The Last Little Blue Envelope

by Maureen Johnson

  “Tomorrow,” he said, as he stepped outside. “We’ll get it. Remember, I have never failed at anything.”

  “Never,” she said.

  He reached up and gave her new haircut a shake with his hand.

  “Still have to get used to this,” he said.

  “Me too,” she replied.

  Very wisely, he said nothing else, and jogged down the steps and to his car.

  It Takes a Thief

  St. Pancras train station is precisely the kind of thing Ginny went to Europe expecting to see, along with vast cathedrals, small cars, advertisements featuring casual nudity, and doctors smoking in front of hospitals. A good portion of the building is a massive Victorian Gothic work of art, made of deep russet-colored bricks and covered in two levels of arches made of alternating brick and white stone. At the end is a clock tower—a sharp spire surrounded by shorter, sharper spires. The other part of the station is a pristine, supermodern glass temple. Along the massive arcade, dozens upon dozens of tiny brick archways are filled with every kind of shop or service, including Europe’s longest champagne bar, almost three hundred feet long. Hundreds and thousands of people wandering around with bags, some with little to no idea of where they are going—people figuring out train passes and connections and fumbling around with new currency.

  It’s exactly the kind of place a thief might like to spend some time.

  Ginny and Keith stood along the rail on the second floor. Ginny looked up at the massive glass arch that formed the ceiling. Her suitcase was at her feet, and she had four hundred Euros in her pocket. Even though she made over a hundred and thirty thousand dollars in the sale, most of that money had been set aside for college. Her own bank account was much smaller, and this was a pretty big hit to her balance. She would have to be careful to have enough to make it through the next few days. “All right,” Keith said. “One last time. You’re going to meet him over there at the statue . . .”

  The statue was The Meeting Place, and it was as easy to spot as Oliver had suggested. Thirty feet high and made of bronze, it showed a man and a woman in a breathless moment of meeting, their faces close together, about to kiss. It was so nice to have a big, metal reminder of romance towering above her and Keith.

  “I’ll be watching from one of the arches,” Keith continued. “And I’ll have this.” He held up the large, unwieldy London tourist map they had just purchased. It had been selected for sheer size, and when fully opened, provided a rustling paper shield.

  “All you need to do is get him to hold it out for a few seconds. I’ll do the rest. Once I get it, I’ll leg it. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “I just remembered something,” Ginny said, leaning over the rail, pressing down hard, crushing it into her abdomen. “That’s the same trick some street kids pulled on me in Rome. They came at me with these newspapers. They were flapping them around, trying to distract me and get my bag.”

  “Well, it’s an old move, but a solid one. Did they get anything?”

  “No. This guy came over and chased them away.”

  What Ginny decided not to mention was that this same guy, who was her age and kind of hot, then persuaded her to go to his sister’s apartment, where he tried to make out with her. He was so extremely sketchy that Ginny had to run away. Why did she run into so many thieves and skeezes?

  When the enormous clock above the statue hit ten; Oliver’s long, black-coated figure passed below them, heading for the stairs. Along with the leather satchel, a small backpack rested on his back. Oliver was dressed less formally this time. He had on black cargo pants, a snug, somewhat ragged gray sweater, and a heavy scarf wound around his neck that came up well over his chin. Combined with the long black coat, he looked like some kind of operative about to go on a mission.

  “That’s him,” she said.

  Keith took a moment to make a mental note of his target.

  “Black coat? Beaky face?”

  Ginny nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “Showtime. Don’t worry. I haven’t lost my rapscallion touch.”

  He winked and peeled away from Ginny’s side, wandering out of view. She took a deep breath and pulled up the handle of her bag, rolling it over to the statue. “Ready to go?” Oliver asked. “We have some time yet, but we might as well go through security now, unless you need something from one of the shops . . .”

  “I want to see the letter,” she said.

  “Why? You know I’m not going to let you read it.”

  Good point. Ginny tightened her hold on the handle of her bag and looked up at Oliver’s face. It was a thin face, with strong, impassive features. The statue behind them was more expressive.

  “Because . . . ,” she said, “I started off every leg of the other trip by looking at a letter. I just need to see it, okay? It’s how this is done.”

  Oliver rocked back on his heels and considered this, then opened the flap of the leather bag and held up some folded pieces of blue paper between two of his fingers. Immediately, Keith appeared from the hallway behind the statue and walked toward them briskly. He had the map out, feigning struggle and confusion, opening it this way and that, glancing around as if trying to get his bearings. “I’m at the meeting place,” he said, in what Ginny assumed was supposed to be an American accent. It was a little strange—kind of like someone had taken a cowboy, a surfer, and a 1930s gangster and put their accents in a blender. “The statue. The meeting place. The statue. The frickin’ huge statue of the people kissing . . .”

  “Satisfied?” Oliver said, holding up the pages. He took no notice of Keith, who was coming closer and closer. He was not, however, close enough. Oliver was starting to put them away.

  “Wait . . . ,” she said. “Where’s the envelope? I need to see the envelope too.”

  “I don’t have the envelope with me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t need it. I only needed the letter.”

  Keith was just a few feet behind him now.

  “The statue, not the station,” he said. The closer he got, the more Ginny could hear the accent—and the more she heard the accent, the worse it sounded. Hopefully Oliver just thought that was what Americans sounded like. “What street are you on? No, the statue is in the station . . .” Bang. Keith crashed into him, hard. For just a moment, the map closed around Oliver’s outstretched hand. Keith mumbled apologies before collapsing his map as if very embarrassed, and hurrying off. When he was gone, Oliver’s hand was empty, and Keith was gone. It worked. It actually worked.

  This was supposed to be the moment where Ginny laughed in triumph and delivered the speech she’d been preparing in her mind most of the sleepless night before. She was all ready to go, just as soon as the look of dismay and shock crossed Oliver’s face. But it didn’t come.

  There was no use even pretending now. Ginny turned in the direction Keith had run off. He had stopped at the base of the steps and was shaking out the map and looking very confused. He looked up to Ginny, shook his head, and started making his way up the steps.

  “I take it that didn’t go as planned,” Oliver said, when Keith had reached them. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m her hairdresser,” Keith said. “She doesn’t go anywhere without me. What did you do?”

  “I got here an hour early. I stood right over there. . . .” He pointed to a spot on the other side of the second floor, maybe twenty yards away. “I watched you two arrive and do all your plotting. It wasn’t that hard to work out what you were up to.”

  “So where’s the letter?” Ginny asked.

  Oliver reached up the sleeve of his coat and drew out the blue pages.

  “Looks like we both do sleights of hand,” he said to Keith.

  “You are the ultimate div and obviously have no mates.”

  Oliver dismissed Keith with a shrug, and turned his attention to Ginny. “I’m getting on the train. This is a one-time offer. Either come with me now, or we’re done here.”

&nb
sp; Oliver started walking in the direction of the boarding area for the Eurostar.

  “I’m sorry,” Keith said. “I thought I had it. . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Ginny replied. “But I guess I have to go.”

  They had tried, and they had failed. Keith put his hands deep in his pockets and stared at the ground. She held up her hand in a lame gesture of farewell.

  “See you in a few days,” she said.

  She had only gotten a few steps when Keith jogged in front of them and blocked their progress.

  “I have a car,” he said, holding up his keys for Oliver to see.

  “Good for you,” Oliver replied.

  “As it happens, I also have a few days free. So I’ll drive. Paris isn’t that far. Maybe six or seven hours?”

  “There’s no way I’m going with you,” Oliver said, stepping around him.

  “I didn’t offer to drive you. I’m offering to drive her. You can do what you like.”

  But Ginny didn’t move.

  “I’m going with him,” Ginny said loudly. “In the car.”

  This obviously threw Oliver for a loop. He didn’t have a very expressive face, but she could just feel the displeasure coming off of him in waves.

  “We need to do this together,” he said.

  “We can,” Ginny heard herself saying. “We can meet there. How about the pyramid in front of the Louvre?”

  “Good choice.” Keith nodded. “Pyramid. Louvre. Noon tomorrow? Have fun on the train.”

  He clapped Oliver on the shoulder, hard, and linked his arm through Ginny’s to lead her away. It was all Ginny could do not to skip . . . to sing . . . to weep for joy. Okay, it wasn’t exactly like the summer—but this was just the two of them, going off together. Going to Paris together. Driving along in his car for hours and hours, into the City of Lights. They would have meals together, and talk for hours. They would have to get a place to stay . . .

  “You’re paying for petrol, of course.” Keith smiled at her as he walked to the door. “And everything else. It’ll be like old times! I think I want some cheeses. Lots of cheeses.”

  “So many cheeses,” Ginny said, nodding.

  The fantasy lasted all the way to the bus stop outside of the station doors. This is where Oliver caught up with them.

  “Again,” Keith said, not looking over, “I didn’t offer you a ride.”

  “Well, I’m coming. Or this isn’t happening. What are we supposed to do when we get the pieces? I suppose you’ll just let me hang on to them, is that right?”

  Keith let out a long sigh and looked over at Ginny. A light passing rain pattered on top of the glass bus shelter.

  “We’re going to have to bring him, aren’t we?” he said.

  “Probably,” Ginny replied sadly.

  “In that case . . . I want a hundred Euros up front for petrol and as general payment for the annoyance of having you in my car.”

  “I bought the train tickets,” Oliver said. “It’s not my fault if we’re not using them. I’ll give you fifty and we’ll work from there.”

  “And twenty pounds for parking and congestion charges,” Keith added.

  Oliver handed reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. He had prepared as well; he had a wedge of Euros. After giving Keith one fifty Euro note and a twenty pound note, he stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, signifying that the deal was done.

  “And you smoke,” Keith said. “Lovely. Don’t even think about trying that in the car.”

  Oliver obligingly stepped a few feet over. Conciliatory for a blackmailer.

  “You realize,” Keith said, eyeing Oliver’s bag, “that your only value is the letter you have in the front pocket of your bag. It would be a terrible shame if you were separated from that bag and pushed out of a slowly moving car somewhere next to a French cow pasture.”

  “What, this letter?” Oliver reached into the pocket and produced the folded pages. “I can fix that problem right now.”

  He crumpled the paper and tossed the ball into the road. Ginny let out a gasp of horror as cars and trucks and buses rode over it. A few seconds later, it vanished, probably carried away by a tire.

  “What did you just do?” she yelled.

  “That was some blue paper I just bought in Waterstones. Like he said, I’m aware that my only value is having the letter. Don’t worry. It’s safe.”

  “Safe where?” Ginny asked.

  “Safe from pickpockets with rubbish American accents.”

  The bus lumbered up to the stop. Oliver flicked the cigarette away and waved his hands, indicating that he would follow Keith and Ginny.

  “I’m not a violent person,” Keith said under his breath, as they climbed the steps to the second level of the bus. “But I’ve really been meaning to work on that.”

  One More for the Road

  “Is my American accent bad?” Keith asked quietly, once they were on the bus.

  “It was fine,” Ginny said, looking down at her lap. The accent still burned her ears, but there was no point in telling him that.

  “I’ve been working on it for a while. Mimicking Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. And I’ve been trying to copy The Wire, but that one is kind of hard. . . . Anyway, I have to text. . . .”

  The sentence trailed off, so that had to mean he was texting Ellis. It seemed that the policy was going to be that Ellis would never be mentioned directly. It was hard not to hate Ellis. This wasn’t her fault. But she could hate Oliver. That was a perfectly acceptable activity. He was sitting two rows in front of them on the top of the bus. His hair was cut very cleanly and precisely, with a ruler-straight line along the back of his neck. He had a mature bearing—seated straight, shoulders back. Not rigid, just very adult. Keith was more slouchy and scratchy and free-flowing. Keith looked like a student. Oliver looked like someone with . . . some kind of responsibility. Evil responsibility.

  When they got off the bus Oliver kept about ten feet behind them as they walked to Keith’s house.

  “I’ll wait out here,” he said.

  “Yes,” Keith replied. “You will.”

  The house was cold and mostly dark, but the lights were on up in Keith’s room. Ellis was already up there, looking out the window.

  “Is that him?” she asked. “Down in the garden?”

  “That’s Oliver,” Keith said, opening his closet, shoving some things aside and pulling a bag out from under a pile of stuff. “He’s the wanker who’s got Gin’s letter.”

  “He’s more normal looking than I thought he would be.”

  Ginny peered between of the blinds on the other window. Just below, Oliver was patrolling the garden, his one arm behind his back, the other working the cigarette. He gazed at the cracked pavement like it was a map he was using to plot a siege.

  “He’s a prize,” Keith said. “I’m just going to get my things from the bathroom. I’ll be ready to go in a minute.”

  Then it was just Ellis and Ginny, smiling strangely at each other. It took Ginny a second to realize it but David wasn’t home . . . which meant that Ellis had let herself in. Which meant she had her own key. And that . . . was not something Ginny was going to dwell on. She let the blinds go and they fell back into position, sending a spray of dust up her nose.

  “So,” Ellis said cautiously. “I have nothing in my diary for the next few days. And I packed a quick bag. I don’t want to intrude, but if you wouldn’t mind . . . I’d love to come. Really. Only if you don’t mind.”

  In the bathroom, Keith could be heard crashing through the medicine cabinet. Either he was intentionally being loud, or he had temporarily lost muscle control. He must have known this question was coming.

  “It’s all right to say no,” Ellis said. “I know this is personal, and important.”

  That sounded very sincere. Ellis was genuinely asking Ginny if it was okay. But what else was she going to say? No? No, Keith’s friendly girlfriend, you cannot take a trip in your own boyfriend’s car?
Even when it was her, Keith, and Oliver, at least it was two against one. They would stick together. But now, the dream was well and truly over.

  “Sure,” Ginny said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Of course.”

  Ellis clasped her hands together in excitement. “Oh, I’m so glad. I’ve never been to Paris before. Weird, right? Since it’s just a short train ride away, and I studied French for years. I grabbed a few things from Sainsbury’s. . . .” She picked up a shopping bag by her feet and held it up. “Biscuits, crisps, fruit, water. Some Top Trumps for the long, boring bits on the train. We’ll need to take the Chunnel—I looked up the route online. Plus, I bought a map of France just in case we can’t get a signal.”

  Keith decided this was a good moment to return. He had an overstuffed backpack, and was punching the contents down with his fist.

  “I’m coming!” Ellis cried. “Ginny said it was okay.” Keith kept squishing and pushing the contents into the bag, trying to get it closed.

  “Brilliant,” he said. He gave the zipper one final tug and strode out of the room. “We should get going.”

  “Is that your car?” Oliver asked when they came outside. He pointed to the humble, turtlelike automobile parked at a slight angle in front of the trash.

  “Awe will soon take the place of jealousy,” Keith said, brushing past him. “I’ve seen it before.”

  Keith opened the trunk and examined the contents. He had cleaned it out a good deal, but it was still fairly full. He grabbed up two large bags, looked inside, and dropped them into an open trash bin. Though Ginny loved the little white car and had many fond memories of it, she understood Oliver’s trepidation. It didn’t exactly look like the ideal vehicle to take around Europe. For London, sure, it was perfect. It was small and pre-dented, ideal for zipping between buses and cabs and down narrow streets that were never built for cars. You could park it anywhere—you could probably park it in the house if you had to. Plus, it wasn’t something anyone would want to steal. The white was faded, like old T-shirts that had been washed too many times with black socks. There were dings and scratches and tiny, coin-size spots of rust near the bottom. It screamed, “I have manual locks.”