The air surrounding them became heavy, almost material, the music coming from the kitchen a fastidious noise she wished she could stop, and Jessica felt uneasy, unwanted.
“I’m sorry... I just...”
He turned his back and walked out of the room leaving her standing there, by the door.
“Have a look at the other room if you like. It’s rather small,” his voice already coming from the kitchen. “Have another look around.”
A thunder struck again outside and the girl in the picture kept staring at her from the wall.
And she looked so much...
So much like...
WILLIAM LEFT the apartment soon after Jessica. Everything was going well and he was moving closer to her. Jessica, perfect Jessica. Now all he could really do was sit tight and wait to hear from her.
He got in his car and drove to Taylor Street. From here he could walk to Macondray Street. His new house was there, hidden behind young trees and bushes, a beautiful white prison, a peaceful slice of heaven, much quieter than Sacramento Street, much more isolated. No elevators, no next doors, not even a doorman. Just himself. Him and his isolation, him and the space around him.
The houses on this road were away from each other, so far apart another one could have been built between them, but one day —he knew already— even this much distance would seem too little. He seemed to need more and more as months and years went by, more and more space to protect himself from the world, to stop anyone from looking inside him too much, to stop anyone from forcing him to look inside himself. It was easier to run away than face his demons, easier to run away than face the darkness his father had planted in him, the dreary years spent in his house. It had been a long time ago now, but it all felt like yesterday, it all seemed too vivid to ignore, too real to forget... The flicker of the light bulb in the spare room, the strangers around the bed, their hands touching him and his sister, their breath on his skin, the shame, the fear, the anger, the perversion. Nobody could remind him of any of it if he kept his distance from the rest of the world.
He opened the door and walked in. The house still smelled new, it was pure, untouched, silent. In the lounge he switched the stereo on, pressed play, turned on the VCR, pressed mute. On the coffee table in front of the sofa there was still an empty bottle of red wine and a glass from the night before, cuttings from The Dispatcher newspaper, the small column about the death of Kaitlyn Lynch, about the suicide. No picture. He sat on the sofa looking at them, touching the paper with his fingers as the music started to fill the room.
Preisner, his favourite composer.
He had spent days surfing the internet, searching through hundreds of newspapers archives. He had been able to access most of them straight away; others had taken longer. William had learned over the years that money opens many doors, even the ones nobody should be allowed to enter. All he needed to do was pay. And the internet had become the easiest way to do it. Supposedly it was progress, in reality it just seemed a way for the whole world to trade, talk about, look at, take advantage of anything that outside the so-called communication highway would have been considered illegal. It was disturbing. Just as disturbing as the way newspapers like The Dispatcher survived by publishing stupid gossip about ordinary people —milkmen, postmen, doctors, housewives.
William had been through every page feeling like a nosy neighbour spying on the family next door, hiding behind net curtains, looking for anything he could find on Jessica Lynch, and now he was sure she was the miracle he had been waiting for. They were two of the same kind —him and her— two sides of the same coin; they shared the same past, knew about the same pain. They shared the shame of being cursed with evil fathers, men who had violated their childhood, used them, abused their love. Stuart Lynch was nothing but another version of Richard Blaise.
William lifted his head to the TV screen; Jessica looked at him radiant and beautiful the way she had appeared at the ABC studios next to Sarah Tyler. He had recorded the interview, cut and put it back together so that he could admire her face without interruptions. Her limpid green eyes, her narrow straight nose, her full lips, always slightly parted as if she was conscious of her perfect teeth and wanted to show them off; her cheekbones, the perfect jaw line, the tiny dimple on her chin, only visible with a certain angle of light; her neck, her wide shoulders. She was perfect. She was a miracle and he had to have her. He had to have her back. He needed her. He needed her to reassure him he was still here, where people could see him, to reassure him he hadn’t yet disappeared inside himself.
15 November 2000
ROGER WAS meeting Jessica Lynch in a small bar in Union Square, just around the corner from Powell Street Station.
They were supposed to discuss the outline of her new novel, but he suspected it was going to be a waste of time. He had enough experience now to recognise the signs, the difference between an author with a new tale to tell and an author struggling to come up with new material. Jessica Lynch had not been able to give him the smallest seed of an idea since the loss of her sister. Excuses, she could come up with plenty; ideas had pretty much dried up. She had not admitted to it, but Roger knew what was going on. He also knew there was little he could do to help, that she would need to come to terms with what had happened before she could move on.
Might as well get a drink out of it.
The bar was already filling up with its evening crowd, despite being just past four in the afternoon —a few suits, opened laptops, girls with little dresses and clutch bags, couples.
He had discovered this place years ago, when he first moved from New York to join the company. Back then he used to sit outside, take in the art stalls crowding the dark grey paving stones, people walking along admiring paintings, photographs, carved statues, he tried to settle in. Nowadays he preferred to be inside, away from the fucking tourists.
There were many things he still didn’t like about San Francisco, many things he missed about New York. Although five years had gone by since he landed his commissioning editor’s job at the Jefferson’s, some days he still found himself compiling a mental list of reasons why San Francisco would never be as good as his native city.
He missed the weather, not being trapped in the same cold and foggy climate day in and day out; the excitement of summertime rooftop parties; girls wearing next to nothing in the clammy subway. He missed the way snow sneaked in during the night in winter turning the streets into soft, edgeless corridors. He missed jogging through Central Park, playing basketball on a Sunday morning at the Great Lawn, the homeless people with too much to say and the men in suits sitting in silence across them smoking weed.
On the surface, the two cities should have been very similar, but the reality was that San Francisco was somehow more polished, more pretentious and the small part of him that still missed the rough streets of Brooklyn, found that hard to digest.
But leaving New York had not been about finding a better place to live, it had been about seeking power, success and money, all the things this city aspired to, all the things that were now finally within reach. Missing out on some sunshine and the laid- back neighborhood vibe he loved in New York did not seem such a high price to pay for what he had achieved.
And things were good, perfect until a few weeks ago. Yes, there had been a small glitch, a setback, but things had not changed; his life was intact, still enviable. He still had his bachelor pad, he had his career, he had money and he had no ties, which meant he could still have casual sex without having to feel guilty or depraved, like most of his friends.
All the guys he knew from back-in-the-day were married now, most of them with kids, all of them with responsibilities Roger could not even contemplate taking on. They all pretended to be happy or at least content with their lot, but he knew, he was absolutely certain deep down they envied him. He was the one with all the time in the world, still driving hi
s two-seaters, turning up at the next whatever-it-was with a new hottie on his arm. It was clear to see he was in a better position, he had done the right thing concentrating on his career rather than a family. Roger had seen first hand what marriage and fatherhood had done to his friends, how the responsibilities and time constraints had crushed them, turned them into boring versions of their old selves. They had stopped going out, stopped swearing, stopped buying decent clothes, stopped travelling, stopped drinking, stopped watching sport at the weekend with a hangover, a fridge full of beers and nothing to eat but Cheetos. They had forgotten how to have a good time.
But he still could. And he had spent the past few weeks reminding himself how lucky he was, that nothing had changed, that life was still pretty fucking good.
Roger took a sip of his drink sitting on one of the stools by the bar. A curvaceous brunette was standing next to him drinking the last of something murky from a tall glass, wearing very little for the time of year. He smiled at her and she smiled back, leaning into the counter. Her ass looked good, wrapped in a tight dark purple mini skirt, like a fancy chocolate waiting to be peeled open, bitten into. Christ. He needed to get laid. How long had it been now? Over a month. Too long. He had to start again. He didn’t want to end up like his cousin Michael, who complained constantly about not having had sex since his divorce. You grieve and grieve, he kept saying, and by the time you realise you haven’t had sex for a while, two years have gone by and the only thing you remember is how to use your hand, if you know what I mean.
But Roger wasn’t grieving. He didn’t have a wife who had decided to trade him in for a younger, more successful specimen. No, Roger was simply getting over a hump. All he had to do was take a first step and everything would be on the right track again. Same as before.
“You enjoying that?” He asked the brunette still smiling.
“It’s ok, I’ve had better. I’m thirsty.”
“And hot by the looks of it.”
The girl looked down at herself as if suddenly noticing how little she was wearing. “Oh, this is my uniform. I work around the corner, at the Crazy Horse Club.”
Roger laughed. “And you come in here for a drink?”
She smiled at him, shrugged her shoulders. “Needed a change of scenery, I guess. Long shift today. Can’t be in there all day. Why are you here? You look like you should be in an office or a bank at this time of day, not in a bar chatting up girls.”
He looked at his watch and wondered whether he’d have enough time to slip her his phone number before Jessica arrived, wondered what time her shift would start again.
“Actually, I’m working. I’m waiting for a client.”
“Sitting in a bar, working, uh? My kinda job. What do you do?”
Roger thought about it for a moment. The last time he had lied about his job things had become complicated, everything had gone wrong. He was never going to make that mistake again.
“I’m a book editor.”
The brunette turned to face him, leaning on the bar with one arm, her chest pushed out towards him. Her tits looked as good as her ass, squeezed in a small strip of fabric the same colour as her skirt. She bit her lip.
“Book editor? What’s that? You publish books?”
“Not exactly. I buy ‘em, read manuscripts. I decide if a story should or should not be bought and sold to the public.”
“Big responsibilities, uh? Bet you get to read a lot of shit.”
“Oh yes.” Roger laughed again, looked at her straight in the eyes trying to work some of his magic, trying to decide if she was finding him attractive enough. Then he saw Jessica through the glass front, walking towards the entrance. Shit.
“Ah, shame! My client is here now...” He left the sentence hanging there, hoping she would pick it up.
“That is a shame.” The brunette bit her lip again returning his stare. “I was hoping you could get me another drink.”
“Well, that ain’t a problem.” Roger gestured to the guy behind the bar asking for a fresh cocktail. “What is that you’re drinking anyway?”
“Long Island Iced Tea. Why don’t you come and see me when you’re finished working here. I’ll bring you one to try.”
“That sounds like exactly what I need.”
The girl giggled, placed her hand on his knee. “I’m Britney.”
“Roger.”
Jessica reached them at that moment.
Roger looked awkward bent towards the counter, too tall for the stool he was sitting on. The ceiling light hanging above him seemed too close to his head, it made her think of an ugly woman under the hood dryer at the hairdresser. The girl standing next to him certainly didn’t seem to find him in any way comical.
“Am I disturbing?” Jessica raised an eyebrow.
Roger gulped down the rest of his drink without looking at her, waited for the brunette to turn her back on them winking.
“No. We’re good. Shall we?” He got off the stool and pointed to one of the tables in the center of the room. “Have a sit, I’ll get us a drink. What you havin’?”
“Vodka. Straight.”
In less than a couple of hours she was going to sit at a desk in one of the biggest book stores in the world with a thirty by forty picture of herself behind her back and start autographing hundreds of copies of her novel. People queuing up to have her signature. Unbelievable. She had no intention of sitting there completely sober.
Jessica’s gaze followed Roger to the bar, his expensive suit jacket flattering the lines of his back and shoulder, watched him hold his hand on the small of the brunette’s back, whispering something in her ear while the bartender poured the drinks. She wondered whether she would have found this little scene as irritating if she wasn’t feeling so edgy and stressed. She needed to calm down.
When Roger came back with a glass of vodka in each hand, he was beaming.
“Picking up girls while you wait?” She scalded him.
“Didn’t put you down as a prude, y’know?”
“I’m not a prude. I just tend not to pick up guys during a work meeting.”
He made a quick disclaiming face. “That wasn’t during. You’re late. Gotta fill my time somehow.”
Jessica was breathing heavily. He couldn’t tell if she was irritated or worried about the signing session.
“You ok? You’re not nervous, are ya?” She said nothing, just looked at her watch and sighed loudly. She couldn’t relax. “You’re ok,” he told her. “All you gotta do is sign your name. You smile, sign, smile, sign. You don’t even need to speak. You still remember how to sign your name, don’t you?”
“I’m sure I can try.”
“You should feel lucky, not nervous.”
“I do feel lucky... I can’t help feeling nervous. Not everybody has your innate coolness, Roger.”
“Yeah, hold the sarcasm, thanks.” He sipped his vodka.
“I wish I had somethin’ like this happening to me. No one ever printed a poster o’ me when I was a writer.”
“You never told me you wrote!” He shrugged. “Published?”
“It ain’t something I like to talk about. It was a short stories collection and it never went anywhere. I was dropped faster than I was signed. It was back in New York years ago, when I was young and thought I had somethin’ to say.”
“You are young. Forty’s not old.”
“Thirty-eight, thank you very much. Not quite there yet. But so I keep hearin’.” He was not convinced. Despite the hours he put into his routine at the gym every week his body kept reminding him that being forty or thereabout was definitely not the same as being twenty.
“You should give writing another go. You never know.”
“Nah. I’ve got my career now. Better to work on other people’s stories than struggle coming u
p with my own. Anyway, we ain’t here to talk about my failed writin’ career, are we? Let’s talk about your next book. You know the company didn’t pay you an advance for nothin’. What’s your plan?”
She shrugged without looking at him.
“Hello there? Planet Lynch? Can ya hear me?”
“I can hear you, Roger. I know I’ve got commitments. I am not an idiot.”
“For Christ sake, who said anything about you being an idiot? I just need to know you’ve got a plan.” Then suddenly his hand was on her shoulder. “Look, if you’ve got any problems, I need you to be honest with me. That’s what this is all about, this me and you thing.” He waved his index finger between the two of them. “Get it? You need time, you tell me. I can cover for you if you’re honest with me. I know you’re havin’ a hard time. You hear me? Are you honest Jessica Lynch?”
“I’m honest, Roger Wither. I hear you.”
She was not going to come out and say it. She was not going to tell him she was struggling to deliver. “Then, lemme help you out. Have you thought about non-fiction?” She shook her head at him firmly, shook his ridiculous helping idea away. “I can’t write non-fiction. It’s not the same. There’s no feelings in it for me and I can’t write without feeling it.”
“Really? Cause I’ve got a whole list of subjects waiting to be written and published. Whole stories just waiting for a writer willing to do a bit of research. That’s what you need, ain’t it? A way of getting back into it?”
Getting back into it? Jessica didn’t like where the conversation was going. She had agreed to meet him to have a drink, tell him not to worry, to reassure him, because she could do this, she had to do this, writing was all she could do. And now Roger was staring at her with a look on his face she had not expected, and he sounded as if he knew exactly what was going on, even before she had admitted it to herself. She was feeling frustrated and irritated when all se had intended to do was relax before the signing session.
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