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  Was that what I wanted? I stepped away, hardly knowing what I was doing. Tristan dropped his hand like it had been burned.

  “No.” I couldn’t look at him. “No,” I breathed out again, as I backed out into the living room, tears starting to sting my eyes. I grabbed my clothes and pulled on my skirt. I threw my shirt on, and collected my shoes. I turned around, but he hadn’t followed me. I choked down some air, and pulled open the closet door, and put on my jacket, still barefoot, holding my shoes. I rang the bell for the elevator, and figured out the locks just in time for it to arrive. Then I flung myself into it, pulling the door shut behind me. For once, I didn’t look back.

  Chapter 19

  I went rushing out into the street, and was nearly hit by a cab. The driver screeched to a halt, and I looked up, shocked that anyone else was in my world. The self-preservation part of me noticed his light was on, and I flung open the door even while he was shouting. I slammed it shut, the force rocking the cab slightly, and I looked at the driver. He was still shouting, but he was blurry and out of focus. On the second attempt, I managed to croak out my address loudly enough for him to hear. I squinted hard, and saw him press the on button for the meter, before everything went black.

  The next thing I heard was a man’s voice, repeating something over and over again. I looked up and I saw a dark shadow of a tall man reaching over me. I smiled, and closed my eyes again. It was him. He’d come to save me. The feeling of a rough hand moving up my leg made me jump, and I opened my eyes again to see the cabbie about to climb in the back seat, his hand already between my legs. I kicked out with a desperate force. Surprised, he slammed his head on the door frame and began cursing. I kicked again, and connected with something soft. I didn’t wait to see what it was. I clung to the sides of the door and threw myself out of the cab with as much strength as I could manage, and got past him and started running. I didn’t look behind to see if he was after me. I just kept running, the sound of my labored breathing canceling out every other noise. I couldn’t see anything but the sidewalk in front of me. After I crossed the first avenue, I stopped for a second to take off my shoes. I wasn’t sure where I was exactly, but I kept running barefoot, the little pebbles of the street digging into my feet. I didn’t stop until I recognized Broadway, and I slowed down. I knew there would still be some people around. I ran across the street against the light, and when I was in the middle section I sat down on one of the filthy benches, trying to get my breath back. But I was still faint, and I turned around, and was promptly sick in the bushes behind the bench. It seemed to go on forever, my stomach clutching with dry heaves, until I managed to slow my breathing enough to turn back around and put my head between my knees. Even so, I kept looking up, not wanting a repeat of being caught by surprise. I didn’t think my luck would hold out twice. I finally got to my feet, shakily, and crossed the street, and began walking downtown. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew I couldn’t stay in one place, and I wasn’t sure I could go home yet. The last thing I wanted was to see Alice, or have the silence of my room close in on me.

  I walked, and walked, until the streets became more familiar, past the 100s, into the 90s. There was the bagel place. They weren’t open—wouldn’t be open for another two hours, according to the sign, but I saw someone inside, one of the bakers, and I waved frantically. He looked confused, then worried, then he came over to the door, and unlocked it.

  “Miss, sorry, we are closed. Come back.”

  I didn’t know what I was going to say, but it all suddenly came out in a big sob, and when he heard the word “attacked”, he opened the door, and pointed to the nearest booth.

  “Sit. I bring you tea. Do you want police?”

  I shook my head, sobbing again. I tried to mumble “thank you” when he brought a paper cup of tea. He nodded, and backed away, looking worried. “Sit. Rest.” That was all he said before disappearing into the kitchen.

  I shakily tore open a little white packet of sugar, staring at the pattern of blue words, and watched the white granules slip into the red liquid. I made myself sip it, slowly, burning my tongue, trying not to shake too much and spill it. Finally, when I’d had about half of it, I pushed the cup away to the other side of the little Formica table, and buried my head in my hands. Every thought I started made me feel physically ill, so I kept pushing them away, one after the other, just like the cup. I stayed like that, semi-conscious, hard at work keeping away the blackness, though I was still, deathly still. Finally, they started putting bagels out in the baskets in the shop, and I realized I’d have to go, they were getting ready to open.

  I looked down. My t-shirt was filthy and torn, probably from catching on something as I fought my way out of the cab. I started to feel sick to my stomach again, and then I wanted to leave as fast as possible, like a wounded animal, just crawl away, and hide in the darkness. I called out “thank you” loudly as I could, and the man appeared, nodding again, and opened the door for me. “Thank you,” I whispered, and he closed the door behind me, and relocked it. Then I was out in the street, and the cold quick wind before dawn rushed up the avenue. The hollowness of my stomach made me feel like I was all icy air, dead, and ready to be broken up into pieces. I saw the benches in the middle, and thought for a moment of curling up there, letting the cold and wind take me, giving up on fighting back. Not yet, not yet, someone said, and even though I wasn’t sure if it was my voice or someone else’s, I turned back up the slight incline of the street leading back towards the park, and headed towards home.

  Chapter 20

  I dragged myself up the stairs and got the key in the lock. I blinked at the light coming from the kitchen. This couldn’t be good, I thought, and a second later, I heard Alice’s anxious voice call my name. We crashed into each other as she ran headlong out of the kitchen, and she threw her skinny arms around me and squeezed, despite my filthy state.

  “Jesus, babe, Lil, I’ve been so worried. Where have you been?” Her words came out in a rush, and before I had a chance to say anything, she carried on. “Are you ok? Where did you go? Let me make you some tea. Come sit down.” Then she looked at me, frowning. “Lily, Lily babe, what happened? Don’t wash—we’ll call the police.”

  I shook my head. I tried to speak, and held on to the back of the chair tightly. “No, Alice, it’s ok. I’m ok. Nothing happened. I fought him off. Not him. The cabbie…” Then I started crying again. “Not him. Not him.” I took a deep breath, and Alice hugged me.

  “I’m so glad you’re ok. I know it wasn’t him.” She sat down, then abruptly stood up again. “Lily, he was here.”

  “What?” I shrieked.

  “Here. Tristan. He was worried that something had happened to you, and that it was his fault. I’ve got to call him. He’s driving around looking for you.”

  I stood there, stunned, shivering. My teeth were actually chattering. It was finally all sinking in. “I should call him.”

  Alice gave me a funny look. “No. He was very insistent. He said you would call when and if you wanted to speak to him. He just wanted to make sure you were ok.”

  I stared at Alice. Nothing really made sense.

  “Go have a bath, you’ve got chills.” She went to the cupboard and took out a shot glass. “Don’t argue.” And she watched as I drank it down, the burn hurting my raw throat and chest. “I’ll talk to him.” She pulled out her phone as I headed off to the bathroom. “And Lily?”

  I turned around. “Thanks Alice. I’ll tell you the whole story. You deserve that much.”

  “No, that’s not it. Lils…I think he does really care about you. Look—he turned up here, looking for you.”

  I met her eyes. “Maybe, Alice. Maybe. Maybe it’s guilt. That makes people do strange things too.”

  Chapter 21

  I slept the rest of the day, and woke up finally in the early evening for some tea. Alice ordered food, and I nibbled at the tofu and rice without a lot of interest. I felt numb. I told her the outline of what had
happened, me leaving his apartment, the cab, the driver, walking around, the tea in the closed bagel shop. She applauded my heroics in fighting off the would-be attacker—but when she came to ask me why I’d left Tristan, I couldn’t answer her. Truthfully, I didn’t know. I’d been angry. So had he. It didn’t seem to explain what had happened.

  Alice just looked at me, and said nothing for a while. Then she poured each of us a shot, which I tried to refuse again, finally giving in to her.

  “Don’t you want to know what he said when I called?”

  I sipped at the whiskey. It did make some of the hollow feeling better. I tried to answer. “Yes? No? I guess so. I’m sure he said he was glad I was ok. Maybe he wants to know if I’m still doing the secret gig? Figures I’m not professional enough to stick with it after everything that’s happened?” I shrugged. My head was pounding.

  “Do you really think he’s that cold? Really?” Alice looked surprised.

  “I don’t know what to think. I don’t even know what I think about it.”

  Alice reached out and grabbed my hand. “He wants you to call him. He told me to tell you that. Not now. When you’re ready. But soon.”

  I squeezed her hand and smiled. “I will, Alice. I’ve got to work with him. I’ll smooth it over.”

  Alice took my other hand. “Babe, you know I love you, right? But honestly—I’m not talking about work. You want him. And I think he wants you.”

  I finished the drink. “Maybe. I’ll call him, Alice. Don’t worry.”

  She waved her hands in front of my face. “Lily, perfection does not exist in this world. Stop. Stop looking for it.”

  “I’m just looking for what I want, Alice. That’s all.” I got up. “I’m going back to bed.”

  Alice rose to her feet, and hugged me. “Babe, you don’t know what you want.” She smiled at me. “Are you that certain?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment to try and make the pounding in my head go away. “I don’t know.”

  I walked down the corridor to my room, and shut the door. I poked at the numbness that seemed to be my brain, and tried to find an answer to her question. There was nothing there.

  I tried to sleep. But what Alice had said kept bouncing around my head. And when I finally gave up pretending I was sleeping, I sat up with a rush and grabbed the phone. I knew there were only a few messages I really wanted to hear. He wanted to care? Fine. I’d listen to what he said. See if he’d been rattled, really, or if Alice had been taken in.

  I went to the latest message, pressed play and I listened as his voice, deep and liquid, poured into my head. “Hello, it’s Tristan.” Did he sound somewhat hesitant? Then he started. “I know you probably hate me, or think you do. I should have warned you. It’s intense. Breaking open all those…barriers…makes some people very...angry. They’ve been holding back for so long—they can’t stand it. I think that’s what happened to you. Honestly…” and here he paused for a moment, “…maybe me too. Please call me. I think I can help. And Lily,” I inhaled sharply at him using my name, “it matters to me. You matter to me. Please don’t run before you talk to me, before you finally decide. And…” here he laughed, somewhat bitterly, I thought, “…we are working together. Let’s stay friends at least, ok? Can we do that? Please call.”

  I put down the phone, and lay back against the pillows, and thought about the hollow feeling, and the wind, and how I didn’t want to feel better but I did. I looked out the window, at the stars that were hidden somewhere out there, beyond the smog and the lights, and imagined for a moment a world that was different, one that made sense.

  I picked the phone up again and sent a one word text. Then I turned it off, and pulled the covers up to my neck, wondering about the power of what I’d just said.

  Yes.

  Chapter 22

  I woke up, and put the music on shuffle, and heard Roland Orzabal’s echoing voice singing “Always in the Past” and tried to draw some conclusion from his mix of reassurance and despair. Still no answers, but the numbness seemed less pervasive. I made a cup of coffee, and climbed back in to bed, determined despite the hollow clutching of my stomach to go through all my messages and texts. I listened to Alice’s increasingly frantic messages from that night, and his four, calmer, yet equally insistent demands that I call him, ending with his declaration that he was coming over, yes he did know where I lived. So that part was true. Then there was a message from Dave, the editor, checking that I was still on for London next week. I called back right away and left a message in the affirmative that I hoped sounded stronger than I was, wishing I could ask what had made him call. I erased the yoga reminders, and left another message with my agent saying that I was going to be tied up (I laughed when I said it, I couldn’t help it) for the next few weeks, and to let me know if anything came up.

  The next two days I spent doing nothing. Walking through the park. Trying not to think. Watching the bruises change color. I knew he was giving me time, maybe giving himself some time as well. I organized my schedule for London, cleaned and prepared my packing for next week, made lists, paid bills. I wondered if I’d come back. Maybe this time I’d stay over there for good. Might as well wrap things up here. Make it easier to dissolve if, when, I decided to leave.

  When the text came on the third day, asking if I would come over, it seemed almost pre-planned, as though we had mutually decided on a cooling-down period. I didn’t think about it too much. It felt like goodbye. I at least wanted to explain though. End on good terms. And when the time came, and I started to get ready, and my first thought was to wonder what to wear, I had to laugh. “Vanity,” I said out loud to the mirror, as I tried on one of the sensible but pretty dresses I kept for client meetings. I called a car service—to keep my state of mind on an even keel. And suddenly I was heading downtown, in a very different frame of mind than the previous time.

  • • •

  “I’m glad you came over.” Tristan took my jacket as though we were just repeating the events of a few nights ago, but calmly. I thanked him. Politeness. He asked if I would like to sit in the living room or the kitchen.

  “The kitchen, I think. Otherwise I’ll feel like I’m working. And it’s definitely not an interview.” We both laughed, flatly, and stopped at almost the same moment.

  “Well, come in. It’s cleaner, at least. Would you like a drink?”

  God, this was dreadful. It was more formal than the interview. I looked up at him. His usual flirtatious manner was gone, replaced with a neat stranger. I sighed, and he glanced at me.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, not unkindly.

  “More than what’s wrong already? No. No, I’m fine. Could I have a drink though? But a real drink? A glass of wine or something?” His lips were pinched together. I sat down. “Look it’s ok. I’ve just been on edge. I’d rather relax.” I watched as he stood there, pressing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

  “No, I’m sorry. Yes, why not? Might as well celebrate the end, as much as the beginning,” he said sharply.

  I felt like I’d been sucker punched, and I let out a low whistle.

  Tristan turned and the intensity of his stare made me quail inside. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To tell me that this isn’t for you, that it’s against all your principles? Right? Aren’t you?” He spun away from me, and walked to the end of the kitchen and squatted down in front of a smaller refrigerator. He opened it, and extracted a bottle. “Here. Let’s end how we started. I need to use these up anyway.” And I watched as he tore off the foil, watched his wrist turn as he untwisted the wire basket, and listened to the small pop of the cork, as he opened the bottle expertly, the French way. No fanfare. No floods of champagne spilling everywhere. His hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, he reached up in the cupboard with the other and thrust the stems of two champagne glasses between his fingers. He poured while he was standing, and gestured to me to come and retrieve my glass. I stood next to him, the top of my head n
early level with his shoulder, and took my glass, careful not to touch him. We clinked glasses.

  “What shall we toast to?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” he said simply, and I looked up at him. His eyes had a faraway look that reminded me of that first time I’d ever spoken to him. It seemed crazy, but I felt like he needed to know—especially if I wasn’t really going to talk to him anymore.

  “Why don’t we sit down? I’ve got a story to tell you.” I clinked my glass against his again. I was going to need courage for this, and I took a long sip, and let all the bubbles burst against the roof of my mouth. I didn’t know how to begin, and I pulled out the chair across from him, and went to sit down, before he put his hand on my arm.

  “Look, don’t sit over there. Sit next to me at least. And let me start, ok?”

  “I don’t have to tell you a long story.”

  “You can tell me whatever you want. But let me say what I need to say first.” He pulled out the chair next to him, and waited to sit down until I was seated. It was an oddly old-fashioned gesture, and I felt something twist inside me. I put my glass down, and wrapped my arms around my torso and pinched. I’d found that it helped.

  He cleared his throat, and his voice seemed to go down a notch. “I’m going to apologize, because I tried to warn you, and stop myself, and I couldn’t and I didn’t.” He stopped for a moment. “Maybe I’m used to…” He looked away. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re sensitive. I liked that about you. But I think I forgot what that meant.”

  I started to speak, and he raised his hand to stop me. “Please. Let me finish. Remember what I said to you, about people’s expectations? Right? It becomes easier to play to what they want, knowing it’s not what you want, banking time against inevitable expectations, and unavoidable failure. I had a friend who used to say ‘the triumph of hope over experience.’ But he didn’t mean it. Anyway…” He grasped my hand. “I didn’t want to hurt you. But I wanted you enough to risk it, knowing it would happen. And whatever I say now will just make me look even more selfish, so I won’t.” He drank some of his champagne, delicately, then drained the glass, and refilled it, and mine. “But I’m not a bad person.” He laughed. “See how stupid that sounds? Justifying myself. When you’re the one I’ve hurt.” He held my hand to his lips. I pinched myself harder with the other hand. “I was hurt too though,” he whispered into my hand.