Let Down Your Hair (14 page)

By the time I returned to the penthouse, my triumph had dwindled into something small and bittersweet. For a while, in the streets, buoyed by crowds of gaping people, I’d relished the new me. Alone in the guest room, it felt like an ill-fitting costume I wanted to take off. A costume my mother had assembled to win the approval of what Ryan called “the mainstream”.

Still no voicemails. I tossed my garish collection of shopping bags in a corner, my disappointment flavoured faintly with relief. If Ryan’s phone was out of action, at least that meant he wouldn’t have seen those photos Emmeline had texted him.

The thought of him seeing me decked out like this made me shudder with embarrassment. Ryan asked me out and called me beautiful when I was wearing Andrea’s cast-offs, and he prided himself on being offbeat and original. He’d probably see dressing like this as a sign I’d “sold out”. Like an artist designing corporate logos.

I opened the laptop and logged on. Still no emails. I checked Ryan’s Twitter feed and his Tumblr. No updates for months. One whole day since the chaos in Andrea’s office, and not a single word. Ryan always left his phone on. Even during lectures and modeling jobs he switched it to silent and checked it whenever there was a lull. In two and a half months, he’d never taken more than a few hours to respond if I called. And today I’d called three times and sent an email. And three texts, if you included the photos from Emmeline.

The possibility I’d been trying to quash clawed its way into my mind. Maybe after everything that had happened, he didn’t want to be with me any more. Maybe he’d decided to find someone with sane, friendly parents instead of a crazed grandmother who maced and bashed men, and reported them to the police.

A new and terrible thought made sweat break out on my back.
The police
. Technically Ryan and I were guilty of hacking and vandalism and who knew what else. Maybe he hadn’t rung because he’d been released into police custody to be interviewed and charged. I googled the number of the police station where I’d given my statement and dialed it with a shaking finger.

“Gothel Police Station,” said a deep female voice.

“Hi. My name’s Sage Rampion. I came in last night, and gave a statement about an incident at the university.”

“Who was the officer you gave your statement to?”

“Officer Murray.” Who’d looked somber, and changed the subject when I asked him what the hacking and vandalism might mean for Ryan.

“He’s not in today. Is there something I can help you with?”

I gripped the phone, trying to stay calm. “I was just wondering about my boyfriend, Ryan Prince. He went to the hospital with a policeman after the incident, and I thought maybe he … someone at the station might have … spoken to him? Or something.”

“Let me have a look.” I heard the rattling of a keyboard. “Yes, Ryan Prince came in today for an interview at eleven, and he left at half past one.”

“Do you know where he went?” Home?
Jail?

“That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you,” I said, my entire body thumping to the panicky rhythm of my pulse.

I hung up and dialed Ryan’s number for the fourth time since I’d woken this morning. My heart no longer swelled at the sound of his recorded voice; it contracted, as if someone was squeezing it.

“Hi Ryan, it’s me again. Where are you? What happened with the police? Please call me. I’m getting really worried.” I shut my eyes, wishing that I’d told him I loved him when everything was OK. Still unable to say it, I said “Please call me” again, hung up and curled into a ball on the bed. A long time passed before I composed myself enough to creep out and get a drink.

Emmeline was on the couch in the living room, reading a magazine. She’d re-applied her makeup and changed into a sleek black dress and strappy heels.

“Dirk likes me dressed up,” she said, with a self-conscious flutter I hadn’t seen before. “Some men go for vamp, some go for innocence. Dirk is
definitely
a vamp man.”

I attempted a smile and hurried past her to the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of orange juice.

“You’re wondering what kind of man Ryan is, aren’t you?” Her eyes were mischievous. “Ryan is an innocence man. Take it from me.”

The cold of the juice in my mouth cleared my head enough to bristle a little at this comment. What was that supposed to mean? That only an “innocence man” would want someone like me?

Before I could frame a reply, the front door opened and a man walked in. It had to be Dirk. He was half a head shorter than Emmeline in heels, and looked ten or fifteen years older. His dark hair was receding at the temples, and though his face was affable enough, everything from his walk to the tilt of his double chin had the air of a man who was very, very pleased with himself.

Emmeline flurried over and deposited a showy kiss on his mouth. “So how’d it go, babe?” she said, helping him out of his coat and hanging it in the hallway. “Did you win the contract?”

Resentment flared inside me. Directed at Dirk, the breezy ring of “babe” was cheapened into something false and twee.

“Pipped at the post,” said Dirk with a rueful sigh.

Emmeline carried his briefcase to the lounge and trotted to the kitchen. “Who by?”

“Leo Burnett. Again.” He strode into the living room like he was surveying his kingdom, and his eyes alighted on me. With a faint, lofty smile, he crooked a finger in greeting as he sprawled on the largest leather couch. “I see you’ve got company.”

“I have, babe.” She poured a measure of single malt whiskey and popped an ice-cube out of a tray. “This is Sadie. Sadie, Dirk.”

I forced a smile. “Hi.”

He smiled back, as if he found me mildly amusing. “Sit down, love,” he said with a lazy beckoning movement. “I promise I won’t bite.”

I sat on the couch furthest away from him. He looked me up and down in an idle, appraising way, as if inspecting a yacht up for auction. “Em’s playing model mentor, is she?”

A twinge of astonishment. He’d taken one look and assumed I was a
model?
“Actually, I’m—”

“We haven’t really got to that yet,” said Emmeline, intercepting so adeptly it felt more like a baton change than an interruption. Evading my eye, she glided over to Dirk and placed his whiskey on the coffee table. “For the moment I’m playing style consultant.” As she joined him on the couch, she flashed me a warning look to clarify that she
didn’t want Dirk to know I was her daughter.

Dirk placed a hand on her thigh, and I recoiled. As if I was the mother, and Emmeline was the teenage daughter, pretending we weren’t related because I embarrassed her. And wanting me to vanish so some ham-fisted man could feel her up on the couch.

“Yeah?” He looked me up and down again with an approving nod. “Well, when you want to shoot your portfolio, love, just let me know.”

“Fabian de Carlo’s one of Dirk’s major clients,” said Emmeline, in proud, proprietary tones that had no problem claiming ownership of her boyfriend’s success while denying her daughter’s existence. “He’s just
amazing
, isn’t he, Dirk?”

“He’s the best.”

Unable to bear any more, I stood up. “Anyway,” I said, as brightly as I could, “I’m feeling nauseous, so I might go and rest for a while.” I turned and stalked down the hall.

“Are you OK, babe?” said Emmeline to my back. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’ll be fine,” I snapped, without turning around.
You fawn on your sugar daddy in peace.

I shut myself into the guest room and checked my email again. No new messages. The stirrings of terror began again inside me, but I shoved them away. I googled “trophy wife”, and the list of links that appeared included one titled “Mogul’s moll: The new prostitution.” I clicked on it and made myself read every word, pitting my anger at Emmeline’s betrayal against my fear that Ryan had abandoned me.

Half an hour later, I heard a tentative knock at the door. “Babe?”

When I didn’t answer, Emmeline opened the door and peeped in. Her expression was guilty.

I pressed page up, making sure the heading “Gilded cage: The trophy wife trap” was visible on the screen. “So,” I said, “you don’t want Dirk to know that I’m your daughter.”

“Babe, he’s just had a major deal fall through. It’s—”

“Does he even know you’ve had a child?”
Or did you cut that out of your CV? Not a real selling point, a teenage pregnancy. Not a great conversation starter at the yacht club.

Emmeline bit her lip. “Look, until last night I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. I’d been sending you letters all your life, and as far as I knew you just didn’t want to answer.”

Anger and hurt fermented inside me. “So what have you told him?”

“What he guessed. That I’m helping you get started on a modeling career. And that you’re having some problems with accommodation, so I invited you to stay.”

Anger triumphed over hurt. “Well, you can tell him I’m leaving tomorrow morning, then.”

“For Ryan’s place? Has he got back to you?”

“Not yet, but he’ll be home by now. And now
Dirk’s
back,” I added, with heavy sarcasm, “I shouldn’t be intruding on my
style consultant
.”

Her face fell, and I immediately regretted what I’d said. I wanted Ryan, but didn’t want to leave my mother, not like this. I wanted her to love me, and be proud of me, and tell everyone in the world that her daughter had finally come back to her.

“I’ll get you a bag for the clothes,” she said at last.

“Thanks,” I said.
I’m sorry, Mom.

She hovered for a moment, as if she wanted to say more, then closed the door softly behind her.

When I woke the next morning, Ryan hadn’t answered my email. I rang his phone and hung up when the recorded message began. A hollow of insecurity opened in my ribcage, echoing with soft, eroding whispers.

He doesn
’
t want you any more. You were a charity case, a damsel in distress he could rescue to get sex. Now you
’
re a homeless sell-out with a psycho grandmother. You
’
ll probably never hear from him again.

I shoved clothes brutally into Emmeline’s weekend bag, as if the whispers were coming from its unzipped mouth. Then I emptied them all out again, because I had to find something to wear.

My old clothes looked shapeless and drab beside the figure-hugging glamor of yesterday’s purchases. At the height of my rage, I’d planned to leave the new clothes behind and march out in the old, to show Emmeline I couldn’t be bought. This morning, I looked at my baggy shirt and pants and saw the frumpy loser from the karaoke bar. And even though Ryan had embraced me as I was, I couldn’t bring myself to put them on.

After fifteen minutes of fretting and discarding, I put on my old shirt, but with new jeans, jacket and boots. Low-key enough not to look to Ryan like I’d sold out; stylish enough to avoid comment from Emmeline and Dirk. It took me another fifteen minutes to insert the contact lenses before I headed out to the living room.

The sky was a tapestry of ominous gray. It was too cold to breakfast on the terrace, so we ate around the shiny glass dining table, Emmeline and Dirk on one side, me on the other, counting the seconds before I could leave.

“So,” said Dirk, contemplating me over the rim of his coffee mug, “where does Loverboy live?”

Please don’t call him Loverboy
. “Kingsley Park. Near the station.”

Dirk glanced at his watch. “I’ll run you there after breakfast.”

God, no.
“Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to put you out. I can catch the train.”

Dirk made a sound between a snort and a laugh. “Kingsley Park’s not putting me out, love. On a Sunday, that’s fifteen minutes. Max.”

“It wouldn’t put us out at all, babe,” added Emmeline. “I’d
love
to meet Ryan. Maybe we can all go out to lunch. Have a little double date!”

The hairs on my neck stood on end. I was just about to insist that I liked taking the train, that I wanted to see Ryan alone, anything to quash this dreadful idea, when I noticed the pleading look in Emmeline’s eyes. She wanted me to accept the lift because she wanted to do something for me. To apologize for not telling Dirk who I was. To make up for last night.

“Well, OK then,” I said, trying to sound grateful. “But no double date. I need to speak to him alone.”

We caught the lift to the residents’ carpark, and a uniformed valet arrived in a gleaming silver car. Dirk held open the car doors for Emmeline and me, and then slid behind the wheel. Eight or ten speakers poured pulsing rock music into the car.

“Just like being there, isn’t it?” he said, steering the Jag through the carpark.

“It’s fantastic, babe!” gushed Emmeline. “Did the sound system come with the car, or did you have it put in?”

“Came with the car, believe it or not.”

“Dirk only bought this car last week,” said Emmeline, glancing at me.

“Latest model Jag,” said Dirk, in a smug tone.

“So what does Ryan drive, babe?” asked Emmeline.

I steeled myself. “Ryan doesn’t have a car,” I said airily, in a tone that suggested he was above owning a car.

“He doesn’t have a
car?
How
old
is this guy?” Dirk exclaimed.

“Twenty-four,” I said, trying to sound offhand.

“
Twenty-four?
I owned two properties by the time I was twenty-four.”

Well, hooray for you, you smug bastard.
Fortunately, Emmeline stepped in before I said this out loud.

“He’s studying to be an
art teacher
, babe. He’s probably not interested in cars and things.”

Dirk gave a cynical grunt. “Well, that explains why he didn’t come and pick you up, then.”

Emmeline glanced at my seething face, and steered the conversation back to Dirk’s business. By the time we turned into Ryan’s street my rage had dwindled to a simmer. The rusted wire fence came into sight.

“Just here,” I said.

Dirk and Emmeline stared at the overgrown garden as if I’d directed them to a slum. I shouldered my bags, daring them to say something, but they sat without speaking on their black leather seats, rock music washing around them. I opened the door and stepped out onto the curb.

Emmeline jumped out and half-tripped in her haste to get to me. “It’s been really great meeting you, babe,” she said, her voice quavering a little. “Have you got my card?”

I nodded. She hugged me, and I laid my head on her shoulder, an ache growing somewhere between my stomach and my throat.

“Stay in touch.” She released me, and smeared a tear into her hairline. “We’ll wait in the car until you’re in, OK?”

I nodded, the ache blending with anticipation at the thought of seeing Ryan again at last. Pulse rising, I waded through the feathery weeds and rapped on the front door. No one answered. I knocked harder. Still nothing.

On the other side of the wire fence, the Jag’s motor was running. I knocked a third time, as loudly as I could, and followed up with a couple of bangs on the window. To my relief, a human figure appeared, blurred by the frosted glass. The door opened to reveal Shell in a bathrobe, smelling of dope, cheeks flushed and ringlets askew. Disappointment clamped my throat.
Where was Ryan?

“Hiiii,” said Shell, in a vague, breathless voice with no hint of recognition. “Sorry, I was just … in the middle of something. Can I help you?”

“Shell, it’s me.” She blinked. “Sage. Ryan’s girlfriend.” It struck me that the “something” she was in the middle of was having sex. I felt my face start to blush. “I’m looking for Ryan. Is he home?”

“Ohhhh, you’re Sage! God. I didn’t recognize you.” She exhaled, and ran a hand through her tangled curls. “Look, um, Ryan’s not in. You know he got
maced?
He had to go to hospital and everything.”

“
Yes
, I know,” I said, trying not to sound impatient. “Do you know where he is?”

Shell pondered this. “I think he’s staying at his mom’s place. They picked up some stuff yesterday, and he looked totally shattered. Hasn’t he called you?”

“No.” The morning’s Eggs Florentine turned over in my stomach. “Did he leave his mom’s address? Or a number or something?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.” A faint glimmer lit her hazy eyes. “Have you, like, left a message on his voicemail?”

I resisted the urge to strangle her with one of her stupid ringlets. “
Yes
, Shell.”

“Oh good. Anyway, I’d better get back to what I was doing, so …”

“Bye, Shell.”

She closed the door and I rested my forehead against it, suddenly feeling limp. The wood was cool against my skin. Why hadn’t Ryan called me to say where he was? Could I invite myself in and wait until he came back? As I steeled myself to summon the annoying Shell again, Emmeline pushed open the gate.

“What’s happening, babe?” She hurried through the weeds. “Where’s Ryan?”

A great mound of tears heaved inside me. “He’s gone to his mom’s place.”

“Oh, Sadie.” Emmeline put an arm around my shoulders. “Come back to the car. There’s a great Greek restaurant near here. We’ll treat you to lunch.”

She propelled me to the Jag, and successfully steered the conversation away from Ryan until halfway through our chargrilled seafood platter.

“Can I ask you something, love?” said Dirk, helping himself to more octopus. I sensed at once what he wanted to ask me about, and my body went rigid. “How long is it since this guy called you?”

My stomach gave a sickening lurch. “I saw him on Friday night.”

“That’s only a day and a half,” said Emmeline.

“It’s long enough when he’s been ignoring all her messages.” Dirk swallowed a tentacle and turned back to me. “Have you read that book
He’s Just Not That Into You
?”

“
Babe
,” said Emmeline in gentle reproof.

“No, Em, let me finish. Let me tell you something, love. If a guy is twenty-four, living in a dump with no car, and doesn’t even answer your calls, you don’t make excuses for him. You lose him. You’re a beautiful young girl, and you could do a lot better for yourself. A
lot
.”

I shoved away my plate and stood up, swallowing down a fresh wave of nausea. “What,” I said, my voice shaking with anger, “a smug, rich bastard like
you
, you mean?”

Dirk gave a squawk of laughter. “Exactly!”

He started to say something else, but the contents of my stomach lurched so violently I only just reached the bathroom before the next heave sent them spurting from my mouth.