, Delacroix and some other old fucker. My friend Faith, who works up there is getting me in. Black tie. Open bar. Totally don’t belong. You wanna go?”
Jamie smiled. “I’ve got a book launch tonight. At The Algonquin. But thanks.”
“You ever not gonna be sad? You want me to fix you up with someone sexy?”
“No, thank you.”
“Not boring this time,” Lynette said.
Jamie smiled.
“Come on. I’m sorry about the geography lady curator at the gallery. I’m good at this. Better than your sister is at matchmaking. She still offering to fix you up?”
Jamie smiled. She knew Lynette loved that story. “That was just the one time.”
Lynette was beaming like she was about to hear her favorite fairy tale. “Tell me again. Was it the lady who fixed her garage or something?”
Jamie tried not to smile. “The woman who delivered their fridge.”
Lynette laughed, which made Jamie laugh. “Love that one, James.”
Jamie nodded.
Lynette flicked a rubber band at her. “Maybe tonight will be fun, Brennan. The Algonquin.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re bumming me out.”
“Yeah, vice versa.”
Jamie opened up her canvas shoulder bag and slipped the envelope with her paycheck inside. “I gotta go.”
“Okay, have fun tonight,” Lynette said. “And Brennan,” Lynette came around the counter to where Jamie was. She focused her eyes on Jamie’s.
“Find someone to fall in love with, will ya?”
“Yeah, I already did.”
“You fucker. Who?”
Jamie shook her head. “Don’t get excited. She’s got a husband.”
Lynette paused. “Because that’s a good idea.”
Jamie laughed. “Yeah, I know.”
“She worth it?”
“Unfortunately.”
Lynette clapped her hands. “Okay, look,” she said brightly. “Forget the married woman. Go to this book launch thing tonight and have an amazing time and forget all about her.”
Jamie slid her bag on her shoulder. “Or talk to her because she’s the one who invited me.”
“I see,” Lynette said. “You thought, ‘what’s the worst plan I could come up with?’”
Jamie laughed.
“This plan is truly, truly terrible. I’m impressed.”
“I do my best.”
“So, so wrong,” Lynette said, staring at Jamie. “Truly, truly terrible.”
Jamie leaned in and gave her a quick hug. “Thanks for giving a shit about my heart.”
Lynette released the hug and punched Jamie in the arm.
“You’re welcome. I wish you’d try it.”
Jamie smiled. “See ya. Thanks for Dennis’s five dollars.”
“I wish I could embezzle you more.”
“That’s touching.”
43
Jamie felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck. She glanced out the scratched-up window of the bus at the time and temperature on the side of a Chase Manhattan bank whizzing by.
She could feel the bus lurch and rumble under her high heels, standing on the back step as the bus zoomed up Madison Avenue. Heading uptown.
"93 degrees at 7:30 at night, this is lovely," she whispered.
But as sweltering as this heatwave felt on the New York Streets , it was three times hotter in this bus. Even in a skimpy black dress, she was sweating.
And that wasn’t the only discomfort - now she was getting gawped at by a 50-ish businessman in a grey suit. Her sexy dress and its accompanying cleavage perhaps a nice effect for a party. Less so for the bus.
Oh god. The party. A pang of nervousness shot through her like a lightning bolt.
Because in about five minutes she would make her way down 44th Street, push through the ornate main doors of the Algonquin hotel… and see Penny Langston.
Who. was. married.
Lynette was so right. As plans went, this was spectacularly bad.
Five minutes later, the bus pulled
over to a quick-swerving stop at 44th Street. The exit doors popped open with an exhausted Chssssss sound and Jamie stepped down to the sidewalk, right into a sweltering outdoorsy cloud of smog and exhaust.
She long ago realized that New York did not do heatwaves well. It was like the whole city went from looking like a glamorous 1940's movie star to full on Baby Jane.
The bus departed and Jamie turned and started walking down 44th Street.
Time enough to turn around. Get on another bus. Not see Penny. Make a better decision.
“Welcome to the Algonquin.”
“Thanks.”
Jamie smiled politely as the white-gloved, uniformed doorman in the hat grinned and swung the door open for her and she walked through.
Inside, the refreshing air conditioning washed over her body in a quick, frosty wave. The lobby was filled with people.
She glanced to the left. The famed Algonquin lobby bar. The place where publishing happened. It looked like elegance and smelled like old wood, martini’s and alcoholics.
Jamie heard a voice in her ear. A familiar voice. A television voice.
“Hiiiiii! Would you like to talk about the Pear Slices diet?”
She turned and was suddenly face-to- very-makeup-y-face with local NBC News reporter, Patty Chan - a Channel 4 fixture, with Liza-like eyelashes, candy-apple-red lipstick, and an ever-present microphone. Which she currently shoved into Jamie’s face like she was offering cheese puffs at a party.
“I’m Patty Chan from NBC news!”
“Yes,” Jamie said, eyeing for an exit. “You sure are - you know what? I may not be an expert on the Pear Slices Diet. Or any diet.” Jamie was searching for an out. “Or pears in general.”
Patty ignored her words and splooped on a little last minute lip gloss.
“Terrific! Have you read the book?” She slipped the lip gloss into an unseen pocket in her dress. Which Jamie realized could also be her underwear.
“I’m - I’m just meeting someone,” Jamie said.
Patty flashed that Channel 4 smile. “Let’s put you on TV!”
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