Alberta Clipper

by Lambert, Sheena

  “Do you still like it?” Gavan smiled at her as he carried two mugs of coffee over to the bed. She blushed. Of course, he had stayed over. How could she have forgotten that? She let go of the necklace and wriggled into a sitting position, taking care to keep herself covered by the duvet.

  “I really do. Thank you. Again.”

  “No, no. Thank you.” He sat on the edge of the bed, facing her, sipping his coffee. “Sleep okay? I know I did.”

  “Yes, actually.” Christine checked the bedside alarm clock.

  “Wow,” she thought aloud. “I actually slept a solid eight hours.”

  Gavan didn't seem to notice the surprise in her voice. “You were exhausted,” he said with a smirk.

  “I was drunk,” she punched him gently in the shoulder, tying not to spill her coffee.

  “Not that drunk,” he took the opportunity to pretend to peek down the duvet which Christine had let slip.

  “Gavan!” She grabbed at the covers.

  “What? I'm just looking at your necklace.” He laughed and held the sapphire up. “It's the colour of your eyes, you know.”

  “So you said last night.”

  “I honestly hadn't realised. But it is. It's the exact same colour.”

  She leaned back a little, letting the duvet drop a fraction. “I really do love it. It's the best birthday present I've ever got.”

  They sat on the bed, she leaning against the headboard, he with one foot under him and the other on the floor. They sipped their coffees.

  “So.”

  “So.”

  “What are we going to do today?” He got up and walked over to the window and pulled the curtains. Light streamed into the room, catching the diamonds and making them sparkle. “It's another lovely day. May I?” He gestured to the patio door which led out onto the veranda.

  “Sure.”

  The sea-filled air blew into the room as Gavan pulled across the door and stepped out. He leaned against the railing and stood there, taking in the view. Christine sat in the bed, sipping her coffee, thinking how the view was much improved with Gavan in the foreground.

  “This is some place Chris, it really is.” His voice was carried in by the breeze. He stood there for another moment, and then turned back into the room. “It's lovely out there, but it's supposed to pour later.” He sat down again on the bed. “Maybe we should make the most of it now? Go out for a walk, and lunch? Then we can stay indoors when it starts raining. We could go back to my place, or a nice pub in town. What do you think? Had you any plans?”

  Christine felt a sort of panic rise within her. It was Saturday. Of course she had plans. She had the same plans she had every Saturday. To go to the grave. And she would rather go early. The only thing worse than standing at the grave, was standing at the grave in the teeming rain. The pathetic fallacy was just too much for her. Suddenly, Gavan had gone from being the most perfect part of the room that morning, to being something she wished would disappear when she closed her eyes.

  “I, actually I have something I need to do this morning.” She waited, hoping he would miraculously understand the unspoken, get dressed, and leave.

  “Oh?” He looked questioning. He was probably expecting her to elaborate. “Well, can I do it with you?”

  “No.” She almost shouted the word. “I'm sorry. It's just. I want to go to my mother's grave. I -. That's it.”

  He looked a little perturbed, but maybe also a little relieved. “Okay, sure. Well, I'll go with you. If that's okay? I'll drive you.”

  “No.” The breeze blew in the window over Christine's bare shoulders, and she shivered. She knew she would have to do better than that. “I'm sorry, it's just, I'd rather go alone.” She could sense his indignation, and she began to wish he had never stayed over. She just hadn't considered the next morning. She had assumed he would just get up and leave and that she could have got on with her Saturday as normal. But here they were.

  “Christine, I don't really understand. Why can't I go with you? What's the problem?”

  She stared down into her coffee, before swinging her legs out of the bed and walking straight into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She grabbed her dressing gown from its hook, and stood in front of the mirror staring at her reddening cheeks, tying the gown tightly around her.

  It's none of your bloody business what I do with my Saturdays.

  On autopilot, she put toothpaste on her electric brush, and took her anger out on her gums.

  I don't have to explain myself to him, or to Dad or Aggie or anyone else.

  But as she scrubbed unnecessarily, the diamonds surrounding the sapphire caught her eye in the mirror, and she stopped the whirring brush. She knew it wasn't Gavan’s fault. He couldn't possibly understand. He had only wanted to be with her. She dropped the toothbrush into the sink, and leaned on the edges of the basin. The pendant swung beneath her chin. She closed her eyes for a second, before adjusting her robe and opening the door into the bedroom. Gavan was sitting on the bed, dressed, tying his shoelaces.

  “Gavan.” He didn't look up. “Gav, I'm sorry. It's just -” Then a moment of inspiration grabbed her. “It's just it would have been my mother’s birthday next week.” This was true. “I want to spend a bit of time there today with my Dad.” This was not true, but Christine couldn't see how it should make any difference. It could have been true. “I would love to spend the day with you. Just. Not today.”

  He was on the second shoe now, but she sensed she was being forgiven. A little. He looked up from the bed at her. “I'm sorry too. Of course, I understand. You need to be with your Dad.”

  Christine felt a little stab of guilt at this.

  “But Chris,” he looked down at his shoelaces again. “Just understand. I'd like to be there for you. I want you to be able to talk to me. About your mother. About anything.” He looked up at her again. “I really like you, Christine. I want you to be able to trust me.”

  Tears started to fall from Christine's eyes as Gavan stood up and put his arms around her. She felt wretched. Not for excluding Gavan from today. She hadn't for a moment considered taking him with her. She felt awful because now that she was confronted with it, she could never see the day when another person came to the grave with her. They would have to understand her grief, and they never could. She cried because she doubted she could ever let someone inside her head like Gavan wanted to be. She couldn't imagine opening up to Gavan, or to anyone. Ever. She was so closed up inside. So locked down.

  And that was what made her cry.

  ~

  The guy who delivered her Thai dinner that evening was drenched. Christine felt sorry for him just briefly, and tipped him more generously than usual. She sat in front of the television with her food watching some completely mindless talent show full of talentless contestants and botoxed judges. When it finished, she flicked channels until an old Woody Allen movie caught her eye. Diane Keaton always reminded her of her mother. They could have been sisters. She watched her bat her kohled lids and flick her hair on the screen, and tried to imagine her mother in the seventies, stylish, mini-skirted, made-up. Her eyes flickered over to the photo on the bookshelf. She wouldn't have been sitting on her sofa in her thirtieth year, eating takeaway alone. She would have been married with one baby and another on the way. The threat of tears stung Christine’s eyes. Her phone vibrated on the cushion beside her and she looked with suspicion at the screen.

  “Hi Emily.”

  “Hey babe. You okay?” Emily was somewhere noisy. “Jack said you blew Gavan off earlier. I thought last night went well? What happened this morning?”

  Christine massaged her temples with her free hand. “Oh, nothing. He didn't do anything. Where are you? Are you with Jack?”

  “He better not have. You sure you okay? Yes, I'm with Jack.” She was having to shout to be heard over the din. “Well, I'm actually pretending to be in the ladies’ room. He's at the bar with some work mates.”

  “Is Gavan there?”

&
nbsp; “No.”

  Christine wondered briefly where he might be.

  “But he was talking to Jack earlier, and said you had gone all weird on him. That you practically threw him out this morning.”

  “Those were his words?”

  “Those were Jack's words. And Jack can be a little melodramatic at times. But what happened? Are you sure he did nothing wrong?”

  Christine went quiet. “I'm sure,” she said eventually. The noise in the background seemed to be getting louder.

  “Look Chris, are you okay? Do you want me to come over?”

  “No.” Christine didn't want anyone over. Not even Emily. “I'm okay. Look, I'll see you tomorrow, okay? We could go to a movie? Or just hang here? You could stay over.” She was silent for a moment. “Ems, you can stay for a few days if you want. If you need a break from your parents. It's no problem.” She took a breath. “I'd like it.”

  Emily seemed to be shocked into silence for a moment.

  “Okay, well how about I call you tomorrow and we'll hang out tomorrow evening, yeah?”

  “Great.” Christine forced herself to sound enthusiastic.

  “I'd better make use of the last couple of Sunday nights I have left before school starts back. Look, I have to go. Call me later if you need to, yeah?”

  “I will. But I won't. Need to.”

  “Okay.”

  Christine got changed into her pyjamas and when she returned to the sofa, she saw that she had a text message.

  HOPE 2DAY WNT OK W UR DAD. ID LIKE 2 C U 2MRW. LUNCH? GX

  She felt a massive sense of relief. Maybe she hadn't messed it up after all. She pressed reply.

  LUNCH B GR8. CX

  Ten Even in the heat of early August, there were hints of autumn on the streets of Chicago. Yellow leaves were blowing about the place, collecting in little piles on the pavement and around the trees and shrubs on the CarltonWachs office building concourse. Mark walked with purpose, his jacket draped over his arm. He was tired with jet-lag, but it felt good being here in Chicago. He loved everything about the place – the smells, the food, the people. He planned to go back to his hotel, get changed, and go for a run. He could run to North Avenue beach and go for a swim, that would be a good workout. He could cab it back, or just walk. He had a list of favourite diners he liked to get to on his trips here, and was working out which he would stop at when he heard his name being called.

  “Hey Mark. Marky.”

  He swung around to see the head of the Chicago office, Burt Montgomery, walking towards him panting in the heat. “Hey Burt. How's things?” The two men shook hands warmly.

  “Things are okay. Things are good. You just get in today? Sorry I missed you earlier.”

  “Got in last night.”

  “Right, right. So, how are things on the Emerald Isle? Heard you had some naughty boys to deal with there. Everything a-okay?”

  Mark stiffened a little. “Ah well, you know. These things will always happen. It's sorted now, though, which is the main thing. No major damage. We lost a dealer. But I think we’re better off for it.” Mark eyeballed Burt. He didn't want to go into any detail. The Irish office was his business, and as long as it wasn't affecting Burt's office, well then how Mark managed things was up to Mark. Thankfully, Burt seemed to feel the same way.

  “Well, I'm sure you sorted it out right. Those bonus-boys need a reminder of who's boss sometimes.” He winked at Mark and wiped the sweat from his tanned brow. “Anyway, more importantly, what’re you up to tonight?” The question and the accompanying expectant grin left Mark in no doubt that Burt had plans for him. Burt always had plans, and was always on the lookout for an accomplice. Mark could see his quiet, healthy evening slowly slip away.

  “Well, I was planning to go for a run,” he offered without conviction.

  “Aw Marky, how often are you in the Windy City?”

  Almost every month, Burt, as you well know.

  “There's a thing on at my club tonight. It'll be fun. A few drinks, a few girls. C'mon Mark. That lady of yours ain't got no ring on your finger. You're a free agent for a few drinks with your buddies, yeah?”

  Mark sighed. “Actually, Jennifer and I split up.”

  Burt's face fell. Mark had no idea why. He had never even met Jennifer. “Aw, I'm sorry to hear that Mark.” Within a second he was grinning again. “So let's go and drown those sorrows of yours, hey? You know, it's a good spot for networking. You can tell yourself you're doing it for the bank.” He winked again, and started tapping something into his BlackBerry. “Here, I'm sending you the details. Tell them you're my guest at the door.” He looked up at Mark. “So I'll see you there? Eight-thirty ish?”

  Mark knew that there was no point in resisting. Maybe he could get a run in before eight-thirty. There would be no time for a swim, but maybe he could do that tomorrow evening. Either way, he knew when he was backed into a corner.

  “Okay, Burt. I'll see you there.”

  ~

  The club had a gentlemen-only feel to it, although it was open to both men and women. Walking through the small lobby and into a dark, panelled room with a long bar, Mark noticed that most of the women there were waitresses or hostesses. There were one or two skirt-suited ball-bashers seated on the studded leather chairs, and another few in expensive-looking cocktail dresses seated at the bar, but it was definitely a man's domain. The décor, the ambiance, the drinks, all alluded to male power. It seemed the women were all there to serve some purpose. Even the boardroom types seated on the leather chairs looked like they were just waiting to have their hair sundered and blouses ripped open.

  Mark saw Burt standing at the back of the room at the bar, drinking what looked like neat whiskey and talking with another man. A blonde was seated on a high stool next to them, pinching the stem of a champagne flute.

  “Hey, Marky!” Burt waved to him as he approached, and the man and woman turned. “Hank, this is Mark Harrington. He runs things over on the Emerald Isle.”

  The other man shook Mark's hand seriously. “Hank Pinter. Bank of America.”

  Mark's heart sank a little. “Hello Hank. Good to meet you.” He hoped this wasn't going to be a work night. He'd only agreed to come out on the premise that there would be a few laughs.

  “And this is -” Burt rolled his eyes.

  “Deanna.” The blonde stuck out her hand which was cold when Mark shook it. “Pleased to meet you Mark.”

  “Deanna. Damn. Of course. Sorry sweetie. Let me make it up to you. Another champagne here?” He gestured at the hovering barman. “Mark? What'll you have?”

  “Bombay and tonic.” Mark said to the barman.

  They stood there while Hank finished telling Burt about some deal that had gone through that seemed very important to him. Mark stood slightly apart, observing the others in the long room.

  “Here you go, Mark.” Deanna smiled as she passed him his drink.

  “Thanks. Cheers.” Mark noticed that Deanna had hardly touched the first glass of champagne, and that she exchanged an almost imperceptible nod with the barman who took the first away on pouring the second Burt had ordered.

  Great, he thought to himself. I get to talk to the hooker. But he immediately chastised himself for being uncharitable. Maybe she was a business student trying to get ahead, make contacts.

  “So are you from Chicago?” He thought he caught Burt's eyes flicker over to him as he asked her the question.

  “No, I'm from a little place called Shullsberg, Wisconsin.” She sounded like a prom queen when she said it. “You?”

  “Ireland. I suppose your grandparents are from there?” He was only half-joking. But even half a joke was lost on Deanna.

  “No my grandparents were from Prague.” She pronounced it Pray-ge.

  “Great city.”

  “Is it? I've never been.” She smiled childishly at him. “I've been to Florida. Never to Europe though.”

  Mark was stuck for an answer to this, but thankfully Hank and Burt seemed to have
finished their discussion and were ready to save him. They stood talking together through three gin and tonics. It turned out that Hank was quite a funny guy. He had a gift for impersonating politicians and celebrities and had Mark bent in two more than once. Another two CarltonWachs managers arrived, at which point Deanna seemed to vanish. It was nearly midnight when Mark felt a wave of tiredness hit him, and he indicated to Burt that he was leaving.

  “Aw, man, the night's young! Hey, let me just show you around this place first okay? Maybe you'll want to come back some other time yourself. Even if I'm not around, just mention me at the door, and they'll put your stuff on my tab.”

  Mark thanked him, even though he knew it was likely that CarltonWachs was picking up Burt’s tab in return.

  “Hey, it's not a problem Marky. Sure when I'm over in the Emerald Isle, I know you'll take good care of me, yeah?” Mark was fairly sure that Burt was unlikely ever to set foot in the Dublin office, so he had no problem assuring him that was case. He followed Burt out a back door of the bar to another lobby and up a small staircase. They wandered from room to room, a billiards room, a smoking room, other small sitting rooms and bars, all plush and fabulous.

  “There are bedrooms on the top floors and a pool and gym in the basement,” Burt told him. “You could stay here if you ever needed to. At short notice,” he added with a wink. Mark wasn't totally sure what Burt was getting at, but he guessed it might have something to do with Deanna. After going up a number of floors in a lift, Burt turned to Mark with a triumphant look on his face. “And,” he said, “the piece de resistance.” He opened heavy double doors into another long panelled room like the downstairs bar they had been in. This time, the floor was full with games tables. Croupiers dressed like movie extras stood managing their tables while men, mostly in rolled up shirt sleeves, gambled their dollars away.