Searching for Celia (11 page)

I excuse myself from Ms. Marchman and make my way up the French marble staircase to the upstairs rooms, where the conference sessions are held. It feels like I’ve stepped back in time to an era of smoking jackets, gentlemen’s clubs, and big-game hunters as I admire the rooms’ rich tapestries, heavily draped curtains, marble fireplaces, and glittering chandeliers.

I step into the Small Drawing Room, where dozens of conference attendees mingle in small groups as the well-groomed waitstaff circulates with trays of hors d’oeuvres, canapés, and tea sandwiches. Just as I grab a flute of champagne from a tray held aloft by a young man in a tuxedo, a deep voice behind me suddenly calls out, “Dayle?”

I turn quickly. The voice belongs to Alec Stinson, the commissioning editor at Grenville & Howe Publishing who bought the rights to publish my first novel,
Down on Euclid Avenue
, while I was still in graduate school. Alec was always a good friend to me and a staunch supporter of my career when I lived in England. Although he knew I preferred women, he never gave up hope of making me one of his inevitable conquests.

“Alec?” I haven’t seen him since a conference in Paris three years ago, but time has been kind. Always a handsome man, he is now, in his midfifties, more dashing than ever: still trim, with streaks of silver in his smooth black hair, tanned olive skin, and lines of emphasis around his deep green eyes. He is impeccably dressed in a dark Savile Row suit with a red-and-gold striped tie and crisp white shirt beneath.

He strides closer and opens his arms. “So lovely to see you,” he booms in his rich baritone. “I was thrilled when I heard you’d be speaking tonight.” He stops short of embracing me, noticing the cast on my wrist. “Oh, dear—what happened?”

“Tripped at the Tube station. Tottenham Court Road.” I feel my face redden as I try to hide my arm. “You know me, always a klutz.”

“Well, thank goodness it wasn’t worse.” Alec gently slides his palm down my good arm, ending with a lingering squeeze of my fingers. His touch, unexpected but not unwelcome, makes me want to cry.
Don’t tell him about Celia. If you do, you’ll break down.

“You certainly look lovely.” He smiles, pushing the hair back from my cheek. “The darker color really suits you.”

“Thank you.” The warmth of his hand makes me tingle.

“Have you been back in London long?” He frowns. “And why didn’t you ring me so we could meet for our customary tea at The Savoy?”

“I only arrived this morning.” I force myself to smile, even as my knees tremble and the walls seem to close in on me. “Alec, would you mind if we went someplace quieter?”

“Of course not. Perhaps there?” He gestures toward an unoccupied table draped with a long white cloth, on the noisy room’s perimeter. I nod and he guides me to it with his hand on the small of my back.

“Better?” he asks hopefully, assuming a place at my side.

“Yes. Much,” I reply.

“So, are you working on a new book?” He steps closer and holds me in his steady gaze.

I nod, relieved to be away from the heat and noise of the crowd. “Yes.
Assignment: Tokyo
. I’m going to Japan next month for research.”

He offers a sly smile. “And what does our intrepid heroine get up to this time around?”

“Uncovers a plot by renegade Japanese scientists to steal nuclear secrets and frame the North Koreans.”

Alec skeptically raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t scoff,” I protest. “Redleigh finally shows some character development by reconciling with her long-lost father.”

“Ah yes, I remember.” Alec lifts his chin and squints into the distance. “Wellington Peregrine Smith III. Wasn’t he an international diamond thief who supposedly plunged to his death off Cap d’Antibes?”

I’m both shocked and flattered that Alec would recall such a minor detail from the first
Assignment
novel. “That’s right. But of course he only staged his death to throw off Interpol.”

“Quite. And are you working on anything else?”

The question surprises me. “
Assignment: Tokyo
isn’t enough?”

“As Dayle Salvesen, I mean. A new book under your own name.”

I shake my head. “No.”

He looks away. “That’s a pity, given your estimable talent.”

I shrug. “Well, no one reads Dayle Salvesen’s books. She’s retired forever, I’m afraid.” I’m about to say more when the room starts spinning and my knees weaken. Seeming to sense that I’m about to fall, Alec slips his arm around my waist and helps me to a nearby sofa, then crouches before me, stroking my hand.

“It’s all right,” he says gently. “Stay here—I’ll fetch some water.”

“No, wait. Don’t go.” I grab his hand. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.” I bow my head, waiting for the room to stop rocking. I feel like I’m imploding, toppling inward toward a cold dark core.

Suddenly a large, disheveled man in an ill-fitting suit blunders toward me, nearly tripping over both his shoes and his words as he presses Candee Cronin for an autograph.

“
Assignment: Bangkok
is my favorite!” he blurts out, shoving a book beneath my nose. “I don’t even mind if
Sao Paolo
isn’t as good. I’m certain to love it anyway.”

Alec rises and touches the man’s arm. “If you don’t mind, sir, now is not a good time,” he says, firmly but politely. “She’s feeling unwell. Perhaps after her speech.”

“Oh. All right.” The man nods and ambles away looking disappointed.

“Thanks for running interference on my behalf,” I say as Alec’s attention returns solely to me.

“It’s my pleasure.” He bends closer and peers into my face. “Shall I call for help?” he asks softly.

“No, it’s okay,” I reassure him. “It’s just been a really rough day.”

He grabs a nearby chair and sits down facing me, knee to knee. “Tell me—what’s happened?”

I look up into his anxious green eyes and long to tell him everything. There is so much Alec doesn’t know about the past three years. He never knew I was pregnant, and that I had, and lost, a baby. Suddenly I want to talk about Rory; I long to speak my child’s name aloud and know that someone who cares about me has heard it. I want to describe how, after losing my son, I discovered within me a new place for pain to come from. I want to say all these things, but when I open my mouth something very different emerges. “Remember my flatmate, Cecelia Frost? The author?”

“Of course.” He frowns, searching his memory. “
West of
…?”

“
West of Blessing, North of Hope
.” I pause. “Well, she died this morning.”

“My God! What happened?”

“It seems she jumped off Waterloo Bridge.”

“I’m so sorry, Dayle. I know you two were quite…close.”

I bow my head and rub my temple. “I still can’t believe it. When I arrived this morning, I heard that she was missing but only learned an hour ago that she had died.”

He offers a gentle smile. “It was brave of you to come to the conference after getting such news.”

“I had to,” I explain. “Everyone was expecting me.” I pause, looking around the shimmering drawing room. “Or I guess I should say, expecting Candee Cronin.”

“Brave, nonetheless. Where will you go after?”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “I had planned to stay with Celia, at her flat.”

“Well, you won’t want to stay there now. Come back to my place and rest.”

I shake my head. “Thanks for the offer, but my luggage is at Celia’s, and I’ve already booked a flight home for tomorrow afternoon. And I have to see Edwina.”

“Edwina?” His face registers mild panic at the unfamiliar name.

“Celia’s girlfriend. I need to say good-bye.”

“Of course. But do you at least have time for a drink afterward?” He looks hopeful. “A number of us are meeting at The Only Running Footman, a nice pub just up the road. It would be lovely if you’d join us.”

“Let’s see how I feel.” I offer a halfhearted smile. “My wrist and hand really hurt.”

Before I can continue, Felicity Marchman’s voice, amplified by a scratchy microphone, booms through the room. “Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” She pauses. “Would our keynote speaker kindly approach the podium? I believe our other featured authors are already seated here behind me…”

“I have to go,” I tell Alec. “Ms. Marchman clearly despises me.”

“Dayle, no one could despise you.” Alec winks, then his expression turns serious. “Are you certain you’re up to this? Because if you aren’t, I can let them know—”

“I’ll be fine.”

He smiles. “Well at least allow me to escort you to your seat.”

His offer surprises me, but I comply. He helps me stand, and once I’m steady on my feet he leads me from the Small Drawing Room through the Long Drawing Room and into the Churchill Ballroom, a glorious, 1000-square-foot space resplendent with rich, dark Louis XIV walnut paneling, a gleaming wooden floor, and enormous chandeliers dripping with crystal. This is a room where I imagine serious things taking place—kingdoms divided, treaties signed, monarchs usurped.

High-backed wooden chairs are arranged in a row behind two long tables and a podium, where Felicity Marchman stands, square shouldered, just before the enormous marble fireplace featuring a roaring fire of orange and amber flames. The long tables are manned, I quickly realize, by the seven other authors who have presented at today’s conference, including Beatrice Allenby, who sits on the far end in her size 2 Prada suit and looks bored as she tosses her head, running her manicured nails through her sheaves of long blond hair.

Alec walks me to the first empty seat behind the table and holds out his hand for support as I sit heavily, slightly off balance due to my cast. He bends to whisper in my ear. “If you need anything, just nod. I’ll be right in front.” I smile my thanks, then glance at Felicity Marchman, who eyes me icily.

I barely have time to settle myself and clear my head before I’m called to speak. One moment Ms. Marchman is introducing me as American novelist Candee Cronin, author of the bestselling
Assignment
novels, and the next I am standing behind the podium, staring out at an attentive crowd of around 250 mostly middle-aged men and women who breathlessly await my first words.

Celia should be here tonight. That’s how I pictured it, as soon as I accepted the conference invitation. Celia sitting in the front row, rolling her eyes, desperate for a cigarette, stretching her arms and pantomiming a yawn. I would have had to cajole her to come, of course. She would not have wanted to seem too outwardly supportive or anything. Yet behind my back she would have been telling everyone at the conference how brilliantly subtle
Assignment: Sao Paulo
really is; deconstructionist and self-referential, she would call it, with faint yet palpable echoes of John Le Carré and Graham Greene.

I clear my throat and begin. “In
Mrs. Dalloway
,
To The Lighthouse
, and other works, Virginia Woolf gave us some of the greatest literature, not just by a female author, but by any author, of the twentieth century. And yet I propose that if Virginia Woolf were alive today, she would not be penning the character-driven literary fiction for which we remember her; no, she would instead be creating GBLTQ romances and other genre works…”

When I finish speaking the audience politely applauds while Alec winks his approval from his seat in the front row. Following some brief closing remarks, Felicity Marchman announces that Beatrice Allenby will be signing copies of her novel during a wine-and-cheese reception in the Small Drawing Room. Yes, it occurs to me, Beatrice Allenby is this month’s flavor. Candee Cronin is already fading; she will be a has-been soon enough. The fourth book in the
Assignment
series did not sell as well as the third.

In the ensuing orderly stampede of busy feet to meet Beatrice at the wine and cheese, I manage to lose myself in the crowd. Suddenly I catch a glimpse of Alec across the room with a tall, elegant brunette, midtwenties, at his side. His arm is around her narrow waist and she casually touches his hand as they converse with another couple, a professional-looking man and woman, who stand close to them in a loose semicircle. All four lean forward as if conspiring, or sharing a provocative joke.

I slip back into the crowd and follow the flow of people down the marble staircase and back to the lobby. I decide not to meet Alec and his colleagues at The Only Running Footman. My hand and wrist pulse with pain, and I doubt I’d be much fun.

I grab my coat from the coat check and hurry outside, where the temperature seems to have dropped fifteen degrees. My breath is visible and there is a suggestion of snow in the air, or perhaps, more accurately, it is a frosted fog that twinkles on the pavement, thickening my eyelashes and stiffening my collar.

I hurry across Charles Street, dodging sleek motorcycles and massive city buses, hoping to remain unseen by any departing conference attendees. Once across I hail a taxi and settle in for the ride back to Hampstead. I pull out my cell phone and check my voice mail. No messages from Callaway. As I return the phone to my attaché case, I release a deep breath. Now what? I dread the thought of returning to Celia’s flat, to her little room with its makeshift bed, where only her ghostly aroma awaits to keep me company, along with the stale memory of a million smoked cigarettes, and the old mattresses that spread softly, ready to welcome the gentle pressure of her drowsy limbs.
At least when you get there,
I tell myself,
you can give in to grief. Once inside, no one can see you cry.

*

The taxi driver drops me in front of Celia’s building, and after I pay him, he screeches away, leaving me marooned on the curb. An icy wind rises at my back as a loose paper wrapper cartwheels across the pavement near my feet. I turn and stare up at the front of the three-story Victorian structure. Its features appear sharper at night, more defined, as if carved from stone, with narrow, recessed windows and a solitary light on upstairs, in what must be the flat directly above Celia’s.

I make my way up the front steps and push the door with my shoulder. It doesn’t budge, so I push harder, until I realize the door is locked. This is the first time today that it’s been locked. Perhaps they always lock the front door at night, or maybe word has gotten out that Celia’s flat was ransacked and the tenants are suddenly more crime conscious. I glance at my watch: 8:30 p.m. Seeing no other option, I ring the buzzer for Dot Crawford’s flat, number 8, and hope that she is still awake and will buzz me in.