Click here for Part One
Ellen ate and drank, and Bryan gallantly turned his head while Cynthia took off Ellen’s stockings and cleaned her knee. He toyed with his ice cubes while Ellen told her story.
“You’re sure it was an Angel?”
“Positive.” Ellen fidgeted in her chair. The food and drink had re-energized her, not calmed her. “Golden, with wings and everything. Huge, like the one on the Potsdamerplatz, but not—militaristic. It was—loving.”
Bryan looked troubled. “You’re sure it wasn’t one of the monuments from Green Park, with the setting sun off it? After all, you only saw it for a moment—“
“I thought of that, Bryan. But I know what I saw. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I can’t recall ever seeing it, myself. And I’ve lived in London all my life.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Cynthia, clearing away Ellen’s plate. “I grew up in Manhattan, and until I met you, Bryan, I never once visited the Empire State Building.”
“Yeah, but at least the Empire State stays put if you’re looking for it.”
“Aw, El. Don’t worry about it. You must’ve just lost your bearings when you got cut off. We’ll get you a good guidebook and hunt this thing down. I’d love to see it myself—it sounds gorgeous.” Cynthia went to the front window to draw the curtains. She looked out the driveway and started. “Wow! Is that a Bentley? How’d you get the Firm to spring for that one?”
“I didn’t. I rented the car with my own money.” She paused. “With Ted’s money, I should say. From the settlement.”
Cynthia put her hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “Not his money, El—yours. God knows you earned it. Jesus, I don’t know how you made it work as long as you did.”
“Seven years.”
“I know, honey.”
“I tried, y’know? I really did.” Something escaped her that was half-exhalation, half nervous laugh. “But the Differences, as they say, were just... Irreconcilable.”
“Say, Ellie,” Bryan said suddenly, “are you settled in at the flat yet?”
When she admitted that she was not, Cynthia glowed. “So you’ll stay the night with us? We’ve got a spare room. We’ll go out for breakfast, and you and Bryan can talk about the book.”
It was eleven-thirty, and she was two V&Ts to the good. “If it’s no trouble...”
“The Firm sent its best editor—and my best friend—all the way here to help me through this rewrite. It’s the least I can do.” Bryan smiled. “But between us, Ellie, I’m not doing it for them; I’m doing it for you. Come on, I’ll show you up.”
Cynthia lent her a nightgown and threw her clothes in the wash. Ellen took a grateful shower and settled into her borrowed bed. Though jet-lagged and bone-weary, she could not sleep. She tried to turn her thoughts to Bryan’s book—but the Angel’s face, caught in one stolen glimpse, kept flickering behind her eyes. She wanted to see it again.
Her sleep was troubled by dreams that she could not remember come morning.
Ellen spent the morning with Bryan and Cynthia, shopping and discussing the new novel. She found it difficult to concentrate; every time they were out in the street, she had to fight the urge to look over her shoulder.
At noon, she drove to the Westminster flat that the Publisher maintained for its editors on assignment. The landlady had let the movers in; the floor was covered with suitcases and cardboard boxes. Nothing but a jar of horseradish and a roll of film in the fridge; she’d have to go to the Safeway later. There was tea in the cupboard, though, and after she’d put her clothes away she put a kettle on the range.
Waiting for the water to boil, she went to the window and opened the blinds. It was shortly after two; the sky had cleared from the morning drear. From this floor of the tower block, Ellen had a fine view of the district. She could see the green edges of Hyde Park, cut up by gray rulers of paving, the bandstand, the flat shimmer of the Serpentine.
Then her eye wandered up, to the buildings; the sleek new Arab banks, the office blocks, the low bump of pubs and chip shops. Crazy quilt, she thought, Georgian edifices slapped hard up against squatting logs of glass and steel. Still, she loved London’s character. In New York, the streets were just canyons between the cliffs of skyscrapers; all those buildings look the same. Yesterday, flying out of LaGuardia, she’d seen those mirrored cliffs in the bleak light before rush hour and thought, What kind of people live there? People as faceless and same as the buildings themselves. New York had no place in its routine for such wonders as are to be found in London. Such wonders...
And without even realizing it, she was looking no longer at the buildings but between them, searching the cracks in the skyline for a flash of gold. The people below, the sounds, the green of the park; these vanished as she gazed out, her eyes locking into a rigid stare, as if to burn a hole through the scene outside through which might shine the golden wings of an Angel.
She was brought back by an acrid, metallic smell in the flat. The kettle had boiled dry; its bottom glowed a dull red over the gas flame. Ellen swore, ran to the range and snatched the kettle up—then dropped it, yelping with pain; the bakelite handle had grown hot. The kettle, cheap aluminum to begin with, dented and split when it hit the floor. A brown scorch mark appeared on the planks.
Ellen stood at the sink, running cold water over her blistered palm. She stood there for some time, then looked at the clock. 3:45. Almost tea-time. Almost two hours gone by.
She shut off the water and sat on the floor, hugging herself to stop the shaking.
...
Click here for Part Three.
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