London from My Windows (3 page)

“I'm very sorry,” the doctor said. “We can talk about that. We can talk about anything you like.”

Ava stared at his ugly tan suit and green bow tie. She could see it now, her entire life laid out before her in a series of lousy fashion, wide eyes, fake plants, and stale, maple-syrup breath.
Ava, meet Dork Number Two
. Her life. Her life, her life, her life. Her life was going to be a never-ending revolving door of dorks.

“I want Aunt Beverly.”

“She's not coming.” Ava's mother kept looking at the doctor for reinforcement.

“Then I'll go see her,” Ava said.

“She doesn't want to see
us
.” Ava's mother turned to the doctor. “That woman has never liked me.”

“Do you mind if I talk to Ava alone?” the doctor said.

“I do mind,” her mother said. “This isn't a session.” She turned to her daughter. “You're grounded.”

Ava laughed. “Good.” She went over to her dresser, pulled out a pile of cards, and thrust them at the doctor. “Look at the stamps. She sent me things.” They were all from Aunt Beverly. Funny cards, and letters, and postcards, and colored paper crowns for Christmas. Once her father told her that Aunt Beverly was sending “a few bob” so Ava could buy herself a gift. Ava actually thought that two guys named Bob were coming over to help her pick it out. When she finally admitted that to her father, he laughed so hard he had tears spilling out of his eyes. That was one of the best days of Ava's life. “Bevie's going to die when she hears that, luv.” Then he actually started to cry. He was still crying when Ava's mother quietly pulled her out of the room. Otherwise, he didn't talk about his only sister much. But Ava knew her father loved Aunt Beverly. And that meant she loved Aunt Beverly too.

“Perhaps it would help if she could at least call her aunt Beverly,” the doctor said.

“Yes, can I?” Ava said.

“No,” her mother said. “And that's final.” Ava looked at the doctor. He shrugged in defeat and lifted his arms in a Sorry-I-Can't-Help type of way. In the end, just another dork. He was dead to her. The little colored dots were back.

“Get out,” Ava said.

“Don't you ever talk to me like that again,” her mother said. Ava sucked in her lips and stared. The only way she could do that was if she never talked to her mother again.

Nineteen Years Later

CHAPTER 3

Queenie stood at Redlands Airfield Base, just sixty minutes outside of London, and rued the day he'd ever introduced the young barrister to his dear friend Beverly Wilder. Just because Jasper Keys had been dating and was now dumped by Queenie's niece—whom, it was quite obvious, Jasper was still pining over—didn't give the lad a right to insert himself into a forty-year friendship. Beverly was Queenie's best friend, Queenie should be the one helping her fulfill her last wishes. And skydiving certainly wouldn't be one of them.

The wind was chafing Queenie's face, horrendous for the skin (his face was his livelihood, among other bits), and the cuffs of his trousers were kissing the filthy ground. He'd wanted to wear them to the after-party after-party this evening, but even if they left now he wouldn't have time to dry-clean them.
Bloody hell.
He cast his eyes on the little plane waiting to whisk Beverly and Jasper into the sky. Bevie was planted in front of Queenie, waiting for him to read the skydiving agreement.

“You're stalling,” she said.

“Of course I'm stalling. I'm hoping the rest of the little daredevils will get sick of waiting and take off without you.”

Beverly huffed and her goggles slid down her nose. Between them and her skullcap, she looked like an elderly Amelia Earhart. “Hand it over.”

“Poppycock.” Queenie held the legally binding agreement away from her eager hand and scanned the skies for any signs of rain, or hail, or wind.
Blimey.
The sun was fat and bright overhead: the skies were blue.

Beverly thrust her hand up high and waved at Jasper, who was standing next to the little plane stretching his hamstrings. He waved back, then jogged over.
Bloody heartbroken barrister.
This was all his fault.

“Queenie won't give me the contract,” Beverly said. Jasper turned to Queenie with an inquisitive look. Queenie would give anything to look that young again. And Jasper wasn't even young. Late thirties. Queenie never imagined there'd be a time when he longed to be in his late thirties. But here he was, old and fat, and getting the cuffs of his trousers filthy. All the pity went to aging actresses. What about aging drag queens? That was the bottom of the barrel. Gone, gone, gone with his youth. Spending his precious time left on earth trying to knock some sense into his stubborn best friend. And to what end? Beverly wasn't paying any attention to him; he might as well have been a gnat buzzing around the grass. “I have to read it first.”

“Go on with you then,” Beverly said.

“Do you need me to read it, mate?” Jasper asked. Queenie glared at Jasper. In that second, looking at his handsome, inquisitive face, Queenie could clearly see why his niece Hillary dumped him. Jasper was a nice guy. And nice guys finished last. Hillary, like most women, Queenie supposed, wanted the bad boy. Someone edgy and unpredictable. Tatted up and driving a motorcycle maybe. Just out of prison, why not? A beast in the bedroom. But this? Skydiving? Jasper was trying to be who he thought Hillary wanted, and he was dragging Beverly into it with him.
You've got the wrong end of the stick, lad
. Hillary wasn't ever taking Jasper back. She was a socialite; she craved attention and adventure. Jasper was steady-as-she-goes. He was trying to play the sexy adventurer and he was doing a piss-poor job of it. Queenie saw him standing by the plane, taking pictures, then furtively texting them to someone. Hillary. Pathetic. She'd dumped him and he was still pursuing her.
Loser. Loser, loser, loser.
Queenie took a deep breath and prayed for the strength to bite his tongue.

Look at the pair of them, dressed like fools in their suits and their goggles, waiting for Queenie to hurry up and read the agreement so they could jump out of a perfectly good aeroplane. Queenie had suggested they spend the day at Barrow's Market, buy up everything on the tables and have a grand do. Maybe even pop into the Tower, eavesdrop on the Yanks shouting, “Off with their heads!” every time someone snapped a photo. At least that would be good for a laugh. But no. Skydive. Beverly gets the devastating news that she's dying and what does she want to do? Skydive. Shouldn't she be grasping on to every last precious minute? This was utter madness. Jasper should be ashamed of himself. “What's on your bucket list, Bev, that we could do right now?” Jasper had said to her right after she'd told them the grim news.

Skydive. Beverly Wilder had always wanted to skydive. “There's something else—something important—and it won't come to me.” She grasped her head while Queenie prayed she'd remember and it would have something to do with the holy trinity: eating, drinking, and shopping.

“Come on now, mate; the plane is going to take off without us,” Jasper said.

Queenie cleared his throat. If they wanted to do this, he was going to use his stage voice so they would know exactly what they were getting themselves into. “The human body isn't meant to hurl toward the earth at twelve thousand feet.” He peered at Beverly, whose face looked every bit of seventy-four, but her excited blue eyes could have been those of a ten-year-old. Especially with that silly cap, suit, and goggles. She was going to break his concentration. Queenie took a long, dramatic pause.

“Oh, do hand it over,” Beverly said. She reached for it. He yanked it away.

“It says at best you could break an ankle, or end up paralyzed for life.” He paused for dramatic effect. “At
best,
Beverly.”

“If I do, it certainly won't be for very long and I won't ask you to wipe my arse,” Beverly said. Weeks. The doctor said she had a matter of weeks. Queenie had a sneaking suspicion that Beverly had known something was wrong long before she finally went round to the doctor, and now it was too late. The cancer had spread. She would be dead in a matter of weeks. His sweet, precious Beverly. He didn't want to imagine his life without her. He was the funny sidekick; she was the star. He was supposed to kick it first.

“They're waving us over,” Jasper said. “I've already signed my contract.” He handed Beverly a pen, and turned on Queenie. “I can just get another one, mate,” he said.
Cheeky lad.

Beverly pointed at her skydiving instructor, who was indeed waving them over to his little plane. Then she turned her finger on Queenie. “I am going to get strapped to that ravishing young man over there, and I am going to jump out of that aeroplane, and I'm going to feel the wind on my face, and I'm going to
fly
. Then you can either pick my broken body up off the ground or take me out for a cocktail and stitch me up one side and down the other. But for now, you're going to give me that bloody contract, wish me British luck, and stay the hell out of my way.”

“Oh, here.” Queenie thrust the contract at her. “But you're buying the cocktails.”

“To hell with the cocktails, I'll leave you my flat.”

Beverly's beautiful flat. The words made a little pulse in Queenie's eye start to jump. She didn't have family other than some American niece she'd never seen or even spoken to as far as Queenie knew. There was a reason for it, something that was wrong with the girl, but Queenie couldn't remember the details. He was trying to remember when Beverly barked at Queenie to bend over.

“Don't I always?” he said as he assumed the position and she used his back as a table. When she was finished signing her life away, Queenie knew it was no use arguing any longer. He stood and waved at them as they made their way to the plane.
I'll leave you my flat
. Tears came to his eyes. It was like accepting an Academy Award.

Thank you, Beverly, thank you. Dear, sweet Beverly
. The flat was in the West End of London. Beverly's family had owned it going back several generations. When her parents passed and her brother moved to America, it was all hers, although legally it was in both siblings' names. But then the brother passed. Beverly had been utterly heartbroken. Worse still, in her time of grief her brother's wife still couldn't let go of their petty grievances and wouldn't even let Beverly see or talk to her own niece. He used to rail against that woman every time he saw Beverly crying over a picture of the girl. Years passed with no contact. Beverly sent letters, cards, postcards, gifts. She didn't get a single thank-you in reply. “Gretchen isn't giving them to her,” Beverly would say. “I just know it.” The few times Gretchen returned Beverly's calls she hinted that Ava wasn't well. Ever since Bertrand's death, she'd—
how did Beverly put it? Recoiled from the world.
Queenie didn't know exactly what that meant except it sounded absolutely horrific. By the time Ava was grown up, Beverly was tired of trying, and too afraid to try to connect anymore. Surely the mother had poisoned Ava against her, and she didn't want to face that kind of rejection twice. Lucky for Queenie though, it meant the flat was his.

That was a terrible thought, but it's not like he said it out loud. If Queenie could perform magic he'd wave his wand and give Beverly a relationship with her niece. But he wasn't magic, and it certainly wasn't his fault. Queenie couldn't take on the weight of the world. He couldn't change his past, let alone anyone else's. And he had a right to be happy about his good fortune. Beverly wanted to give him the flat and he was going to humbly accept it.

Oh, wait until the lads heard about this. He'd be popular again, that's for sure. They'd probably want him to reprise his Streisand act. He'd finally be the one hosting the after-party after-party.
Oh yes, fabulous after-after parties.
The view of London from Beverly's flat was a showstopper. No more living with his brother in a tiny, smelly hovel. He would cherish it, he would! He wouldn't change a thing. He wouldn't even rearrange the collection of theater posters on her wall. Even though he thought it was absolutely hideous to hang
Pippin
next to
Cats
. It was all going to be his. But Beverly would be dead.

It was unfathomable. He would put it out of his mind straightaway.

Perhaps there were a few minor décor changes he would make. Nothing major. The lampshades with the pink tassels. Not even a drag queen could appreciate them. There was no other way around it. They would be the first to go.

 

Beverly stood at the opening of the plane. She was supposed to jump. Queenie was right. It was not normal to jump out of a perfectly good airplane and into the sky. They were so high. Nothing but clouds. She gripped the doorframe with both hands, and clung to life. Her instructor uncurled her fingers. “No turning back now, luv.” He pushed them out.

Air screamed into Beverly's ears. Pain roared through her head. Her face flattened from the wind. She imagined she looked like one of those flying squirrels. But a few seconds later, the pain ceased, and the tunnel of air lessened. She remembered to arch her back and legs and throw out her arms like the instructor taught her. And then, she was flying.

Soaring, floating, cascading, gliding in the wind. She was like a bird. Everyone should feel this sensation once in his or her life. Everyone should feel this alive, this free. Her younger brother's face suddenly appeared before her. “Bertie!” Oh, how she missed him. She would be seeing him soon if heaven was for real. He wasn't smiling. But he loved adventures! Why wasn't he smiling? Because she'd failed. First she'd failed him, and then she'd failed Ava. Dear, sweet Ava. She should have tried harder. She should have been nicer to Gretchen, no matter how impossibly wrong that woman had been for her brother. She should have kept her opinions to herself. It drove a wedge between her and Bertie she'd never been able to repair. Ava had been a child stuck in the middle of stubborn adults fighting over petty bits and bobs. Beverly should have been the one to swallow the sword. Her pride had kept her from helping her niece. It was too late. Why hadn't she done anything? Oh, why hadn't she done anything? The clock was ticking. Was there anything she could do? Anything at all?

Help her!
she could have sworn she heard Bertie yelling through the wind
. Help our Ava
.

They picked up speed; how could the ground be coming up already? She wanted to fly forever. She wanted to do it again. Faster and faster they approached. The instructor dipped back and she pulled her knees up for landing. Queenie was standing, grinning, and, good Lord, weeping. Their feet stuttered on the ground, and then Beverly, with her instructor on her back, fell face-first into the dirt. She heard Queenie gasp. But when they finally pulled her up, she was laughing. That was toptastic. Jasper landed right behind her. Smoothly, as only the young can land. She grasped his hands and together they smiled. Then, she remembered, and her smile evaporated.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Jasper said.

“I have indeed,” Beverly said.

“What's wrong?”

“Ava,” Beverly said. She grasped Jasper's hands. “We have to do something about Ava.”