by Shamim Sarif
Paulina’s bedroom suite looks like it’s ready for a photo shoot for Architectural Digest or something. There are no clothes tossed onto the backs of chairs and no magazines lying about. No sign of a computer or laptop—and certainly no embarrassing posters left over from teenage obsessions. Only tasteful, muted colors, a wide bed with cotton sheets that just look as soft as silk, expensive furniture, glass shelves stacked with pricey coffee-table books, and some incredible framed prints. The first thing she does is slip off her shoulder bag, pull out the photography book I gave her, and place it on a table in front of the sofa. There’s another book already there, considerably bigger and more expensive, which she removes and places onto a shelf, leaving only mine displayed.
“Look how beautiful it is,” she says.
I smile. It’s thoughtful of her to make such a big deal out of a small gift. Promising to be quick, Paulina disappears into a small hallway running off the bedroom from which two farther doors open out on each side. She’s taken the right-hand door, clearly the bathroom; I can hear water running and cabinets opening.
While she showers, I stand about, taking in the room in detail. The place is immaculate. Even her bedside table is free of clutter. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I feel something move, and I turn. Behind me, the most impressive photography print takes up an entire wall, and it’s changed. I swear it was a bare, desert landscape when I walked in, all sky and low mountains. And now, there’s a black-and-white shot of umbrellas in the rain, and New York defocused in the background. I go up to the wall. The image sits in a sort of slim box. It must be ten feet tall. Up close, I can just about make out the pixels. It’s a massive digital frame.
Within five minutes, Paulina emerges, trailing with her a scent of freshness. She’s in a thick toweling robe, the kind you get in five-star hotels, and she’s heading for the other door across the hallway but pauses to glance back into the bedroom where I’m standing, sort of marooned awkwardly in the center of the floor. She laughs.
“Sit down! Make yourself at home.”
Obediently, I take a place on the sofa. I glance behind me, and the photography on the wall has changed again. Now there’s a dusty village in India, with a bus arriving in the distance. I turn back, disconcerted.
“I’ll just be a minute,” Paulina says. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of a walk-in wardrobe with rows of perfectly aligned clothes. I think briefly of my own duffel bag in the apartment. I’ve hardly bothered to unpack it. I just pick out the clothes I need whenever I need them. Paulina leaves the door ajar, so she can speak to me while she dresses.
“Why did you come to the gallery?” she asks.
I feel a jolt of tension at the question, but I’ve become so used to being economical with the truth that I barely hesitate before giving her a half-honest answer.
“I read about it online.”
That part, at least, is true. In a small city with not very many major landmarks, the photography and the gourmet coffee of the gallery made it onto several tourist websites that I found while surfing around.
“Well, I’m glad you did,” Paulina says. That feels really honest, and for a moment I feel a pang of guilt. That I’m using her. Lying to build our relationship, while she’s being open with me, inviting me into her home, her life—her room.
Restless, I stand up and wander over to the window. Down below in the garden, the party is growing in guests and volume. A jazz band plays on a smaller platform, away from the main stage. Teams of white-jacketed waiters offer trays of champagne and canapés to guests. The ice sculpture has been placed next to an enormous bar area, and people are laughing and holding glasses under the mouth of the mermaid, where clear liquid pours out in a thin, steady stream.
“What’s in the ice sculpture?” I ask.
“Vodka,” Paulina says. “By the end of the night, they won’t be using glasses. They’ll just stand under it with their mouths open.” Her voice holds an edge of distaste.
I keep looking out the window, at the guests. Diamonds glitter at the throats of most of the women; the men are stuffed into tuxedos and shined shoes; but I can’t see Gregory anywhere.
“I feel a bit weird being here,” I tell her. “I mean, we only just met.”
“I know,” she replies. “But I feel like I’ve known you for a long time.”
Paulina appears, closing the dressing-room door behind her, and for a moment I find myself just staring. At her slim-fitting red dress, which drapes elegantly to skim the floor, and just at the way she stands—relaxed, not self-conscious at all—as if she was born to have people admire her. Paulina holds out her arms as if inviting comment.
“You look stunning,” I say, and then I catch myself. “I mean, it’s a beautiful dress.”
Very cool, Jessie. Well done. Try to remember what you’re actually doing here.
Paulina comes over to where I’m standing, and her amused look makes it clear that she knows I was referring to her and not the dress. As she reaches me, she turns so that her back is to me. I don’t even get what she’s doing until, with one hand, she lifts the light-brown hair away from her neck, revealing the back of her dress, which lies open.
“Zip me up?”
Now I’m nervous. As gently as I can, I reach for the zipper, which sits way down at the base of Paulina’s spine, and I slide it upward. By accident, my fingers brush Paulina’s neck as she turns around again. For a fraction of a moment we are standing too close together. I feel her eyes drop to my mouth; I can smell the perfume on her neck—and then I step back.
Just a little, just enough to clear my head. I can’t look at Paulina directly, so I look away, at the photography installation thing on the wall.
“That’s amazing,” I say, and my voice sounds weird, all thick—heavy with the effort of trying to ignore the moment of intimacy.
The wall frame displays another black-and-white photo there, replacing the Indian landscape. But this one lacks the artistry of the other pictures. It seems like a family photo. A woman in a plain, printed dress, in a small living room, hugging a little girl.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“My mother. For my last birthday, my father gave me a memory card with every picture of her that he could find.” Her voice has changed, and so has her mood. As she speaks, the image of her mother fades away and is replaced by a winter scene.
“It’s too much to look at them all the time,” she continues, her voice so low I have to strain to hear it, “so I mixed them up with other photos.”
The whole thing feels sad, but also a bit bizarre. Paulina moves to her bedside table and opens a drawer, picking out a pair of diamond earrings.
“What happened to your mother?”
Paulina puts on the earrings, using a mirror to guide her.
“Her kidneys failed. She needed medicine and equipment that you could only get in England or America at that time,” she says, “or on the black market. And my father couldn’t afford it. Not then.” Her tone is flat—the way people speak when they are trying to hide how emotional they are.
Paulina turns. The earrings are in place, but her eyes look haunted and, in the lamplight, a darker shade of blue.
“I’m sorry.”
Thousands of years of language and literature and we haven’t come up with something better than these two, tired words—I’m sorry—to express sympathy for a loss. Maybe because deep down, we know that nothing we say can help someone who’s suffering. I clear my throat, feeling all inadequate, while Paulina picks up a ring from a heavy crystal bowl on her desk and slips it on.
“My father watched her die,” she continues quietly. “And he promised himself he would never be without money again.”
Well, it’s certainly a touching story, and as Paulina comes to stand next to me at the window, I have to remind myself that while Gregory Pavlic might possibly be human somewhere in the black abyss of his rotten heart, there are too many layers of criminal ruthlessness on top to make me feel remotely sorry f
or him. But Paulina—I do feel badly for her.
“It’s strange,” she says softly, looking sideways at me. “I can hardly remember my mother. But I know nothing can ever replace her.”
She moves away from me, to the digital frame, which displays a photo now of the three of them. Paulina as a child, her mother, and Gregory, with his arms around both of them. Using a remote control that sits in a clear glass holder on the desk, she switches it off. The photo disappears, and the screen drops into blackness. I blink. It’s like that click of a button drained all the emotion out of the room.
“I can’t sleep if I leave it on,” she says.
From the window, all I notice now are those enormous posters of Kit. Stylized images that bear a resemblance to the mother I adored as a child, when I was completely in awe of Kit’s stardom, and style, and grace.
But through the past several years—as a teenager, I suppose—I haven’t seen this side of Kit. Maybe I’ve chosen not to. I’ve spent my time being resentful of the time she spent away on tour and in the studio, being disgusted by the drinking, and being pretty relentless in picking at the scabs of Kit’s emotional scars. I just wanted her to be different, and maybe I also knew, deep down, that she wanted me to be different. Cooler, more artistic, less judgmental of her, maybe. Less of a nerd who loved computers and circuits and who always wanted her attention. When we fought at home, Kit told me that she was tired of trying to please me, which I always dismissed, because I never noticed that she cared for anyone but herself. But maybe she just got tired of being judged the whole time. Would I rather have grown up without a mother at all, like Paulina? I know the answer, so as I look at Kit’s pictures out there, I try to be grateful. For once.
On the way down to the party we take the main staircase in the center of the house. I express my admiration at how beautiful her home is, and, encouraged by my enthusiasm, Paulina gives me a quick tour. We don’t go into every room—there are just too many for that—but she points out the main living rooms, the dining room, the home cinema (complete with monogrammed blankets and a bar). Finally, as we exit into the garden, she points out the top floor of the house—at the front is a gym and sauna; at the back, Gregory’s office. I make a note of that, the geography of where it sits.
It’s easy for me to see spaces and locations in my mind. Like, if I look at a house plan once, I can visit that house and find my way around it easily. Same with directions. It’s just logical to me, and it drives me mad when Kit can’t find her way back to where her car’s parked half the time. Anyway, I’m not planning to go roaming around Gregory’s home, especially since we’ve passed at least seven guards in black suits stationed at every corridor. Caitlin will have her work cut out for her, breaking into the office, even with Amber taking over the CCTV feeds, and even with Gregory’s fingerprint. Those men in black look like they just retired from some Eastern European Olympic wrestling team.
As soon as we are strolling through the party, Paulina is stopped every few steps by one or another of Gregory’s guests. She attracts stares as she moves through little pockets of partygoers, the way celebrities do. At a party where everyone seems obsessed with air-kissing each other, Paulina keeps guests at arm’s length with a delicate handshake. A few people cast interested glances in my direction, but Paulina ignores the looks. Finally, we emerge onto a quieter patch of patio, and Paulina turns to me.
“I’m sorry I haven’t introduced you.”
“Don’t be.”
“They’re not worth knowing anyway.”
As she speaks, we’re interrupted by Gregory himself. He grasps Paulina in a warm hug, then he pulls back to take in her outfit. A couple of looks play between them; the quick, silent communications of two people accustomed to each other. The closeness makes me tense, suddenly. Somehow, until now, I’ve liked the idea that Paulina is emotionally distant from her father. They exchange a few words in Serbian, probably telling each other how great they look, because Paulina casts a critical eye over Gregory, picks a nonexistent speck of lint off his white tuxedo jacket, and gives him a smile of approval. Then she consciously switches to English.
“Father, you remember Jessie?”
Gregory couldn’t care less. He shakes hands with me briefly, and I resist the urge to wipe my palms on my clothes afterward.
“I invited Markus for you,” he says to Paulina pointedly. On cue, an expensively dressed young man appears, greeting Paulina with a dazzling smile and a courtly bow, which is, if you ask me, a bit over-the-top. He gives me a quick glance, and this time, Paulina introduces me.
“This is my friend Jessie,” she tells Markus. He looks me over, trying to figure out whether I matter, but extends a hand to me eventually. Then he smiles and says something to Paulina in Serbian—some greasy flattery about her dress by the feel of it.
“Maybe you can practice your English, Markus,” Paulina says haughtily. “So that Jessie can understand the conversation.”
I appreciate her manners and that she’s looking out for me, but neither Markus nor Gregory look thrilled at her words. Since you can cut the atmosphere with a knife, I turn away and pretend to admire the pool, where a leaf has just settled on the perfect surface, creating a slight ripple. I watch the water shiver outward from the disturbance. Meanwhile, Markus struggles to articulate himself in English. It’s all getting a bit fraught.
“I’m going to find a drink,” I say. “Please excuse me.”
I smile at Paulina as if to assure her things are fine and move away quickly. Not only am I happy to step out of that little attempt at matchmaking, but also meeting Gregory twice has stressed me out. I worry about being recognized. Despite Amber’s best efforts, there are still a few photos of me lurking around online when I was a lot younger, with Kit. Paparazzi shots of us leaving West End restaurants, that kind of nonsense. Obviously, I don’t share a surname with my mother. “Kit Love” was a stage name that Kit dreamed up because she didn’t think “Kathy Archer” was exotic enough. She was probably right too. And my first name has changed from Jennifer, which was the name I was given, till I was nine or ten, when I insisted on Jessie. But it’s still on all my legal documentation, from my passport to my birth certificate. And for most everyday purposes, like university or car rentals, I use a completely fictional name and one of Amber’s fake IDs.
I keep walking to a quieter spot, where I take a tiny piece of gold foil out of my jacket pocket and place it deep into my ear. Any minute now, Caitlin should be breaking into Gregory’s office while Kit takes the stage.
There’s a tiny receiver in my bag, tucked inside a tampon, which is rarely something even the most zealous security people want to mess with. With a bit of fiddling, I can pick up the signal I want, and—I hope—avoid being picked up in return. Within a few seconds I hear Amber’s voice speaking to Caitlin. Her clipped vowels sound like home, and I feel more relaxed. But it’s not long before I realize that something is wrong. Very wrong.
11
IN MY HEAD, I CAN hear Amber going nuts.
“You haven’t planted the dot correctly,” she’s saying to Caitlin. “I can’t access the camera feeds. Can you, Hala?”
“No,” is Hala’s curt reply.
Caitlin doesn’t answer them, probably because she’s with someone.
“Get back in the camera room,” Amber pushes.
Christ, Amber, I think. Give Caitlin a minute to think.
“Dammit,” Caitlin says to whomever she’s with. “Kit wants a new camera system, and I meant to ask your guys about the panel they use.”
A pause. “You want to go back to the camera room?”
An accented male voice. Probably some security guy escorting her around.
“Just for a minute. Kit may kill me otherwise . . .”
It’s a bit of a lame excuse, but I can imagine Caitlin smiling that big, Southern, cheerleader smile, giving it everything she’s got.
I find myself circling around to the back of the house. In my bag I have a dyna
mic rope that’s perfect for climbing walls. Thin, black, discreet. My hand is already clasped around it as I reach the back wall of Gregory’s home, where his office is, an area that is not lit at all. I mean, I’m not sure what on earth I could do to help Caitlin from here, but on instinct I want to be there, ready to try.
I hear Caitlin walk back into the camera room and greet the security guards who must be watching the camera feeds. She spins her line about wanting to know how their CCTV works.
“Is that a magnum panel?” she asks.
“Yes, Chinese technology.”
“Facial recognition?”
That gets the guard excited, that she seems knowledgeable.
“Yes, and heat mapping, here—”
Someone barks something in Serbian. The guard shuts up and stops flirting with Caitlin over the CCTV box.
“I’m sorry,” Caitlin drawls apologetically. “I love this stuff, I get carried away. . . .”
She must have fixed the dot access because I hear Amber come in again.
“Okay, got it. Thanks.”
Caitlin wraps up the chitchat, and I stop where I am, because everything seems back on track now. And because I’ve just seen one of Gregory’s security goons—another muscleman in a black suit—walk around the corner of the house toward me. So far, I estimate at least twenty of these hulks. I counted seven in the house, and there are probably one or two more I didn’t see. And, including this guy, I’ve got twelve outside; a couple at the entrance, three around the stage, one always with eyes on Gregory, and the others sprinkled around the house entrances. This one is far enough away that I can slip around the other side, unnoticed, and head back toward the party.
I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts that a whoosh of sound and the thumping of bass drums makes me jump. The stage is flashing, lights strobing in rainbow colors. The drums are joined by electric guitars and a keyboard. Kit’s band is already onstage, warming up the crowd, who start moving forward now, a wave of tuxedos and colorful dresses, taking seats on the rows and rows of padded chairs in front of the stage.