The Organization (12 page)

“I’m Charlie Parker,” Charlotte told her, “And I’ve been wanting to meet you since I walked in here an hour ago.”

Maggie laughed, but her cheeks flushed, turning a shade of red that almost matched her hair.  She asked, “Why the wait?  An hour is a long time.”

“I’m patient.  It’s part of my charm,” Charlotte replied, flashing a grin.

“I see,” she said.  “And are you a tourist – just passing through – or do you intend to stick around London for a while?”

“That remains to be seen,” Charlotte answered.  “But I’d like a reason to stick around.”

“Naturally,” Maggie commented, an amused smile playing on her lips.  “Well, Charlie Parker, I am on a date.”  Maggie leaned closer to her and whispered, “But I don’t think it’s going very well.”

Charlotte looked from her lips to her eyes and said, “I hope you wouldn’t think the same of a date with me.”

She laughed again – it seemed to come so easily to her – and then held out her hand.  She said, “Maggie Walker.”

Charlotte gave it a squeeze and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Maggie said, “I work at the Crystal Palace Museum.  If you end up sticking around London, you can look me up there.”

“Count on it,” Charlotte replied with a grin.  Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Maggie’s date exiting the restroom, so she turned to go, saying, “I hope the rest of your date goes better.”

“I don’t think you do,” Maggie retorted, returning her smile.

Charlotte must have nodded off in the tub because she wasn’t aware of how much time had passed before she heard a knocking at the door.  She pulled the drain on the tub and hastily pulled on her robe, leaving puddles in her path.

She looked through the peephole and felt heaviness around her heart.  Maggie was so freshly in her memory that she almost felt alive again, yet here on the other side of her door stood flesh-and-blood Harriet.

Charlotte opened the door and let her in, closing the door behind her without saying a word.  Harriet looked refreshed compared to when Charlotte saw her last, less than a day ago, now wearing a sleeveless emerald blouse and pressed, dark slacks.  Charlotte knew that she herself looked less than composed.

“Is Thomas not with you?” Charlotte asked.

“He may be my bodyguard, but I alone decide when I need a guard with me,” she said. “I’m an independent woman.”

“Clearly,” Charlotte muttered.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Harriet asked, glancing from her home renovation project to her robe and lastly to her eyes.

“I had just…” Charlotte looked away, trying to think of what to tell her, before saying, “I had fallen asleep in the bathtub, thinking about my wife.”

The comment took Harriet by surprise. “All right,” she said.

“So long as we’re not keeping secrets anymore,” Charlotte replied by way of an explanation.  She walked over toward her bed, pulling her clothes chest out.  Harriet followed her and took a seat on the edge of her bed.

“Would you like to talk about her, Charlie?” she asked.

“About
her
?” Charlotte asked, pulling on a pair of underwear and cargo pants, her back to Harriet.  She tossed her robe over a chair.

“Yes, about her.  About Margaret Walker,” Harriet said quietly.

Charlotte slipped a tank top on over her head and turned to look at Harriet.  “So you know her name,” she stated.

“Charlie...” she started to say. “I know some things about you – some facts.  I know you had a wife and I know that she died.  And I’m sorry for that.”

Charlotte blinked back the tears that she was embarrassed to find in her eyes.  “Of course you know.”

Harriet seemed to study her face. “It doesn’t mean I know all about you.  They’re just facts in a file.”

“An employment file, perhaps?” Charlotte accused.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Listen, Charlie, I am sorry.”

Charlotte nodded but said nothing.  Harriet stood and took a step closer, lowering her voice.  “It doesn’t mean I know your thoughts, your feelings… Those are the things that make you
you
.”  She placed her hand on Charlotte’s chest over her heart.

Charlotte laid her hand on top of Harriet’s, and then pulled the other woman’s hand away from her chest.  “Why are you here?” Charlotte asked.

“I was worried about you. I still am.”

Charlotte said, “You’re worried about how I’m reacting to the shock of it all – to everything I learned at the meeting.”

“Is that so wrong?  I care about you, Charlie,” she said, her hand finding Charlotte’s hip.

Charlotte moved away and sat on her bed.  “Tell me what else you know about me from my file.”

“Where to begin?” she asked. Harriet sat next to her on the bed but kept her distance.

“How about at the start of the file?”.

“All right,” Harriet conceded.  “I know your date of birth and your full name.  I know you were born in Vermont.  I know where you attended university, and that you had excellent marks.  I know you were a graduate fellow at Merton College at Oxford.  I know that you’re a talented biochemist.”

“And I guess that makes me useful for the rebellion, that I’m a biochemist?” Charlotte asked sharply.

“That has nothing to do with the organization.  For me, it just makes you more interesting, Charlie.  I’m attracted to brainy types,” she said with a smile.  Charlotte didn’t respond, and after a moment Harriet’s smile faded and she added, “And I know that you were married, and that your wife died several years ago.”

Charlotte nodded and said, “Okay.  That’s enough.”

She asked, “Is there anything you’d like to ask about me?  Tit for tat.”

Charlotte took her hand and squeezed it.  “No.  I just… I think I need to sleep for now.”

“I understand,” she said.  She leaned over and kissed Charlotte’s cheek softly.

Charlotte thought that she would go.  Instead, Harriet kicked off her heels beside the bed.  Charlotte allowed her to unbutton her cargo pants, which she discarded in a pile on the floor.  Together they lay in her bed and before long Harriet drifted off to sleep, her body pressed up against Charlotte’s.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Charlotte awoke to find Harriet had gone.  She felt the sheets and pillow next to her, noting that they were cool to the touch.  It was probably just as well.  It was Charlotte’s day off work and she needed time for herself.  She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, feeling inexplicably depressed.  She tried to imagine what Erin would say if she saw her and could tell her everything.

“So you’ve been sleeping with a very sexy woman –” she would say.

“ – who’s married, and who isn’t Maggie,” Charlotte would interrupt.

“If you weren’t sleeping with Harriet, would that bring Maggie back?” Erin would gently ask.

“Of course not,” Charlotte would concede.

Charlotte would then argue with Erin that she was in over her head, that Harriet was the Grand Commandant of the rebellion.  Erin would laugh at her made-up title and tell her that she needed a little adventure in her life anyway.

No, she wouldn’t laugh.  She would be nervous.  Maybe she would urge Charlotte to hide out and visit Erin’s relatives in Edinburgh.  Maybe they would board a train together under the cover of night.

Or maybe she would panic and say they needed to call the Home Office and report her entire football team for being rebel terrorists.

“Well, not my
entire
football team,” Charlotte would interject.  “Only five members.”

“And what about you?” Erin would ask.  “Aren’t you the sixth?”

Charlotte sighed and squeezed her eyes shut.  The possible scenarios didn’t matter since she had decided she couldn’t tell Erin anyway. This was information that she needed to keep to herself.

Instead of getting in touch with Erin, Charlotte decided that she should go for a walk to clear her mind.  A quick survey of her pantry told her that it was in dire need of restocking, and it was a perfect night for the long walk to the grocery store.  With her bag slung over her shoulder, her hands tucked into her pockets, and her baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, she strolled along the quiet city streets.

She passed a couple of former hotels that had been converted into efficiency apartments.  The demand for hotel rooms had decreased substantially over the years, but residential crowding remained a problem.

She passed a curry shop, which set her stomach rumbling.  She realized she couldn’t remember when she had last eaten.  Deciding to ignore her hunger, she rounded the corner and entered the grocery store.  She had been to this store several times in the past and thought the prices were reasonable, even if it was a bit of a walk.  At the moment, she appeared to be the only customer in the shop, and a quick glance at the counter showed her that the single worker was busy watching a football game on his screen.

She picked up a small sack of oats and an even smaller container of sugar substitute.  She eyed the coffee beans and surprised herself by thinking,
I could steal some and get away with it
.  She realized that the store had every aisle under surveillance, but she imagined that she could get quickly absorbed into the warren of streets and escape getting caught.

Charlotte frowned at herself for having had the thought.  Where had it come from, anyway?  She rushed the rest of her shopping, picking up a few tins of fruit and veggies, some packaged protein flakes, and some cheap tea.  She paid, swiping her digicard at the counter, and quickly left.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Another week passed.  Joanna kept her distance at work, and Charlotte kept her head down, diligently focusing on her assigned project.  She also hadn’t heard from Harriet.  She felt a certain kind of sadness at how Harriet had slipped out while she was sleeping, leaving her to wrestle with the knowledge that Harriet had this file of facts about her life.  And yet, although she was reluctant to admit it even to herself, perhaps she felt all the more hurt because she still wanted to see Harriet.  Nothing Charlotte had found out had made her feel any less drawn to Harriet.

Charlotte knew she couldn’t simply show up at her door again.  And if she sent Harriet another diginote, who would read it?  Would it be Harriet, or one of her assistants, bodyguards – Thomas?  And so she concentrated on her work.

Charlotte had begun to feel like her life was gaining some normalcy again.  She arrived home from work after the six workdays in a row – a full week’s work – and found a metal box at her door.  She vaguely recognized that it was the kind that shops would send out for special deliveries, and that she would need to leave it outside her door for collection after she retrieved its contents.  Squatting to examine the box, she found the store name of Stella McCartney, which she knew to be a boutique clothier.

She brought the box inside and opened it.  She held her breath as she examined the contents: a black suit jacket, black trousers with zippers up the front of each leg, and a white satin shell for a blouse.  She frowned, thinking how formality was not her style.  She also realized the cost of such an outfit probably exceeded her monthly rent.  She then saw the tiny slip of paper that read: “The Courtauld Gallery, Charing Cross, seven o’clock. –H.”

Charlotte sighed, setting the clothes on a nearby chair, and returning the empty metal box to the hallway.  She wondered what her neighbors would think if they saw she had clothes delivered.  She’d probably be robbed within a fortnight, she thought darkly.

As seven o’clock approached, Charlotte carefully dressed in the provided clothes and a pair of nice shoes she hadn’t worn in years.  As she wondered why Harriet would send her such an expensive gift and whether she should be offended at needing to be given appropriate clothes to wear, she caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror in the corner.  The clothes were a perfect fit.  She took off the jacket to wash her face in the sink and then brush her hair, deciding to wear it down.  Finally, she put the jacket back on and headed out to the gallery.

Charlotte crossed the plaza in front of Somerset House, the building in which the gallery was located.  She recalled that there used to be fountains, spurts of water in the middle of the plaza, but of course they were all turned off years ago.  As she walked across the plaza, her footfall echoing off the surrounding buildings, she wondered if she could afford the admission fee.  She was slightly irritated that Harriet would expect her to have money to spare on such an extravagance, but she knew she couldn’t bring it up when Harriet had bought her these clothes.  Something seemed off, wrong, when Charlotte approached the main entrance.  It took her a moment to realize what it was, but then she knew: it was too quiet.

She pushed through the main entrance and was confronted with only a sole man in a uniform. He kept an expressionless face as he asked, “Charlotte Parker, I presume?”

Charlotte stammered, “Uh – y-yes.”

He nodded and said, “Welcome to the Courtauld.”

“Charlie –” said a welcoming voice.

She turned and saw Harriet, who wore a smart black blouse and burgundy pencil skirt.  Charlotte thought for a moment how fashionable they must look together – something she wasn’t accustomed to feeling about herself.

“I’m glad you made it,” Harriet was saying, but Charlotte was distracted by the atmosphere of the place.  Where were the other visitors?

“It was no trouble,” Charlotte heard herself saying.  Harriet was leading her away from the entrance, deeper into the gallery, but she seemed to be in no hurry.  “Are they closing soon?  There doesn’t seem to be anyone else here.”

Harriet laughed.  “No, not at all.  Not until we’re finished,” she said.

“I don’t understand,” Charlotte said.

“It’s a private viewing, my dear,” she replied.

Charlotte began to realize that the only footsteps were their own.  “How –?”

Harriet shrugged and said, “I’m a sponsor of the gallery.  This is one of the perks.”

“I didn’t even realize a private viewing was possible.”

Harriet looped her arm in Charlotte’s and replied, “With enough money, anything is possible.”