by Sam Nash
How freeing it is to fly. She remembered the feeling well. Her last disembodied flight being when she returned the old lady’s body to the Kent’s guesthouse in the storm. Why would Alexi be collecting his own weather data? Surely, he could just look online at national weather centre information.
The last few miles of her bicycle ride, saw the woodland thin once again. Open farmland and wide spaces between properties, marked the outskirts of her destination. Soon, she was in the thick of regimented housing and industrial estates. Taking the routes that signposted the town’s centre, Mary eased the gears into second and coasted between queuing vehicles. Finally, she rode along the main shopping precinct of the large township.
She cycled the entire length of the shops and outlying centres, but saw no signs to a train station. Sweating profusely and in desperation, she drew level at a set of traffic lights with an elderly couple in a pickup truck. Tapping lightly on the passenger’s window, the old lady lowered the glass.
“Excuse me, but could you tell me where I can find a train station around these parts, please?”
The woman looked taken aback, and then she gave Mary a beaming smile. “Are you lost, honey? Where you headed?”
“I’m trying to get to Manhattan, but it is proving more difficult than I anticipated.” Mary, was red in the face from her exertions, and panting. The traffic lights changed.
“Merl, pull over there, so I can talk to this young woman.” She screeched at her husband. Merl did as he was told, turning at the junction and allowing Mary to scoot her bicycle around the corner to meet them.
The nice old couple explained the difficulties in reaching Manhattan by train, persuading her to take a coach from the bus stop along the main street through the centre of town. Mary thanked them, and pedalled off to seek out the bus shelter, between the liquor store and a memorial home.
A single metal sign with the number forty-seven embossed into its surface, was her only indication of finding the correct stop. With great reluctance, Mary wheeled the bicycle to the rear of the shelter, and leaned it against the back wall. Wish I could take it with me. Doubt they would permit bikes on coaches like they do the train.
Mary waited at the roadside for no more than twenty minutes, before a coach arrived. She checked with the driver that her destination was possible on his route. He snatched the ten dollars from her hand, nodded, and said ‘Exact fare only, no change.” Moving in jolts and bumps, Mary navigated to the rear of the bus. The air was thick with cheap deodorant and hairspray; the air conditioning feeble at best.
Finding an empty double seat on the shaded side, Mary settled down with her satchel next to her and the strap wound around her wrist. She pulled the cap down over her eyes and relaxed into the jumble of emotions. I wonder what Dan is doing back in England, right now? What time is it there? Projecting her neural frequency out into the ether, she reached out for a connection to her brother.
“Dan? Can you hear me?” She waited, blocking out the noisome sounds from the other passengers and concentrating on the silence inside her head. “Dan?” Another wait, more silence. “Hello?” She opened her eyes, lifted the cap, and stared at the bus interior. There was nothing about it that was unusual. No additional metallic structures, nothing which could block her telepathic signals. Closing her eyes once more, she tried contact again. “Hello?”
A faint sound came back to her. A distant voice dipped and grew louder in turn. An odd cadence that was both familiar and strange at the same time. That is not my brother. Who on earth have I tuned into? She listened again, straining with all her might to hone in on the sounds. The more she concentrated, the louder the blend of voices became. A mixture of guttural and harsh sounds, interspersed with an inflected accent. She reached out to the source. “Hello there, who are you?” A part of her grew suspicious of the interaction, another part, excited at the prospect of stemming the loneliness.
“Mary…” The voice tapered off, struggling to maintain the frequency.
Shit. They know my name. Who are they? The realisation that this was no accidental broadcast frightened her. Is this the result of Alexi training the new recruits back at the compound? It didn’t sound like Lachie and the others. It sounded foreign, one of the Baltic states, Russian perhaps. She swallowed hard, recollecting her last and final encounter with the Soviet telepaths. That did not end well for them. It cannot be the captain and his men. They were all killed in the drone strike.
Mary sat fully upright, removing her cap and mentally shaking herself from the borders of sadness. She took a swig of stale water from the airport bottle, chiding herself for not buying more before boarding the coach. Stuck in the confines of a stifling hot and stinking bus, she hunkered down for the remainder of the trip.
The many delaying stops and the dense traffic slowed their progress, but after almost two hours of jolting travel, they crossed the Hudson at Fort Lee, on the New Jersey Turnpike. The route took them along the western riverbank, past miles of grey jigsaw tower blocks, with barely a pin’s breadth between them. The vista changed to a seemingly endless stretch of parkland, flanked by the river on one side, and apartment blocks on the other. At a small marina, the coach took a ninety-degree turn on a roundabout, and ventured into the heart of the city.
Boutiques, salons and the tree-lined Hayden Planetarium, announced their arrival. Here, at the west side of Central Park, Mary disembarked into another world. She stretched, taking a moment to find her land legs and her bearings. The bustle and the buzz from the streets were exactly as she remembered. It had been a long time, since she and her ex had visited New York. It was their final destination in a year long trip, before returning home to England.
Those days are long gone. I need to find a new place to take root. Start afresh, but after I have had a cuppa and a wee. Mary hurried past the planetarium to a café on seventy-seventh street and achieved her objective, grabbing a tea and a bagel to go after using their facilities.
Crossing the road, Mary followed the pathways towards the lake and settled on the rocky outcrop of Hernshead. A Japanese tourist party took turns to pose at the famous spot, passing their cameras around to snap the shots for one another. She watched them, as they linked arms and smiled. No silly poses or finger wagging bunny ears above the next person’s head. Each and every visitor, so dignified in their adventure. The bagel was dry and chewy, but it sated her hunger. The tea, weak and tasteless. This will never do. If I am to make a new life here, I have to find a better source of tea.
Her mind made up, Mary was determined to locate the little specialist deli, close to the United Nations building, which Parth had found some eight years ago. Heading back to the roadside, she hailed a cab and directed the driver to the corner of East Fortieth and Second. The cab driver took the scenic route, clocking up a handsome fare. Mary checked her cash situation, vowing to make this a one-time indulgence.
Despite the cost, their drive through the park and down Fifth Avenue took her past some of the most iconic buildings of all time. Tiffany’s, The Rockefeller Building, Saks and the magnificent library. They turned left into a one-way system, long before reaching East Fortieth Street, but The Empire State and Chrysler Buildings remained in view from almost everywhere.
Hopping out of the cab, she handed the driver his fare, who then glared up at her. “Oh God, of course. A tip. I completely forgot that about America. I meant no disrespect.” Mary gave him another note, hoping that it would suffice. He took it without a word, pulling away into the traffic without a backward glance.
Mary ambled around the corner. Outside the international delicatessen was a large black limousine, sporting a tiny Indian flag on the bonnet. As she drew nearer, a striking man, dressed in a cream silk Kurta, exited the shop. His secretary carried a paper grocery bag and fussed about him. Mary’s heart pulsated in her chest. She recognised him at once. It was the Indian nobleman, Shrimant Karan Shinde.
Chapter Eight
“Mary? But how…? Forgive me.” Karan pla
ced his palms together and bowed his head. “Namaste.”
Mary repeated the greeting. Seized with confusion, she stammered and fidgeted, before forming a coherent sentence. “Shrimant Shinde. It is good to see you again.”
“Mary… what’s with the sudden formalities? I am sorry for how things were left between us.” Karan was acutely aware of his secretary and driver, listening to their conversation. He flicked his hand at the wrist, dismissing them both to the limousine.
“I suppose I reacted badly too. You were only trying to help me, and I repaid your kindness by running out on you.” She smoothed her hair as she spoke, wincing at her reflection in the shop windows. Karan smiled. The warmth spread to her cheeks.
“We were both a little hot headed, if I recall. Can we start afresh? I would dearly love the opportunity to catch up. Heal the rift, as it were.”
“I’d like that too. Perhaps we should steer clear of politics.”
“An excellent idea. Where were you going? Could we give you a lift?” His hand reached out to her arm, but stopped a few centimetres distant, turning his palm outwards towards the car.
“Oh thanks, but no it’s not necessary. I was just going to stock up on decent tea and check into the hotel on the next street. I’ve stayed there before.”
Karan nodded. “I remember you telling me about this deli when we were at Ditchley together.”
“That’s right, I did. The UN building is just a couple of blocks from here, isn’t it?” The recollection of their first meeting flooded her mind. The intensity of their discourse, the jealousy displayed by Parth, the petrifying escape from the Defence Minister’s agents. She remembered too, her brief stay at the Indian Consulate, and how his manipulations gave her grave concerns.
One hundred different emotions crashed into her prefrontal cortex, warning her to keep her distance, each one completely overridden by a forceful desire. She felt dizzy. Was she hyperventilating?
“I would very much like to see you again. May I take you out to dinner this evening?”
Those soulful dark eyes unravelled her. She blustered, pulling at her t-shirt and sticking her leg out to emphasise her apparel. “I’m afraid this is all I have to wear. Another one of my ill-timed mad dashes in borrowed clothing. It’s a lovely offer, thank you, but I really need to check in to that hotel and then buy some clothes.”
“Will you permit me to come to your aid once more?” Did she see a faint glow beneath those perfectly groomed cheeks? Was he embarrassed by his offer?
“Really, Karan. You have already done so much for me, I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“It would be my honour.” He could not make eye contact with her. His gaze drifted to her feet. This was a man wholly unused to refusals. “There are guest rooms in the consulate, just off Central Park”
“Oh no, I couldn’t. Thank you. That did not turn out so well last time. The hotel here will do me just fine.”
“Then allow me to be your Richard Gere, as it were… not that I think you are a prostitute… oh dear, I mean only that I can assist you with the clothing issue, so that we may dine together this evening. I do apologise.” The glow intensified into a rich magenta.
Mary erupted with laughter. “You want to re-enact the film Pretty Woman with me as Julia Roberts? That is hysterical. I could not be further from her tall, svelte, red-haired appearance if I tried.” Karan giggled too. It suited him. His serious face broke into a devastating smile, fringed with the most adorable dimples above the line of his neat beard. Mary weakened. “If it is not too much trouble, that would be lovely, thank you.”
Buoyed by her response, Karan regained control and summoned Gupta, his secretary.
“I know a wonderful place nearby, which does the most perfect afternoon tea.”
Gupta hopped out of the front passenger seat, and opened the rear door for Mary. Karan slipped into the opposite side. Relaxing into the leather seating, Mary breathed in Karan’s sandalwood cologne. Yesterday, I am sheltering between smelly dumpsters, today I am luxuriating with nobility. My life never ceases to amaze.
***
Just as Karan had promised, the afternoon tea was divine. Despite the uneasiness of sitting in sweatpants and trainers in the lounge of the exclusive Palm Court of the Plaza Hotel, her initial fears of being evicted from the opulent stone pillared tea lounge were unfounded. Karan, being one of their coveted and regular customers, could do no wrong, and that extended to his guests. To stave off her protestations, Karan and the Maître d’ agreed to a table on the concourse level, where the families with young children dined. Mary indulged in a sensory overload of finest Assam, cucumber sandwiches and tiny eclairs.
From there, Gupta arranged a private shopping experience at Saks. With the financial implications squared away, Mary was encouraged to browse at her leisure. Mary felt awkward. She grabbed at the first black dress she could find, and balked at the price tag. Everything seemed way beyond her simple tastes.
Karan looked impatient, his brows cinching together as he peered at his watch.
“I am sorry. You must have so many other things to do. I’ll just get a pair of jeans, then we can meet up sometime for a veggie burrito.”
“A veggie burrito?” He chuckled. “Sounds horrific.”
Gupta stepped forwards and handed Karan a mobile phone, whispering the caller’s name to his employer.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I have to take this.” Karan gestured for Gupta to assist Mary, and then stepped away to a quiet corner for his telephone conversation.
Mary pawed at the clothes racks, all the while watching Karan pace along the polished department store floor space. His initial look of calm, soon morphed into one of deep concern. His free hand massaged his left temple. His lips barely moved, as he listened intently to the disturbing news from the other end of the line.
One of the personal shoppers returned to Mary with a selection of casual wear for her approval. A short time later, another woman appeared with expensive garment bags draped over her arms. A young trainee tottered behind her, balancing stacked shoe boxes on a small trolley. She paid them little attention. Her interest lay within Karan’s fretful demeanour as he ended the call and hurried back to her side.
“Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” he said, “there is an important matter I must attend to. I am sorry to leave you, Mary, but you are in capable hands with Gupta. Buy whatever your heart desires. I look forward to dining together this evening.” Karan bowed. “Namaste.” Before Mary could return the gesture, he turned and rushed away.
Gupta made a poor Richard Gere. He stood a respectful distance from the fussing personal shoppers and tapped away on a tablet PC, in sporadic bouts of activity. Mary felt trapped. The shopping assistants had clearly been offered a bonus for every high value item purchased, but Mary would not be swayed. Taking a biro from her satchel, she wrote a list of basic and essential clothing items and their sizes on the lid of a cardboard shoe box.
Jeans x two – British size twelve,
cotton underwear x seven in white, x seven black
t-shirts…
And so on. She gave her completed list to the most senior personal shopper, whose puckered features conveyed her annoyance at the loss of commission.
From the garment bags, Mary selected a simple black cocktail dress, with lace panelled sleeves. She held it up in front of Gupta.
“Is this suitable for wherever Shrimant Shinde is taking me tonight?” Gupta peered up from his tablet PC, gave a single nod and returned his gaze to the screen.
“Good,” Mary thrust the dress back at assistant number two. Please can you wrap this up, along with those strappy sandals over there?”
“But madam, what about lingerie? Surely you will require a selection of…”
“Fine. Throw in a couple of lingerie sets and some tights.”
“Tights?” The assistants looked puzzled.
“Stockings, nylons… hosiery”
The personal shoppers l
ooked at her as though she were speaking a foreign language, and then began locating her requested items.
“I thought this would be fun.” Mary murmured, flouncing down into a soft chair near to Karan’s secretary. She looked up at Gupta, who opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again.
“Say what you have to say, Gupta. Your boss is not around to hear it.”
“Shrimant Shinde is a very wealthy man, madam. You should do as he suggests, and buy whatever you like. It won’t make a dent in his finances.” It was the first full sentence she had heard him speak since her time at the government run estate at Ditchley. He seemed greatly emboldened when Karan was not present. Did his comment stem from a dislike of his employer, or a liking for her? Mary could not tell.
“Nevertheless, Gupta. I am tired and spending another person’s money does not sit right with me. At any rate, I never was one for shopping.”
“In that case, madam, may I recommend a similar selection to that which was provided in London, be sent to your hotel?” Gupta stood, poised once again with his tablet computer, ready to set the wheels in motion. How often did he perform this ritual for Karan? It seemed altogether habitual, as though Karan doted on a new ragamuffin to elevate into the lofty halls of the diplomatic corps, every month. She estimated how long her exchanged dollars would last her in Manhattan. Not long. And she would require suitable work clothes, and something to wear to a job interview. That would seriously eat into her funds. As much as she loathed the notion of relying on Karan’s generosity, Mary found herself accepting Gupta’s kind offer of assistance.