Alberta Clipper

by Lambert, Sheena

  Christine rolled her eyes. “There are always a few tree huggers at these things,” she said quietly to him. “I bet you fifty quid that someone is breast-feeding a baby somewhere in the room right at this moment.”

  “No,” Mark looked behind him, his eyes wide.

  “Oh, she'd be in the front row,” Christine laughed. “Making her point.”

  Mark smiled and crossed his arms. “You lot take this environment stuff very seriously, I see.”

  “You'd think,” Christine sighed, raising her voice to the level of the insincere applause that had broken out, signalling the end of the politician's speech. “There's a lot of talk about climate change and peak oil, and then they still issue these single-use plastic badges,” she pointed at Mark's name tag, “and provide air-mile laden bottled water to the speakers. A jug of tap water would be good enough for that last guy, I'd have thought.”

  Mark looked amused. “Too good for him,” he said. “But don't knock the badges. I'm collecting them in a shoebox under my bed.” He looked down at his jacket pocket. “This is only my third CEO one. I'm quite proud of it.”

  Christine looked at him and laughed. But the mention of his bed made her a little uncomfortable, and she was glad when a man with a strong Scandinavian accent took to the podium, and the room hushed. She sat back and listened as Sven Hendriksson spoke about leveraging value from low carbon investments, trying to ignore the tingling in her leg where Mark's knee was almost touching hers.

  ~

  Mark wiped his hand across the mirror and rubbed his chin. He should probably shave. He hadn't done so since the previous evening after squash. A memory of Jennifer telling him that she liked his stubble popped into his head uninvited. It must be five years ago she had said it. He had just come in from work, and she had told him he looked sexy, and they had ended up doing it on the couch. He tried to see his reflection objectively in the mirror. He decided against shaving. Work-wise, he had no one he needed to impress this evening. He didn't need to be preened. And maybe -

  He walked away from the mirror to try and break his train of thought. He did not want to go there in his head. Christine had made herself brutally clear. She was not interested. He was fairly sure that she knew he and Jennifer were over. She was just using Jennifer as an excuse to get away from him. So, that was that. He couldn't force her to love him. And at least they were able to get on together, pretty much. Today hadn’t been so awkward. That was all he could ask for. He would just have to hope that he could move on himself. Get over her. Mark dropped the towel from his waist and pulled on his boxer shorts. He stood before the standard issue full length mirror stuck to the hotel bedroom wall. He didn't look too bad. He sucked in his stomach. He should probably start running again. It was asking a lot of his twice weekly squash game he conceded, especially now he was soon to be forty. Christ, why had that number such significance? He dressed, and splashed on some aftershave anyway. Well, it couldn't hurt.

  ~

  The hotel bar was mobbed with conference attendees and other hotel guests, and yet his eyes fell on her within seconds of his walking through the door. She was standing talking with an extremely good looking, olive-skinned man whose fitted trousers instantly identified him as Mediterranean – Italian maybe, or possibly Spanish. Mark walked over tentatively, until it was clear to him that Christine was relieved to see him approaching.

  “Mark. Hi.” She smiled widely at him. “This is Francois.”

  French. Shit.

  “Hello Francois.”

  “Mark. A pleasure. You are also CarltonWachs, no?”

  “Yes,” Mark nodded.

  “Francois works for BP. In Texas.” Christine looked wide-eyed at Mark.

  “Wow. Interesting.” Mark noted Francois's delicate gold neck chain. “That's a long way from Paris.”

  “Lyon.”

  “Pardon?” The word unintentionally left Mark’s lips with a French accent, and he could see Christine cover her mouth with the back of her hand to hide her snigger.

  “I am from Lyon.”

  “Oh, right.” Mark smiled broadly at him. “Eh, you two okay for drinks?”

  Christine and Francois both nodded, and Mark tried to catch the attention of one of the barmen. Standing behind Francois, he could hear him tell Christine about his home in Texas. His opinion of Americans was evidently rather low.

  “Beans!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Christine said.

  “Ze menu said caviar, and I got a bowl of beans. A, sort of, 'ow you say, salsa.”

  Mark could hear the disgust in his voice, and raised his eyebrows at Christine, who seemed to be trying desperately not to laugh.

  “Zees is what zey call caviar in Texas. Alors.”

  Mark was having no luck getting served, as the hundreds of delegates descended on the understaffed bar for their pre-dinner drinks.

  “Francois, if you'd excuse me, one of our colleagues is across the bar.” Mark heard Christine say, and she gestured vaguely at the other side of the room. “Perhaps we'll see you later?”

  Francois looked a little perturbed. He looked at Mark, who faked recognition of a fake colleague some distance away, and walked off towards them. Christine followed him.

  “Dear God, I thought I'd never get away from him,” she said over Mark's shoulder. Mark pointed to a space the other end of the long bar, and they walked over to it. He got served immediately.

  “You really can't be left at a hotel bar by yourself, it appears,” he looked at her meaningfully.

  She kept her eyes on her glass, but she was smiling. “So, are you glad you came? So far?” she asked.

  Mark paused for a second. Did she mean -

  “Did you learn anything new today?”

  Of course. The conference. “Actually yes,” he said. He took the straw from his glass and left it down on the bar. “It was an interesting day.” Before he could say more, a loud gong sounded for dinner, and they followed the crowd which had started to move towards another large ballroom set with what seemed like hundreds of circular tables.

  “This hotel is enormous,” she said.

  “London is enormous,” Mark replied. He found them two places at a half empty table and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Thanks. You never thought of moving over here then?” She set her drink down and sat as a bowl of soup was dropped before her by a dispassionate-looking waiter in a grubby white shirt.

  “Nah.” Mark sat down next to her. “I'm not a big fan. Chicago now, that would be different. I'd live there happily enough.”

  The idea of transferring to the Chicago office had crossed Mark's mind a number of times since they had started back after the Christmas holidays. There was talk of a new mergers and acquisitions department being set up, and it being headquartered over there. It might be a bit of a stretch professionally, but he reckoned the chief executive role could be his, if he wanted it. And he wasn’t convinced that the bank had long term plans for Ireland anymore.

  “I like America,” he said, buttering a roll that had the texture of soft cardboard. “I like the people. The way of life.” He smiled at Christine. “The weather.”

  “I do too,” she put her soup spoon down. Mark tried not to look at where the top of her sheer blouse was caught under her bra-strap. “But it can be severe. I like that it's always relatively mild in Dublin. In can get so cold in the States. Especially in Chicago.”

  “Those pesky Alberta Clippers,” Mark grinned.

  She looked up at him. “I'm impressed. You remembered.”

  Mark started to say something, but thought the better of it. Their bowls were cleared and plates of turkey and ham were frisbeed down in front of them.

  “Do you think this is leftovers from Christmas?” Mark examined his food dubiously.

  Christine laughed. The waiters moved around the table, dumping nursing home vegetables down on each plate without comment. Mark and Christine picked at the food.

  “Not exactly Nina's standard
,” Christine said. She blushed, and Mark guessed she regretted the remark and its allusions. But before he could reply, the woman sitting to his right asked him where he was from, and he spent the next five minutes in conversation with her and her Canadian colleagues seated next to her. At the first opportunity, he turned to include Christine in the conversation, but at that moment, a man who had just walked past their table stopped abruptly and turned. Mark heard the man say Christine's name, but it was her reaction that made his heart thump. She had turned to see who had called her, and then stiffened. Her whole body, her face, her mouth, seemed frozen. Petrified. Her shoulders had stopped mid-turn. But it was her eyes that most shocked Mark. Was it dread? Fear? But then, by the time the man spoke again she appeared to have recovered herself. Almost.

  “It is you, isn't it? Christine? Wow. How long has it been? Four years? Longer. Your hair is different. How are you? You look great.”

  The man stooped and kissed Christine on both cheeks, seemingly oblivious to the effect he was having on her. The second kiss gave Mark and unobstructed view of her face. She looked… crushed.

  Mark could hear the Canadian solar energy expert behind him trying to get his attention, but he couldn't stop staring at Christine.

  “Nick. How are you? I thought you were in South Africa?” Mark thought her voice sounded strange. He sensed the Canadians had started to talk amongst themselves. He knew he was being rude, but he couldn't take his eyes off her.

  “No, no. Well I was until last summer. I'm back in the UK since September. I'm with the MOD now, actually.”

  “Wow,” Christine said. “That sounds interesting.”

  She didn't sound like she thought it was interesting.

  “How about you?” He man hunkered down, his hands on the back of her chair. They would have been almost face-to-face, had Christine not recoiled in her seat.

  “Eh, I'm with a bank. In Dublin.” Her eyes flickered at Mark. “This is my boss. Mark Harrington, Nick Appleby.”

  “Hello Mark,” Nick extended his hand and Mark shook it. On examination, he didn't appear to be a particularly offensive guy. He was good looking enough. Probably around the same age as Christine. He sounded English. Posh English. But there was no doubt in Mark's mind that Nick Appleby had done something in the past to perturb Christine. Or maybe he hadn't, but she had wanted him to. Mark tried to catch Christine's eye, but she was staring straight ahead, past them both. Her eyes looked dead in her head.

  “Christine and I did our Ph.D. together,” Nick said to Mark. “Mesoscale modelling of supercooled liquid water,” he laughed as it rolled off his tongue. “It seemed so important at the time, and yet I don't think I've ever modelled a single drop of supercooled liquid water since, have you?”

  “No, no.” Christine affected a smile. “Not once.”

  At that moment, a waitress pushed past Nick to pick up Mark's plate of half-finished food.

  “All done?” she asked without waiting for a reply.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Mark said.

  As Nick stood to allow her access, Christine turned away from him towards the table again. Mark turned to the lady on his right with an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. We were discussing your business in Newfoundland?”

  “Don't worry darling,” the lady put her hand on Mark's arm. “That's what's great about these little get-togethers. We get to bump into old friends. Thank you, dear,” she smiled at the blank face of the waitress who had deposited an empty cup and saucer in front of her. Mark felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Nick nodding his goodbye and walking away. A squeal of feedback hushed the room briefly, and Mark recognised the first speaker of the morning session standing behind a lectern at the top of the room. He introduced the banquet’s keynote speaker, a well known Scottish television presenter and producer of natural history programmes. Applause filled the room temporarily, followed by the instantly recognisable caledonian tones of the man. He raised his voice above the din of crockery on crockery, and made a thinly-veiled joke about the quality of the meal. The room swelled with communal laughter. Mark looked at Christine. She didn't laugh. He was fairly sure that she hadn't heard a word the man had said. He couldn't be sure that she was even aware that someone was addressing them. She was just staring. Staring at the cheap centrepiece on the table in front of them.

  “Christine?” Mark cocked his head. “Christine?” He put his hand on her arm. She almost seemed to be in a trance. He turned towards her in his seat. “Christine.” He shook her arm gently. One or two of the others sitting at their table turned their heads and glared at him. Mark ignored them. Then Christine suddenly pushed her chair out and stood up.

  “Sorry Mark, I'm not feeling very well.” She lifted her bag from the back of the chair. “I'm going to go back to my room.”

  Before Mark had the chance to say a word, she was gone. He stared after her, watching her until she walked through the wide double doors of the room and out of his sight. He turned back around in his seat. He wasn't sure what to do. What the hell had just happened? Whatever it was, he was certain that it was something pertaining to that guy Nick. For a second he entertained the idea that it had been something sinister. But the guy had seemed very normal. He hadn't come across as the scary type. But then, who knew what people were capable of. Mark began to feel angry. He looked around him to see if he could find where Nick was sitting, but the room seemed to be full of thirty-something men of average height and average looks. He couldn't see Nick Appleby anywhere.

  He sat listening to the speaker's voice without hearing a word he said. There was another possibility, of course. Christine could have been in love with the guy. Maybe she had felt about him the way that Mark felt about her. Maybe she had spent the last four years trying to forget him, and now all of that time had been a waste, because the first sighting of him had put her right back where she had started. Mark wiped his forehead. He could relate to that feeling. But whatever it was, he couldn't sit here, drinking coffee while she was upstairs, distraught. She needed a friend, that was clear, and right now he was the closest thing she had to that. Then Mark noticed her phone on the table next to her empty wine glass. That decided it. He excused himself to the nice Canadian lady, and he lifted the phone and his jacket and walked out of the room through the same double doors.

  The receptionist had clearly never heard of customer confidentiality and she gave Mark Christine's room number without even glancing up at him. He took the lift to her floor, and walked along the dimly lit corridor until he was outside her room. He felt for her phone in his pocket. The corridor was eerily quiet. He pressed his ear to the wood panelling. There wasn't a sound. No sobbing, no television, nothing. He stood away from the door again. He couldn't tell if the lights were on inside or not. He waited a moment. Then he knocked.

  “Christine?”

  Nothing.

  “Christine? He said a little louder. “Christine?”

  Nothing.

  “Christine, I have your phone.”

  He thought he heard a noise coming from inside, but he couldn't be sure. The walls of the hotel were so thin that it might have been coming from an adjacent room.

  “Christine?”

  Could she have gone for a walk outside? Maybe she was sitting in the bar downstairs? But no, that was unlikely.

  “Christine. Christine, I know you're in there,” he lied. It was worth a try. “You don't have to talk to me, just open the door and take your phone so I know that you're alright.”

  Nothing.

  “If you don't, I'm going to have to go down to reception and get the manager to open the door. Christine. Christine, I'm worried.”

  Two women appeared on the corridor, chatting together. They stopped talking when they saw Mark. He gave them a half-smile, and they passed him by, throwing looks to one another.

  “Christine.” He lowered his voice a little until the two had turned the corner at the far end of the corridor. “Okay Christine. I'm going down now. I'll be back in
a minute with the manager.”

  He stood away from the door in silence. He was considering following through on his threat, when he heard a noise from behind the door and a lock snapped back. He only caught a glimpse of her as he lunged forward to stop the door from swinging closed again. He followed her inside and it slammed shut behind him with a bang. The silence that followed felt like the prelude to something, Mark just didn't know what.

  She had sat down on the bed, facing the window, her back to him. The room was a mirror image of his own on the floor above, and he could guess at the view she was staring at from the dimly lit bedroom. London city, lit up against the dark night sky. She could probably see the London Eye from where she sat.

  “Christine.” He stood in the little hallway of the room, afraid to proceed any further.

  “Christine. Are you okay?”

  He hardly recognised her voice when she finally did speak.

  “Not really, Mark,” she said.

  Not for the first time when it came to Christine, Mark stopped trying to work out the right thing to do, and let instinct take over. He set her phone down next to the TV, and walked over to where she sat on the bed. He sat beside her, and looked out the window too. He tried to discreetly observe her, but her countenance shocked him so, that he could only stare at her in dismay. She had been crying, and her eyes were red against the pallor of her skin. But there was something else. Whatever made her what she was, her confidence, her spirit, her spark, was gone. He hardly recognised her. She seemed more like an empty shell than the vivacious, beautiful woman he loved. Like her soul had been removed, and all that was left was her skin, and flesh, and bones.

  “What did he do to you?” Mark whispered. “Did he, did that guy hurt you?”

  Christine looked at him. “What do you mean? Do you mean Nick?” Her voice broke at his name. “No.” She looked back out the window, and then down at her hands on her lap. “No. He did nothing wrong.” Then she shook her head and stood up and paced the strip of floor between the bed and the window, like someone who was contemplating a difficult choice. She looked up at Mark, and then covered her face with her hands. “Oh Mark. I'm sorry. This is not your problem. Just leave me alone. I'll be fine. Just leave me here. Please.”