Searching for Celia (19 page)

My mind races, searching for a way to make this right. If I got her into this mess, I can get her out. “It’s still the middle of the night,” I offer hopefully. “You have time to get away. I’ll go to the cemetery at nine fifteen, as if for the meeting, but you don’t show up. If the police are there, I’ll stall them. Send them off on a wild-goose chase. Meanwhile you take the Eurostar to Paris or something. Just get out of England and we’ll connect once you’re free. I’ll help you get to America.”

Celia jumps off the bed and paces, assaulting the stained carpet with her stocking feet. “Does Callaway know I’m traveling as Marguerite Alderton?”

For a moment I’m not certain, then I remember. “Yes.” My stomach clenches. “I told her.”

Celia shakes her head vigorously. “Then it won’t work. It’s unlikely I’ll be out of England by quarter past nine, and if I don’t show up at the cemetery, the police might check airports, ferries, the Channel Tunnel.”

“But if you are innocent, why does it matter?” I step toward the bathroom. “Once you explain about Gregorovich, they’ll let you go.”

“Not necessarily. I can’t be sure what the police know, or think they know, about my activities.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “What activities?”

“Activities,” she snaps. “It’s too complicated to explain. But the police may try to charge me with a crime. I have no way of knowing what kind of false evidence they may have. And then I might never get out of England.”

“So what are we going to do?”

Celia sinks to the bed and draws her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her narrow shins and holding them tightly. I step into the bathroom, where I cannot avoid my pale, guilty face in the mirror. I fill a glass with water and take it to Celia.

“There’s only one option.” She gulps down the water and then nervously rolls the glass between her palms.

“What’s that?”

“Turn myself in.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the morning we go to the nearest police station and I throw myself on their mercy. I’ll testify against the traffickers and assume a new identity. Dayle, I never took payoffs from Gregorovich. But I am guilty of enough other things.” She puts down the glass and rests her chin on her kneecap, seeming resigned. “The truth is, I’ve been playing a very dangerous game for some time now. It was bound to catch up with me eventually. Maybe it’s time to move on.” Her face, as she smiles, looks almost serene as some residual English spirit rises to the surface. Her people survived the Germans, after all. Even when the Luftwaffe bombed their schools.

“Are you sure? Because I will help you leave England tonight, if you like.”

“I’ll be fine, Dayle.” Celia purses her lips and forces a determined grin. “This could be the fresh start I was looking for. Only here in the UK, rather than the States.”

“But you realize, if you testify against the Russians and go into witness protection, we will never see each other ever again,” I remind her.

She lifts one shoulder and smiles sadly. “Then I suppose we must make the best of the little time we have left.”

Thursday

4:43 a.m.

Suddenly Celia jumps off the bed and roots through the duffel bag, tossing aside clothing, scissors, a ballpoint pen. She pulls out the box of black hair dye and holds it up over her shoulder. “Why bring this?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” I grab my backpack and attempt to unzip it with my good hand.

“Let me guess—you hadn’t yet decided if you were going to help me leave England or turn me in to the police.”

Unable to look her in the eye, I search the backpack for my T-shirt and sweats. “Celia, what do you want me to say?”

“Dayle, did you really imagine I was guilty?” Her voice is soft as she slices open the box of dye with her fingernail. “That I could take money by exploiting innocent women and children?”

I plop down on the bed and pull the backpack into my lap. “I didn’t want to believe Callaway,” I explain. “But I was exhausted, scared, confused. I just wanted her to leave me alone.”

“Do you believe me now?”

“Yes. I do.”

She squeezes the box and grins mischievously. “Then help me cut my hair and dye it black.”

“Why? I’m sure they’ll give you a makeover in witness protection.”

“I know. But this way I’ll look more like you.”

A series of police sirens wails past our window. I wait until they pass before I speak. “Why would you want to look like me?”

“So when we’re parted, I’ll still see your face when I look in the mirror.”

She must catch my shocked reaction because she turns away, sets down the box, and peels off her grubby white T-shirt. “Bollocks,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I’ve gone soft. If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll have you done. I have some
highly
dangerous associates, as you well know.”

While Celia showers, I unfold a bath towel, the same washed-out beige as the bedspread, and stretch it across the floor, then place in the middle of it the room’s only chair. From here I can watch myself work in the darkened, damaged mirror. The room’s lighting is terrible, but it will have to do.

I know that Celia might be lying. She claims she is innocent but has yet to offer any conclusive proof. And I am reminded of what she herself said earlier, that we humans are unfathomable. We barely even know ourselves. What can I do? I can take a leap of faith and believe her. Twenty years of friendship must count for something.

Celia soon emerges from the bathroom, in jeans but naked from the waist up, with her hair darkly soaked and rivulets of water streaming down her face. A hand towel curled around her shoulders covers her breasts but stops short of the ribs visible just below. She appears so ghostly pale, I gasp.

“The hot water felt lovely.” She cocks her head and sweeps inside her ear with a corner of the towel. “Been ages since I had a proper shower.”

I beckon her to the chair, where she collapses heavily, kicking out her feet. “Sit up straight.” I tap her shoulder. “Square your shoulders and lift your chin.”

Dutifully, she complies. “Can you manage with your broken hand?”

“I’ll do my best.” I comb through the tangles of her damaged hair, teasing out the tiny knots.

Her eyes drift closed. “I’ll be relieved to go to the police,” she says softly, folding her hands in her lap. “The last few months have been exhausting.”

“I can’t even imagine.” My voice is strangely hoarse as I add, “It’s not much longer now.”

I reach for the scissors, but before I can make the first cut she stops my hand midair.

“Keep in mind,” she says, clutching my fist, “I will never forgive you if you render me hideous.”

I smile. “Like
that
could ever happen.”

“All right then”—she nods solemnly and releases my hand—“you may continue.”

I begin cutting with the scissors in my right hand and her hair pinched between the swollen fingers of my left. My initial snips are jagged and uneven, but my technique improves as I continue. Neither of us speaks and the only sounds are the snip of the busy scissors, the electric hum from the TV in the adjoining room, and occasional furtive footsteps in the corridor.

“Celia, I have to tell you something,” I whisper, breaking the spell. “I lost your manuscript.”

“My manuscript?”

“
The Harmony Argument
. When I fell at the station.” I stumble over my words. “You must have a backup copy. Tell me where it is and I’ll get it to your agent—”

She raises her hand to stop me. “Don’t worry, Dayle. It’s not important.”

“But you spent years on that book.”

“I know.” She sighs. “But my passion for writing has dissipated. If it ever truly existed at all. You’re the real writer, Dayle—not me. And you must write more.” Her voice becomes sharp and insistent. “Serious books, to complement your fabulous spy novels. Promise you’ll write another. And that you’ll base one of the characters on me. But give her massive tits, of course.”

“Of course.” I smile, gazing down at the folds of Celia’s abdomen, the bridge of her nose, the fading scar upon her cheek. The notch of her throat bounces when she swallows and the ridges of her collarbones rise with each breath. She appears so angular and exposed that her skin seems a mere formality, a transparent paper veil barely obscuring the secret activity beneath.

We were lovers so briefly; for such a short time, this body belonged to me, moved beneath me, responded to my needs and commands. We had been friends, platonic friends, for years, even though she came out in high school and I followed a few years later, during sophomore year of college. Still, it wasn’t until after grad school, when we shared our flat in London and were both emerging from bad breakups, that we explored the possibility of being more than friends. It was short-lived, a mere six weeks or so, and beautiful, all her tough sarcasm and swagger falling away in moments of thrilling, breathtaking intimacy, but we soon realized that the things that made us great friends prevented us from being great partners. We managed to stay friends afterward, but our relationship was never quite the same, and it was only a few weeks later that I got a great job offer and moved back home to Chicago.

I comb the hair from Celia’s crown over her forehead to her chin, securing it between my swollen fingers. As I raise the scissors, Celia stiffens and one eye drops open. “Tell me you are not giving me a fringe.”

“I am.”

“I’ll look twelve,” she protests.

“You’ll look more like me.”

She sighs heavily. “Very well then.”

I snip the bangs to just above her eyebrows and straight across her forehead. She instantly looks years younger as her high cheekbones become the focal point of her heart-shaped face.

“Oh God, you seem pleased,” she complains, brushing the shorn hair from her lap. “It must be dreadful.”

“See for yourself.” I help her up and guide her to the mirror, where she considers her reflection. “It’s supposed to be a bob.” I cup the hair beneath her ear with my good hand. “It should curl under more.”

Celia won’t admit she likes the haircut, but I can tell she is pleased as she squints at her reflection, tugging the blunted ends so they settle against her skin.

“It’s not bad.” She cranes closer to the glass. “In fact, I’m rather impressed. You were always one of those annoying people who is naturally good at everything.”

While Celia retreats to the bathroom to color her hair, I crawl into the foul-smelling bed and click through the TV channels. There isn’t much on at this hour, a brief update on the thwarted terrorist attack, soccer news from the Premier League, a recap of the day’s developments in parliament, and an old black-and-white movie starring David Niven. I don’t even realize that I’ve fallen asleep until the bed jostles and my eyes fly open. Celia leans over me, reaching into the sheets.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, standing upright with fists on hips. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I was looking for the remote.”

I squint, trying to clear my vision. Celia’s hair has been transformed from a flat, lifeless blond to a vivid, inky black. Not only is her hair now black, it has been dried and styled to frame her face. Her pale skin, cleaned of makeup, looks freshly scrubbed and shining. Barefoot, she wears a pair of shorts and my purple Northwestern University T-shirt.

She notices me looking at the shirt. “I hope you don’t mind I borrowed this.” She stretches the shirt’s hem over her bare knees. “Nicked it from your suitcase.”

“No, that’s okay.” I yawn. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not very long.” She pats my leg and smiles. “You’re knackered—get some rest.”

I sit up, forgetting that my hand is broken until the cast jams the mattress, unleashing a dagger of pain. “Damn.” I bolt forward, clutching my arm.

“Are you all right?” Celia looks worried.

“I’ll be fine.” I breathe deeply, willing the pain away. Gradually, it ebbs to a dull throb. “You know what? I’m really hungry.”

She shakes her head. “We won’t find much to eat this time of night.”

“Look in my backpack.” I nod toward the luggage stacked against the wall. “I brought what I could find from your flat.”

She steps to the backpack, unzips it, and feels around inside. “A golden syrup cake…a can of lager,” she announces, placing each item on the bed. “And some sort of meat pie I don’t ever recall buying.” She scowls at me over her shoulder. “This came from my flat?”

“Yep.”

“Well, if we don’t survive the night, we’ll know why.” She turns over the plastic wrapper. “I don’t even see a best-by date.”

“That must mean we’ll be okay.”

She rolls her eyes. “You always were an optimist.”

We sit cross-legged on the bed with our humble meal on the hand towel between us. I reach for the cake but can’t open it with my swollen fingers.

“Here, let me.” Celia unwraps the cake and tears it into bite-size chunks. When I reach for a piece she shakes her head and beckons me closer. “Here”—she nods—“allow me.”

I lean forward and open my mouth. She places the morsel on my tongue, holding her palm beneath my chin. The cake is delicious, sweet and spongy with a golden liquid core. She takes the second section for herself and then pushes the remainder toward my knee.

“Too delicious,” she pronounces, eyes closed as she smiles with satisfaction. “Ought to be illegal.”

As we eat we can hear the amorous exultations of the couple in the room next door. What began as an innocent romp soon escalates in intensity, rattling the walls.
Yes, Leslie, yes!

Celia and I giggle, nearly choking on our cake.

Oh yes! Oh yes!

We pause, mid-chew, eyes locked, waiting for the inevitable.

Lesssss-leee! Yes!

Celia collapses backward in laughter, nearly falling off the bed. I grab the beer can before it rolls to the floor, then struggle to open it.

“Here—let me.” Celia rights herself, grinding her bare heels into the dirty bedspread. I hand her the can and she holds it, arm’s-length, and pops the tab. A crown of foam immediately bubbles over the top. Celia brings it quickly to her lips and siphons the foam, then takes a long swig for good measure.