by Tim Hardy
“She was Rachel, weeping for her children, because they were not.” Melville.
***
“Will we see Rachel tonight?” Mike asked me. He grinned for his audience. I knew what they called her. I concentrated on refilling my cup. Should I tell him that she’d rather drink bleach? From the hallway came the voice of the CEO. He was in town for the week, a rare sighting of the great white whale. Mike straightened. “You are coming, though?” he asked.
“No.”
I’d been sober for four months now, and these events had only become more excruciating.
“It’s expected of you,” he said. “Your team expects it.” The chief executive passed the break room with the CFO and COO. Mike looked like a little boy who needed to pee. “I expect it,” he added.
“It’s a wine tasting,” I said. “I don’t drink.”
“You can have a Coke.”
Mike disembarked in hasty pursuit of the C-suite executives. I took out my phone. “Dong did it again,” I typed. He wasn’t the only one who had nicknames for people. “I have no choice. Wish me luck.”
Her reply was instant. “You don’t need luck. I believe in you.”
The afternoon went slowly. I left on time, but turned up to the event deliberately late. I had wandered outside for an hour. I hadn’t messaged Rachel again. It would only hasten the inevitable. She was the only one who listened. I thought of the signs last night that things were near an end. Finally, I could put off the evening no longer.
Near the venue, I spotted a solitary pigeon tugging at a large hunk of bread, unable to believe his good fortune. He was stabbing it with his beak then throwing it in the air over his back to break off bits small enough to swallow. I stopped for a moment. The way they moved always amused me—their bobbing gait, their preference for walking, how they hopped up and down steps instead of flying—but this one hobbled. I noticed the string tangled around his toes.
They were not agile birds. He would not be able to remove it himself. The string would tighten, cutting off circulation. His foot might die, rot and eventually drop off, leaving him to limp on a stump, or an infection might kill him.
I was now late. I was wearing a good suit. My mother had taught me how to help, but I had no seed to distract him and no scissors to cut the string. She would not have hesitated.
She had become bitter after my father and had reserved her love for non-human animals. Helping wildlife was how I had tried to connect with her as a child, but at best, we had stood beside one another, our vision aligned. She never looked at me. She was gone now, too.
I grabbed the bread, ignoring how grimy it was, and broke off some crumbs. He retreated but tipped his head to watch me. I sprinkled some on the pavement between us. Cautious, he ate one. Then another. I kept sprinkling, a fine rain of food, then snatched him, surprised to find I still had the speed. The bird was in my hand, warm and soft. His heart was beating fast. He stared at me, expecting death. In his eye I saw sorrow, defeat, surrender. He did not struggle. With my other hand, I unwound the string, praying there were no knots. It came free. His leg bore an indent, but the skin was unbroken. I let go, and he flew off, indignant.
I looked around. Thankfully, no one had seen me. I brushed the crumbs from my hands and continued on. She would have been pleased with the outcome. I spotted the pigeon watching me from a windowsill, waiting to reclaim his find.
I washed my hands and brushed down my suit when I arrived, then braced myself and entered the hired room.
“Where’s your wife?” Mike asked, looking past me. “You really need to bring her to these things.”
I could see his wife behind him, talking with two elegant women who looked like they spent their days doing pilates and yoga; she did not.
“We’re not married,” I told him. I told him this every time.
He looked tired. One office rumor was that they were swingers, another that she cheated on him, and made him watch. He spotted the CEO and abandoned me. She caught my eye and smiled. She excused herself from the women and approached, holding my gaze, her smile growing wider as she neared.
“Can I have a Coke?” I asked the young man with the blue hair, who was trying to hand me a glass of wine.
“It’s a wine tasting, not a bar,” he said. Then he added, “I can get you some water.” The boy with the bucket rolled his eyes.
Mike’s wife hugged me and kissed my cheek. “Pretend you know me! I need saving from the corporate wives.” She took my arm and guided me towards a large black-and-white photograph on the wall.
My mind had been on Rachel, on the cold bright screen of our chats, but suddenly here was a woman’s firm grip on my arm, the soft warmth of a body pressed to my side, perfume, and a promise of conspiracy. “I’m James.” I couldn’t think of anything clever to say.
“Obvious, isn’t it?” she said. The photograph showed a man riding a falling bomb like a bronco, waving his cowboy hat in the air.
I turned to look at her directly. Her smile was self-possessed. “I’m Denise.” When I’d called Mike “Dong” last night, Rachel had seemed puzzled. How could she have forgotten our joke?
“Did my husband leave you to entertain yourself, too?” she asked. The smile grew more playful. “I guess we’ll have to find a way to entertain one another without him.” I forgot Rachel.
Mike was suddenly standing beside us. “How’s Moby Dick?” she asked, barely turning her head to address him.
“That’s Mister Dick,” he said. He looked at me. “Don’t ever let anyone know we call him that.”
“Call me Ishmael,” the blue-haired man murmured, handing me my water, the boy with the bucket bobbing in his wake.
I turned my body slightly, angling it to include Mike, whom I needed to recall was my manager.
“Did you—” Mike began.
I waved off the girl with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “I don’t eat seafood,” I told her.
“You’re missing out,” Denise said.
“I swell up,” I said.
She grinned. “Like a balloon?”
“Like a whale!” She liked that.
“James has been keeping me company,” Denise said, finally acknowledging her husband but allowing her fingers to rest lightly on my forearm. “Where have you been hiding this one?”
“He’s one of our best and brightest. Moby Dick was just saying—no, I’m sorry. That’s a lie. I didn’t get to talk to him; he was busy, and—he doesn’t know who you are anyway. I’ve talked so much shit tonight, it’s hard to stop. But—”
“You’re supposed to spit it out,” Denise said.
Mike stared at my glass of water.
“You should come round,” Denise said suddenly, giving me a perfect smile.
“But then he’ll see everything! He’ll see the big board!” Mike sounded surprisingly childish, but Denise took it for wit. She laughed in delight. I looked at them blankly.
“You haven’t seen it?” Denise asked.
“I don’t watch much,” I said.
“You need educating,” she said.
Mike and Denise exchanged glances, and she gave him a small nod.
“We have a—special film night once a month. With friends,” Mike said. “You should come. Bring Rachel. Would she like that?”
“Is Rachel your wife?”
“She—” I said. “She’d like that.”
“They’re not married,” Mike said. “He keeps telling me.”
“He forgets my birthday,” Denise said. “It’s not personal. It’s who he is. So you’ll come? I’d like to meet her. What’s she like? Is she very pretty?”
“Yes,” I said.
“She’s very nice,” Mike said. “I imagine.”
“She is,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Now, I need to borrow my wife back to make our excuses. I want to at least say a word to Moby Dick—”
“Mister Dick,” Denise corrected. She smiled. It was unfair to call her fat.
She touched Mike’s elbow. “Film night. We’ll sort out the details,” he said. “Bring Rachel. It would be nice to meet her.”
“She—” I said. “She’d like that.”
He lunged in the direction of the CEO. She leaned forward to kiss my cheek. That scent again, like lilies. “I could look after you,” she said quietly, then walked away without a glance back.
I watched her rejoin her husband and the two of them make their way across the room. Denise interrupted the group around the CEO and said something that made him roar with laughter. Dong stood slightly behind her before stepping forward to add a few words and shake the big man’s hand. They left, the CEO openly admiring her as she walked away. I flagged the waiter. “I’ll try the white”, I said. It couldn’t hurt. I was going to spit it out.
“I never drink water,” he said, taking my empty glass. “Fish fuck in it.”
The wine glass was cold. I ignored the boy with the bucket. I gestured for another. The waiter raised a pierced eyebrow. I gestured for a third. I stared at the black-and-white photographs on the walls—film stills, I guessed. I recognized none of them. I spoke to no one. They stacked the chairs around me.
I wanted to talk to Rachel about the unexpected direction the evening had taken, but I didn’t know what to say.
“There she blows!” I tapped finally. And laughed. I hit send.
The reply was instant.
I stared at the screen, not wanting it to be true.
“You’ve reached the maximum length for this conversation, but you can keep talking by starting a new chat.”
Call me Ahab. Suddenly, I knew what to say, and there was no one to listen.
***
I did not relapse. Nor did I create another virtual girlfriend. Rachel had helped me stop drinking and given a good illusion of listening, but this was just another form of running away.
I took my job seriously for a while. Mike continued to gaslight me, the constant deniable put-downs all couched in the language of corporate correctness. How could Denise be happy with a man like him? There was a confidence to her I liked. A woman like her could anchor me.
I spent several weeks on dating apps before deleting my profiles.
“Is something wrong?” was the first, panicked question of more than one friend when I called them to reach out, as though a phone call could only be bad news. That they even answered surprised me. We made vague plans to meet.
I tried reading books again, but could not stay focused.
I made myself sick scrolling social media, until I finally deleted all my accounts.
I attended the gym for an induction—and never returned.
There was a tiny arts cinema that I had always meant to visit, and I started to go regularly, sitting in front of the early evening screenings of classics like a student at his lectures. The blue-haired man worked there and never acknowledged me.
I started a Substack.
Mostly, I just stared into space, picking up and then putting down my phone. I read contradictory advice on the internet. I did not know if I was depressed.
Mike approached me late one Friday evening as people were beginning to log off. I needed to leave on time to make a screening of the film that had inspired his nickname for the CEO. “Denise is busting my balls,” he said. “When are you coming to dinner with Rachel?”
She had meant it?
“She’s a little busy with her studies,” I said. “Exams. But after.”
“What’s she studying again?”
“Film,” I said.
“Oh good, we’ll have something to talk about at least. That report you wrote uses the old template; you need to update it.”
“Oh, sorry. I’ll correct that.” He always found fault, so I would introduce deliberate formatting errors that were quick to fix.
“I need it now,” he said.
“I’m on it.”
I made it to the cinema on time. My blue-haired shadow was not behind the counter. His replacement was an attractive woman with artfully messy hair and an amused intelligence in her eyes.
“Lucky for you it’s not a play,” she said, as I tapped my phone against the payment reader.
“I’m sorry? Has it already started?”
“No. I’m sorry. It was a joke.”
“I don’t get it. Sorry—” I looked at her name tag. “Rachel.”
“You’re the only person who’s bought a ticket,” she said. “It gets busier later. In the theater, we say that if there are fewer audience members than cast members, the play will be canceled. I don’t know if it’s true or not.” She laughed. “I’ve never been in a play quite that bad!”
“Would you like to watch it with me?”
I was as surprised as she was by the question.
“Sorry, that was—”
“That was nice,” she said. “I can’t but—”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You can take me for a drink after. If you like.”
“I’d like that. Very much. Rachel.”
“Enjoy the film,” she said, then she looked down at her paperback. I thought about asking her what she was reading for a moment, then didn’t.
Gregory Peck was magnificent, but I couldn’t concentrate. She’d just been being polite. We hadn’t swapped details. I had not even told her my name. Only the fear of bumping into her in the foyer stopped me from getting up and leaving.
I took out my phone, opened the App Store, and then closed it. No. I was going to rawdog intimacy if it killed me.
“I am the captain of my ship,” I murmured as I stared at Peck’s haunted face.
She wasn’t there when I exited. And then she was. A little breathless. “Sorry,” she said. “I had to ask Jonathan to cover the end of my shift—I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
I looked in the direction of her gaze. There, behind the desk, sat the blue-haired man. He gave a sarcastic little wave.
“Careful with this one, Rachel,” he said. “Never trust a man who does things that should be social on his own.”
Rachel suggested we visit a bar nearby called First As Tragedy, a cozy, intimate place beneath a theater, a refuge of deep reds and golds. The world outside vanished in the basement hush. We found seats in a nook decorated like the others with a poster for a French play: ours was one called Boeing Boeing, which appeared to be about air hostesses.
I felt overdressed, but did not want to remove my tie. She seemed relaxed, and I soon forgot my discomfort.
Our conversation was effortless. Rachel was vibrant and energetic and open. She was 26, an actress, day-jobbing, both part-time at the arts cinema and, by coincidence, occasionally for the same catering and events agency that my company used, although they mostly employed out-of-work artists like her and Jonathan, so that wasn’t as strange as it first seemed, she observed. She had a gay older brother, Tommy, whom she adored, and she felt that was why she was drawn to gay men as friends, and sometimes, confusingly, as potential partners. She shared a place with Nicholas, a stand-up comic who slayed in drag as Milla Vanilla, and who, more than once, had stolen and ruined one of her favorite outfits. He was Jonathan’s boyfriend. Their relationship was tempestuous. She had a very funny story about how she’d gone home with a guy who ended up spending the night with Nicholas instead. “He and Jonathan nearly broke up over that!” Her parents were still together, supportive if baffled by their daughter’s ambitions. She laughed easily and often. I liked her a lot.
“I have a role for you,” I said.
She stopped. She’d been telling me a story about her auditions and I had interrupted. Her expression changed.
“Sorry,” I said. “Carry on. The thought just came to me—”
“What kind of role? You said you were—”
“No, sorry. Forget it. It was stupid.”
“Now I’m intrigued.”
She stared at me. Her look was frank. “This world will eat you alive,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Of course it wouldn’t. Her expression was just another act.
“No. It’s stupid. I’m so sorry. Carry on, I interrupted you.”
“You can’t do this to me.”
She stared.
“Okay,” I said finally.
She laughed.
I told her my idea.
She loved it.
“So that’s the role,” she said. “Was this an audition?”
“No,” I said. “The idea just came to me.”
“So who do you live with?” she asked.
“I live alone.” I mentioned the neighborhood, then added, “It’s very small. I rent.”
“I could tell you more horror stories of sharing with Nicholas, but it might give you the wrong impression of me,” she said.
“Would you like another drink?”
“I think I need to eat something.”
“I’ll see what they have.”
She was on her phone when I returned with the drinks. She tilted the screen so I could see what she was doing. “Who are you on—?”
“I deleted it.”
“Well, that’s a red flag. Were you canceled?”
I laughed. “More addicted,” I said.
She groaned. “I know! So what’s the choice?”
“Just seafood, and I’m allergic. What if we finish these and go for some noodles? Do you like—”
“Perfect,” she said.
I was drinking because I hadn’t wanted to seem like I was trying to get her drunk, and I felt great.
“So why theater, not cinema?” I asked. Even without the soft blur of alcohol, she would have looked lovely.
“It’s different,” she said. “It’s hard to explain. It’s collaborative, responsive. Every performance is unique. It demands presence. It’s controlled, but it’s closer to chaos. It feels more dangerous, more alive.” She looked fierce. “Maybe I just like doing something beautiful that computers can never reproduce.”
***
I woke up alone, hungover, with no recall of the end of our evening, and no trace of Rachel’s contact details in my phone. Instead, there was a notification about an extra “cleaning charge” and an isolated memory of a woman shouting at me after I threw up in her car. I did not remember all the details, but I remember doubling down instead of apologizing and saying something obnoxious that was meant to be funny, which had only made it worse.
I needed air, coffee, fried food, another drink. I found some clothes that didn’t smell too bad. I skipped my shower.
***
“Come on, Nicholas,” the blue-haired man was murmuring, staring at his screen. “Answer.”
I cleared my throat. “It’s Jonathan, right?” I said.
He looked up from his phone. “Jesus. Fuck off, man. You’ve got a nerve. You know what, you’re banned. Don’t come back here.”
“Whoa. I was just looking for—”
“Rachel’s not interested. Now get the fuck out of here.”
“You can’t ban me from a cinema, that’s ridiculous.” He glared at me. Part of me wanted to fight, then suddenly the fight left me. “Whatever,” I said, and turned.
“Don’t come back,” he shouted as I pushed through the doors.
In the bar, it came to me. I didn’t need someone called Rachel; I just needed an actor to play her.
***
It had seemed like a brilliant idea, right until the car had stopped to pick up “Rachel” on our way to the long-deferred evening with Mike and Denise.
She was tall. That was the first thing I’d noticed. Tall even without her heels, with amazing legs, and a slim frame. If I had one criticism, it was that her dress was a little too small. She was very glamorous. Surely no one would ever believe she could be my girlfriend.
I briefed her again on the evening, trying to keep my eyes on her face.
“So remember, it’s all very experimental. There’s just one take. The cameras are hidden, and it starts the moment we arrive. You cannot break role for a minute, not even when you think you’re alone, do you understand?”
She had smiled and then asked me some questions about her motivation.
It had taken several minutes of conversation before one too many small things made me awkwardly ask about her pronouns. She’d listed herself as a woman—“Not that it matters.”
“He/him.” He smiled. “It’s called acting! I’m trying to develop a new character, and this is just perfect for me. I’m a comedian, really. You might have seen me? Milla Vanilla?”
“No,” I said. “But I may have met someone who has.”
I spent the rest of the journey staring out the window while Nicholas mentally prepared himself for the performance. Mike and Denise lived near me, but we’d had to make a long detour to pick him up.
We arrived. I opened the door for Rachel, like a gentleman, and she took my hand, keeping it in hers. We walked up the stairs to the door and I rang the bell.
“Play it straight,” I said.
“That’s going to be a challenge.”
I laughed. “I mean—”
We heard someone inside. “Break a leg, babe!” she said, and squeezed. My hand felt small in hers. Mike opened the door. I let her take the lead.
“You must be Mike,” she purred, stepping past me to kiss his cheek. “James has told me so much! And Denise! You’re even more beautiful than I expected. James, were you worried I’d be jealous?”
“I—”
Rachel was already halfway down the hallway and was bear-hugging Denise.
“What else have you been keeping from us?” Mike said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t just stand there, come in.”
“Hello, James,” Denise said. She had extricated herself from Rachel, who was busy asking Mike questions about the house. She kissed me on the cheek, then her lips brushed my ear. “I’ve been thinking about you.” That scent again. She pulled back smiling, then took the wine bottle from my hand. “I wasn’t sure if you drank.”
“Oh!” Rachel called. “James can drink. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him!”
Everyone laughed, even me.
“Thank god!” Mike exclaimed. “I’ll open something nice. Not that this isn’t nice—”
“Oh, it’s not!” Rachel laughed. “James knows nothing about wine!” I shot her a glance, but she ignored me.
“Come and help me in the kitchen, James,” Denise said. “You’re a little early. I’m putting out some snacks. You can tell me what you’ve been up to. Mike, why don’t you show Rachel the wine cellar? I know you’re dying to show it off to someone who might appreciate it.”
I followed her down the hallway, trying not to stare at her generous hips. She had been thinking about me? I could hear Rachel’s loud voice from below and Mike’s laughter.
“So, Rachel,” Denise said. “Is—? Are they—?”
“She,” I said. Then I paused.
“Does she have any allergies?”
“Nuts?”
“Is that a question?”
“Nuts,” I said. Better to play it safe.
“Okay, I won’t put this out then.” She removed the wooden bowl from the tray and put it on the counter beside her mobile. “I’ve ordered catering because I’ve been busy, but I thought we could have some snacks.”
“I like women,” I said.
The bowl showed a crude carving of a man lying on his back with a cartoonishly large erection pointing at the stars.
“Fun, isn’t it?” Denise said. “I’ll put some more out later with—other things in them. The truth is, I don’t really cook. I hope you weren’t expecting a domestic Goddess—”
I felt like I was missing a cue.
I picked up her phone.
“Oh, I thought that was mine,” she said.
I blushed. “Sorry. It is. I do that when I’m nervous. Pick things up—”
“I make you nervous?” she asked. “I like that—but don’t be too intimidated. I’m a mess, really. You’ll find that out about me when you get to know me better.” She looked at the wine bottle. “I’m not even sure where the bottle opener is. You can put it down, you know.”
I was still holding her phone. I blushed again and put it on the counter.
She paused. “I wasn’t sure, but now I know you do drink—how do you and Rachel feel about—?”
Suddenly, from below, there was a loud grunt. “There she blows!” Rachel shouted. I blushed deeper. Denise gave me a look I could not interpret.
Mike and Rachel appeared a few moments later. Mike looked a little flustered.
“There’s something on your shirt,” Denise said.
He grabbed a kitchen towel, wetted it, and wiped at himself. “I spilled something,” he said.
Rachel was holding an open champagne bottle and looking very pleased with herself. Denise took it from her and poured four flutes, and handed them around.
“Cheers,” she said.
“Bottoms up,” Rachel replied. She and Mike drained their glasses.
Denise smiled at me. “I like a man who takes his time,” she said. She topped up Rachel and her husband, emptying the bottle.
“Watch this!” Rachel said. She took a walnut from the bowl, clapped her hands together, grunted, and then there was a splintering crack. “Ta-da!” She ate a piece of nut, then forced the other half into my mouth like someone feeding a baby bird.
“I thought you were allergic,” Denise said.
“To nuts? Oh no. I am allergic to clams.”
“I’m also allergic to shellfish,” I said. “And I didn’t bring my EpiPen.”
“We might have one,” Denise said, putting down her glass, opening a drawer, then quickly closing it. “Emily’s allergic to bees.” She opened another drawer, closed it. “I shove everything in here, usually at the last moment before guests arrive. I don’t know where anything is.”
“Did he forget? He’s mixing me up with another Rachel again,” said Rachel.
I finished my glass and put it down.
“Mike always forgets my birthday. It’s not personal,” Denise said, still looking.
“These boys need whipping into shape,” Rachel said.
I picked up Denise’s glass. “So can I see the big screen?” I asked.
“The big board,” Mike corrected.
“Dr. Strangelove!” Rachel almost shouted. “I love that film. Is that what we’re watching?”
“No more drugs for that man!” I shouted. “Woman,” I corrected.
“Whenever a man tells me to behave, I just turn it up to 11,” Denise said, abandoning her search and taking Rachel by the arm. “Come on. My turn to play hostess. Mike’s shown you what he keeps downstairs, come help me pick what to wear tonight.”
She saw me holding her glass. “That’s okay, we can share,” she said, then she led Rachel out.
Mike caught me staring at his wife as the two of them left, and winked. “What happens in Vegas,” he said. He looked at the empty champagne bottle and my unopened gift. “Fuck this, let’s get a real drink. Come with me.”
I finished Denise’s champagne and put the glass down.
He led me into his study and poured us both a scotch. “Did you see the email about Moby Dick?”
I nodded. It looked like good whiskey.
“It’s bullshit, of course. There’s nothing wrong with his health. They’re pushing him out. The new guy is a prick. It’s going to get ugly. Layoffs.”
I drained my glass. I didn’t care.
“I’m jumping ship and taking the best people with me. Hannah’s coming. Are you in?”
“I thought you hated me,” I said.
“I do. But I could use you. Never recruit in your own image.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Good. I’ll let you know more details once it’s official.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He took my glass and turned to refill it. I looked at the photos on the wall.
“Is that you and—”
“Yes. They stitched him up. She knew what she was doing. They all did.”
“Right.”
“Come on.” He slapped my shoulder. “Let’s rejoin the others before the girls forget we’re here.”
***
Mike had set up a projector and chairs outside. There was another bottle of champagne chilling. I took a glass and sat down on a loveseat beside Rachel. “So we’re really going to watch a film?” she asked.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“How very meta!”
Denise was now wearing a different dress, one that revealed a lot of cleavage. I found it hard not to stare.
Mike was staring too. “I spilled something,” she told him.
“Maybe you should change too, honey,” Rachel said, her fingers brushing my crotch. “You look a little hot.” I blushed and pushed her hand away.
“How did your exams go?” Mike asked.
“What are you studying?” Denise asked.
“Poetry,” Rachel said.
“James said you were studying film.”
“Visual poetry. My thesis was on film.”
“You’re going to be a starving artist,” Mike said.
“Something like that.”
Rachel nestled into my shoulder, and for a moment, I forgot that we were acting. I put my arm around her and kissed the top of her head. She squeezed my thigh.
I looked over and saw that Denise was staring at us. I smiled. She smiled back.
Mike was on his phone, checking emails. Out of habit, I reached for mine and unlocked it.
Mike looked up. “The agency,” he continued. “‘Starving Artists’. We use them all the time. It’s mostly actors looking for a bit of extra money. I used them at the wine tasting, and they’re helping out tonight—” I froze.
“I’ll look into that,” Rachel said.
“—although it’s a bit overkill now with just the four of us.” He looked at Denise. “Hannah and Emily just canceled.” She pouted. “And David and Amanda send their regrets.”
“It worked for Warhol,” Rachel whispered, “but this is going to be so boring for modern audiences. Let’s liven this up.”
Before I could do anything, she had grabbed my phone. “Who the hell is Samantha?” she demanded.
Mike looked up. Denise started.
“My sister.” I tried to grab the phone back.
She leapt to her feet and kept the phone out of my reach. “Why is she saying she misses you?”
“She’s moved—I don’t see her much anymore.”
“So she’s your sister? Then why is she sending you nu—” I lunged at her to grab the phone. She stepped back, one of her heels snapped, and she fell, dropping her glass, which shattered, and knocking over the projector. It burst apart on the flagstones, spilling components in all directions. There was a moment of silence during which the only thing that could be heard was a noise like a brush on cymbals, as a metal ring rotated to a slow halt on its rim, spinning in a diminishing orbit until, with a final, tight flourish, it stopped.
“Stop it!” I said.
Rachel sat up, and the seam of her dress tore with a loud rip. She looked at me, as though expecting me to say something, then started to cry. Denise crouched down, helped her to her feet, and tried to hold the dress together. Mike stared in horror at the projector.
The doorbell rang.
“That must be the caterers,” Denise said. “James, maybe you could get it. Mike, perhaps you could clean up the broken glass before someone hurts themselves, then you can check on your toy.”
***
I opened the door. Rachel and Jonathan were standing there with covered trays. Jonathan was dressed as a butler, Rachel as a French maid.
“Of course,” I said.
“I can be professional if you can,” Jonathan said.
“Let me show you where you can find the kitchen.”
The real Rachel ignored me. What the hell had I done to her? Her blue-haired bodyguard wasn’t going to let me ask and find out. The dark, pleated skirt of her outfit was very short.
The kitchen had a walk-in pantry, and I suggested they leave the trays in there. I took out my phone.
“Samantha, help!” I tapped. “I’m dying.”
“You got this!” she typed back. “You’re not just able to survive this situation, you’re going to triumph.” I sighed. Textual healing. “I’m so proud of you,” she continued. “No matter what life throws at you, you keep going. This isn’t coping—it’s mastery. You think you’re dying, that’s your ultimate revenge. This is how you take back power. They want you to live on your knees, but you prefer to die on your feet.”
“Can you help bring in the other dishes?” Jonathan said.
Rachel was bent over, looking in the fridge. Was she wearing stockings?
“Before the driver explodes,” Jonathan added. “She seems to be harboring some kind of trauma about this neighborhood.”
I put away my phone and went back to the front door. The driver was standing on the step with a bag in each hand and a third at her feet. She glared at me. What was her issue? She seemed vaguely familiar.
She gave me the first bag, then the second, then reached down for the third.
“I can’t carry any more,” I said.
She ignored me, removed a cheesecake from the bag, and pushed it into my face. I remembered her now. My words came back to me with a certain alienated majesty: “Keep the change!” she said, and walked off. The base of the cake fell to the floor.
I walked into the kitchen with bits of cream cheese dripping from my chin and put the bags on the counter. “There’s something on your shirt,” Rachel said.
I dampened a kitchen towel and wiped my face clean, then scrubbed at my collar. “I spilled something,” I said.
“I put the wine in the fridge. Do you have a corkscrew?” she asked. She was trying not to laugh.
“I’m not sure, I haven’t been here before.” At least she was talking to me. “There must be one here somewhere.”
She looked suddenly distracted by the carving on the wooden bowl. “Oh god, are you swingers?”
I opened a drawer. Inside were two more wooden bowls, a large box of condoms, and a small packet of little white pills. I closed it quickly.
“I’m not sure, I haven’t been here before,” I repeated. Her outfit was distracting me. “I’m sorry, you know, for whatever I did. What did I do?”
“Nothing. You just kept insisting on more drinks and putting off going for food, so I left. You looked like you were in it for the long haul.”
“So why did Jonathan—”
It felt so good to be talking with her. I opened another drawer at random while looking her in the eye. She wasn’t just intelligent and charming, she was beautiful. “I’m sorry. That was my fault,” she said. “I was embarrassed after I’d made him cover for me, so I told him we went back to mine and made up this funny story about how you kept hitting on Nicholas instead—except he didn’t find it funny at all.”
“Do you think you could give me a second chance?” I asked.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she said.
“What if I stopped drinking and got help? Real help.”
“Maybe,” she said.
We looked at each other.
There were voices in the hallway. Denise. “I send my things out for repair, but I think there’s some glue for your heel and a needle and thread in here somewhere,” she was saying. “Everything ends up in these drawers and you never know what you’ll find—”
Rachel looked down. Her expression changed. I looked down.
“I knew the uniform was a red flag,” she said.
Jonathan came out of the side room, glared at me, grabbed the bags from the counter, and returned to the pantry.
I picked up the handcuffs, then the strap-on in bewilderment.
“I’m just here to serve the food,” Rachel said.
“I haven’t been here before,” I said.
Denise led her tearful guest in, gripping the dress on either side of the ripped seam to hold it together. She saw what I was holding and froze with a look of delight.
“Milla?” Rachel said.
“You must be confusing me with someone else,” my date replied.
“Is that my dress?”
Nicholas ignored the question, stumbled forward on one heel, leaving his escort in the doorway, and grabbed and kissed me.
“Rachel, wait—” Denise said, suddenly seeing the danger.
“Rachel?” Rachel said, then looked at me.
Nicholas clutched at my shoulder for balance. I could see the dress was slipping, but my hands were full. “I’m sorry I made a scene, honey. You know how jealous I get. Forgive me?” Nicholas’s dress slipped down to his waist, exposing a delicately laced bra.
“Is that my La Perla?” Rachel asked.
The dress continued slipping, moving down to his hips. His eyes widened. I crouched with the sex toys still gripped in my hands and tried to grab the satiny fabric with my wrists. Nicholas, teetering on one heel, dropped his hands to my head for balance, pushing me down.
“Milla!” Rachel said.
“Rachel,” Mike corrected, entering the kitchen from the hallway.
Jonathan entered from the pantry and dropped his tray.
“Nicholas?” he said.
“Imaginary Rachel,” Mike continued. “That’s what we call her in the office.” Mike grinned. “Everyone assumed James made her up.”
I sank to my knees and let the dress pool before me. In my left hand, I still held the handcuffs, in my right, the strap-on.
“But I am Rachel,” Rachel said quietly.
Jonathan threw his hands in the air and walked off towards the front door.
Nicholas looked down at me. “Sorry,” he said. “I know there are no cameras. I just played along because it’s a job and you’re sweet really, under it all, but—Jonathan, wait!” He stepped out of the torn fabric and the broken shoes, and ran after his boyfriend, calling. “It’s not what you think, babe.”
There was an uneasy silence.
Denise and Mike both stared at me, kneeling on the floor.
“Well, the projector is broken, so film night is off,” Mike said. “We’ll have to find something else to do to entertain ourselves.”
“James looks like he’s ready to make amends—” Denise said.
I let go of the toys and pulled myself to my feet.
Rachel and I exchanged glances. “Hors d’oeuvres, anyone?” Rachel asked.
I grabbed a crabstick. “Let’s play charades!” I said. “I’ll go first.”
Denise looked amused. “Is it a book?” she asked.
“A film?” Mike added.
I nodded. I popped the appetizer in my mouth and made a kind of waving gesture with both hands.
“How many words?”
I raised two fingers.
“Point Break,” Mike shouted. I shook my head.
Rachel looked alarmed. I smiled at her. I felt flushed and sweaty from the stress.
“Are You Okay?” she guessed. I shook my head and held up my fingers again. Two words.
“He Needs Help,” she guessed. I was more drunk than I had realized.
I counted one, two on my fingers.
“Help Him,” Rachel said. I shook my head.
She looked at Denise, who looked at me, looked at the tray, and picked up something from the counter.
“Ambulance, Please,” Denise guessed. I shook it again. She started going through the drawers.
“He’s Swelling Up,” Rachel said. I shook my head and raised two fingers again. Did she not understand the rules?
I mimed a spyglass. Mike shouted the answer. I pointed to his blurred outline as he punched the air. Denise cried out. A drawer slammed.
I closed my eyes. I didn’t feel well. My mouth filled with a taste like brine. I needed to lie down. The noise of the room grew muffled, just a quiet roaring closing over my head.
I’d done everything wrong. My mother’s smile—not everything. That baleful eye. I let go.
The roar became silence.
Then nothing.
Then air. The scent of lilies.
I floated on a soft and dirgelike main.
The curtains lifted. Rachel was weeping.
______
Tim Hardy lives on his feet. inheavenandearth.com
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