by Amber Brock
“What do you mean, never occupied?”
“Just that. The room never needed cleaning, he never came for his meals…no one was in his room.”
She closed her eyes tightly. “That’s impossible. We picked him up from the docks. He had his trunk.”
“He found some other way to get to the States, then. But my sources all agree. His room was empty.”
She could not listen to any more. Her knees wobbled as she rushed to stand. “Thank you, Mr. Stanton, you’ve been very helpful. Will you go to Clarence Bloomer right away?”
“No, I thought I would try to find more information before I concluded my report. I doubt this will be enough to satisfy him. He’ll want to know who this man is. When I find out more, would you like me to contact you first again?”
“No, thank you. This is quite enough.” She stuck out a hand, and he stood and shook it.
“If you’re certain,” he said.
“I am. Thank you again.”
The detective closed the door, and Vera covered her face with her hands. Her heart had frozen, as if it had stopped beating entirely. When she could feel it pulsing again, it gulped and stuttered. Hallan was not Hallan. All the fears she had about him lying surged forward again. She stood and headed out the door, unable to bear her own silence a moment longer.
Vera raced down the stairs to Hallan’s apartment as soon as the front door closed behind Stanton, the beads on her dress shimmying and shushing as she ran. She stood outside the door to 2A to catch her breath, then knocked. Hallan’s valet answered.
“Is Mr. Hallan in?” she asked. “I need to speak to him.”
“I’m sorry, madam, he’s not.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
He frowned. “I’m sorry, it may be quite some time. He usually doesn’t come upstairs from working until very late at night. Shall I go down and tell him you’re here?”
“Yes, please, will you?”
The valet stepped aside so Vera could enter. “Let me show you to the drawing room.”
“No need. I know where it is. Thank you for fetching him.”
The valet left, and Vera went into the drawing room. Too anxious to sit, she paced in front of the mantel. As she waited, she mentally prepared what she wanted to say. The maid came in to offer a drink, and Vera gratefully requested a gin and tonic. She had just hit the bottom of the glass when she heard the front door open.
Hallan strode into the room. His face, shirt, and arms were flecked with pale blue paint. Even his hair had dots of paint here and there.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, a little out of breath.
She swallowed hard. “I found out something today that I want you to explain to me.”
His face went slack. He sat and took a deep breath. “All right. If I can.”
“I spoke to the private investigator. He said he’s searched all over London and Paris. The art school included. He says there is no record of anyone named Emil Hallan.”
He rubbed his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. “I said he wouldn’t find anything, didn’t I?”
“Then that isn’t your name? I don’t even know your real name?”
“No.”
The word shattered her last hope. Her knees buckled, and she sat in a chair. “Oh God.”
“What does it matter? It’s only a name.”
“It’s not ‘only a name,’ ” she cried. “I let you into my home, into my bed, and I don’t even know who you are. None of it’s true, you didn’t study at that school—”
“I admit it.” His voice was firm. “I didn’t study at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.”
She lifted her head. Finally, some truth from his own mouth. “Did you study art at all?”
“I did.”
“I suppose it would be pointless to ask your real name.”
“My first name is Emil, that’s true. It’s only my last name you don’t know.” He stared out the window. “Last names only matter to people like you.”
She let out a harsh laugh. “People like me? Honest people? People with nothing to hide?”
“People at the top. It’s your calling card, your invitation. The way to show you belong and keep other people out. Believe me, my last name is of no use to you.” He pointed at her. “And you hide plenty, by the way.”
“Don’t you dare act as though what I’ve done is the same as what you’ve done. You lied about everything. He said you weren’t on the boat. How did you even get here?”
Hallan did not answer, though she half hoped he would. He had told her a little something. Maybe she could make him open the gates if she found the right question. She stared at him for a moment before continuing. “You could be anyone. What is it, do you have a wife you’re running from?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Some horrible crime? You could be a murderer for all I know.”
He pressed a fist to his mouth. When he spoke it was so low she could barely hear, as if each word pained him. “I am not a murderer.”
“How would I know that? Why should I believe you?”
He moved to the couch beside her. “Because you know me. You do. I know you care for me. And you’ve waited this long…let me finish the painting, and then I’ll tell you everything.”
She cursed herself. Despite everything, all her fears and concerns, she still felt drawn to him, more each day. She wanted to believe him. To hear his story, see his painting. And she wanted him to be safe. He lied, yes, but he could never be dangerous. She laid a hand on his knee. “The investigator is still looking for more information about you, and he’ll find it. Why don’t you go now? While you still can?”
“I’m going to finish the painting first.”
“Forget the painting! What does that matter?”
He stared ahead, his eyes fixed and resolute. “I have to finish the painting before I leave. It’s nearly done. Then I’ll go. And I want you to come with me.”
Vera stood. When he had made the offer before, she had enjoyed hearing him say the words. Now the idea turned her stomach to lead. “I can’t leave with you. I don’t know you.”
He rose and took a tentative step toward her. “Yes, you do. Please, Vera. Think about it. What do you have here?”
“A home, a husband, my family—”
“And it’s suffocating you. They’re going to drain you until there’s nothing left but a shell. If you leave, you have a chance to be that woman you said you ought to have been. You’ll have a chance at a real life. Why does this have to be tied up in the past? Why can’t it be about the future?”
She shook her head. “There is no future. Not with you. This is absurd.”
“I’m only asking you to think about it. And I’ll show you the painting and tell you everything. Then you can decide. But I want to be with you. I want to take you out of this place.”
The floor spun beneath her. “I—I have to go. I can’t…I’ve got to go.”
He nodded. “Go. But think about it.”
Ridiculous. Hallan’s proposal was ridiculous. She could not run away, least of all with a man about whom she knew nothing, someone who lied to her right from the start. And they had nothing. She had no money of her own, and who knew if Hallan could get a job? Where would they go? The whole idea was lunacy.
Then why did she keep picturing them on a train? Why could she clearly see them, side by side on a rattling train car, speeding toward a new life? Why could she not stop herself from thinking which of her belongings she would take with her, and what she would leave behind? Something inside her begged her to take the elevator down one final time and never come back.
As pervasive as thoughts of Hallan were, Vera could not help but think of Bea, too. Did she have to invent elaborate lies to hide her disgrace, as Hallan did? Vera’s confession ten years before might have set Bea off on the path that led to forgery. Vera could choose the train, choose the new life. Bea had been forced. In the moments whe
n Vera was most honest, she had to acknowledge that the speed with which she had forgiven herself for the way she had treated Bea years ago diminished her. Thinking of it made her feel small, almost pathetic.
With Hallan, at least, Vera could console herself that she could say good-bye to him before he left. And she would. If they parted for good, it would not be in the confused silence that had separated her and Bea, her and Cliff. Vera had heard shortly after returning from Vassar that Bea was expelled. Vera had tried to find out more, but soon the stream of gossip dried up. She could not inquire too insistently, lest her mother get word. Vera assumed Bea’s family had taken her home to Atlanta, until she first spotted Bea on the street in the city years later. They had been robbed of a chance to say even the simplest good-bye. Their encounter on the street was hardly an ideal final conversation. Vera would not allow that to happen between her and Hallan.
The thoughts and questions muddied her mind as she moved in a daze through her daily life. She assumed Hallan continued to paint, but for the next few days she was at last able to stay away from his apartment, and he left her alone. The loss of him in her day was palpable. A gnawing hunger opened up inside her and never let her forget him. She hoped he would finish soon and go, and she could attempt to return to her life as it had been.
Arthur still seemed to know nothing about the affair. If anything, he became more pleasant than he had been in a long while. He dined at home more often, struck up lively conversations with her instead of keeping his nose in the financial news, and went out of his way to compliment her. Once he even planned a full evening out, complete with dinner and a play, perhaps finally making good on his promise after he failed to meet her at the Ritz. His behavior, while friendlier, was still not exactly loving, but Vera had more hope than ever they could get there if she just tried a little harder.
Even the cold shoulder Poppy turned to her when they entered the Litchfields’ apartment for a dinner party one evening did not extend to the other women. Ida Bloomer greeted Vera like a long-lost sister and admonished her for not attending the ballet with them a few evenings before.
“We missed you terribly, dear,” Ida said. “Though I hope it wasn’t because you were ill again. Poor darling, to have health troubles, young as you are.”
“Everything is fine now, thank you. And I certainly plan to be at your luncheon tomorrow.” Vera smiled.
“Oh, wonderful. It hasn’t been the same without you.”
The maid came in to announce dinner, and Ida took Vera’s arm as they went to the dining room. Vera noted with some satisfaction that her place card sat at the top of the table, as near Caroline’s seat as she could be. Even with her recent absences, she still retained her status in the building. Perhaps it had even been heightened. They had been distant when the artist was the hot subject of discussion, but when she avoided them, their interest in her seemed to have revived. Yes, she could fall back into the rhythm of her life as if the artist had never existed.
She was chatting with Kenneth Harper about his new car when something Arthur said to Caroline caught her attention.
“…and so I’ll be in Philadelphia for a week, then it’s on to Boston,” he said. “Not to mention late nights at the office, too many of those to count. Vera will have to attend these things without an escort for a good while.”
Vera’s throat tightened. Another one of his extended “business” trips. He hadn’t had one in a while. Now Vera wondered if the pleasantness that had passed between them the last few days was his way of placating her in advance of this news.
The trips had started shortly after they were married. He claimed there was the need to visit a lot of building sites, shake a lot of important hands. She had been terribly proud of her busy husband. Then, a little over two years into their marriage, she got a phone call from the Tiffany store. A clerk named Mr. Blake cheerfully reported that the pocket watch Arthur had ordered was ready early. Of course, Arthur could still pick it up on the agreed-upon date, but the clerk thought the client might like it delivered to the Plaza instead. Mr. Bellington had mentioned he was staying there, Mr. Blake explained, but then an assistant noticed that the home number on Arthur’s profile card was in the city. The clerk thought he ought to phone Mr. Bellington’s home in case he misheard. Confusion had given way to the sinking realization that although Vera’s husband might indeed be in a room at the Plaza, whoever was staying in the room with him was not his wife. More than that, Arthur was supposed to be in Baltimore. She called the hotel and asked if Mr. Bellington was still there. The man at the desk offered to put her through, and she hung up before anyone could answer. Though Vera never mentioned it to Arthur, that afternoon was the beginning of her understanding that business was typically not what kept him away from home overnight. One night at a time was bad enough. But the extended weeks holed up with some unknown lover hurt the worst.
Hallan had been right. How well she knew someone did not matter. Everyone hid something. She had her own horrible secrets, too. She had sacrificed a friend to save herself, and for what? To be disdained by her husband? To become the queen of meaningless social rituals? To be a good girl but a bad person?
Vera slammed her fork down on her plate. Silence overtook the table as every head turned to her. Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
“What in the world is the matter?” he asked.
“You’re taking a trip? For several weeks?”
“It’s business. I’ve done it a million times.”
“I’m a little surprised, that’s all. You didn’t mention it.”
Arthur locked his gaze on Vera’s. “I didn’t think it would inconvenience you. You’ll do perfectly well without me, you always do.”
“Well, it’s an awful lot of ‘business,’ isn’t it?”
“What are you saying?”
Everyone at the table seemed to be holding in a breath waiting for Vera’s response. Even Bessie Harper sat silent, her mouth agape. Instead of answering Arthur, Vera turned to Poppy, who nearly leapt out of her seat.
Vera’s tone lit up with false brightness. “I’m so sorry, this isn’t appropriate dinner talk, is it? Perhaps Poppy should choose the topic of conversation. What is refined society discussing these days, Mrs. Hastings?”
Poppy glanced around the table, wordlessly imploring the other guests for help, but they focused on their plates or the wall. Her brow wrinkled, then smoothed again as a light of inspiration came over her face.
“You poor dear, you’re obviously not feeling well. A few too many…exertions of late, hmm?” Poppy flicked her gaze at Arthur.
Vera leaned in. The brightness leached out of her words and venom took its place. “You always know just what to say to make an impression. How right you were to demand that I defer to you in social matters.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Poppy let out a watery laugh.
“Come now, no need to be so modest. You set your sights on what you wanted, and you got it. I applaud you.” Vera snatched her napkin off her lap and tossed it onto her plate. She stood and gestured to her chair. “And here’s my seat, if you want to take it. You can even have my place card. Call yourself by my name for all I care. May it bring you all the warmth and satisfaction it has brought me. Excuse me, everyone.” Gloves clenched in her hands, Vera stormed from the room. She heard Arthur making hasty apologies behind her, but she could not slow her step. He caught up with her at the elevator and grabbed her arm.
“What was that hysterical display about?” His voice was low and threatening, his face an inch from hers.
She drew herself up. “I think you know very well.”
“You’d be surprised what I know.”
She turned to him, eyes widening. The elevator doors slid open with a slight creak. He pulled her on, and they rode up without a word to each other. When they reached the penthouse, he kept his grip on her arm and took her into the library. After letting go of her, he poured them each a glass of bourbon.
; “Sit,” he said, holding a drink out to her. “We need to have a little chat.”
She lowered herself gingerly into a chair. “Arthur—”
“No. I’m going to talk first. How dare you act like that? What I do is none of your business, and I’m certainly not going to discuss it with you at the goddamned Litchfields’ dinner table.”
She took a shaky drink from her glass. “For ten years I’ve been a good wife to you, and you throw it in my face.”
He sneered. “At least I don’t bring them to the building.”
“So you know.”
“Of course I know.”
“Poppy told you?”
“She did. Stupid woman. But I knew anyway, do you think I’m blind? The way you two carried on in Montauk. I knew he wanted you, and I knew you’d give in eventually. You’re the sort.” He took a swallow of his drink. “Overly romantic. I thought you’d outgrow it.”
“If you’d loved me, I wouldn’t have gone near him.” Vera choked on the words. “But you don’t. You never did. You’ve been carrying on, meeting women in hotels since we first married, what did you expect of me?”
His eyes narrowed. “I expect you to tolerate it.”
Her face burned. “Why did you marry me if you don’t love me?”
“Because you were the best choice.” He shook his head slightly, as if her question made no sense. “The only choice. I knew you would represent me well in society, that you could host a dinner party and serve on some charity board somewhere. At least, I thought all that was true. I thought with your family, your breeding, you’d know how to conduct yourself. But you’ve proven you’re just another silly damned woman.”
“But you’ve been so warm lately.” She turned away when he winced. “Things have been so nice between us. If you knew, why would you act that way?”
He swallowed a gulp of liquor and rubbed his temple. His lips parted, but he hesitated. The words seemed to crawl from his throat. “It was a relief, to be honest.”
“You weren’t angry at all?”
“I thought…” He heaved a sigh. Vera noticed deep pockets under his eyes. Under the lamp’s harsh electric shine, he looked a decade older. “I thought you’d finally figured out how to survive it. How to make it work.” His mouth set in a bitter line. “But you hadn’t. You still want this impossible thing.”