Forget to Remember, page 15
She didn’t begrudge the extra time it took her to get through customs, because she didn’t have a European Union passport. She was just glad the clerk didn’t question the one she had. She hadn’t checked anything—all of her belongings fit into a suitcase she carried on the plane plus a small backpack. She didn’t have anything to declare, so she soon found herself in the bustling airport greeting area.
Expectant Brits lined the exit from customs, waiting for relatives and friends to be disgorged from the system. Nobody was waiting for her, but again she didn’t mind. She found a cash machine and was gratified when crisp British pounds came out of the slot in answer to her withdrawal request.
She followed signs to the Heathrow Express. She knew from her research the train would take her to Paddington Station in fifteen minutes. Sure it cost more than the tube or the airport bus, but it was a heck of a lot faster. Since she was tired and jet-lagged, she felt she could afford this one luxury.
Paddington Station was a huge place with hordes of people moving determinedly in all directions. As she picked her way among them, the thought occurred to Carol that people walked faster here than in the U.S. And longer distances. London was her kind of city.
She exited the station into the noisy traffic with double-decker buses and the ubiquitous London taxis competing for road space with ordinary cars. With the exception of the huge buses, she again had the feeling everything was smaller here—maybe three-quarter size. That included the cars, the streets, and the family-owned hotels occupying Victorian town houses on Sussex Gardens where she walked from the station, being careful to observe the painted warning on the busy street she crossed imploring her to “look right.”
A cool drizzle made her glad she had the North Face raincoat Tina and Ernie gave her as a going-away present. For the hundredth time, she mentally thanked the Ramirez family for their assistance and wondered where she’d be without them. She’d find a way to pay them back.
She found the Balmoral House Hotel, and a small woman with a non-English accent came to the locked door in answer to her ring. Carol told her she’d seen the hotel on the Internet. When the owner—she owned the hotel with her husband—eyed her lack of luggage, Carol paid cash for two nights and received a discount. She did a quick conversion in her head; she was paying something over a hundred dollars a night. She wondered what the big hotels charged. At least this price included a good English breakfast.
Her small room was clean, and it contained an equally small television set that could play the BBC station and had a few other channels. She flopped down on the bed. The flight from Los Angeles had been an over-nighter. She closed her eyes, intending to take a short rest before she started making plans.
***
A ringing telephone woke Carol. Where was she? Her brain quickly sorted through possibilities until it came up with London. Who would be calling her here? She realized it was her cell phone ringing. What time was it? A quick glance at the cheap watch she’d purchased said six o’clock. P.m. or a.m.? Had she slept all night? She picked up the phone from the small table beside the bed and said hello.
“Hi Carol, this is Rigo.”
“Hi.”
“Did I wake you?”
She must sound sleepy. “No…well, yes. What time is it?”
“It’s ten a.m. here. There’s an eight hour time difference so it’s six p.m. there.”
“Oh, right. I was just taking a nap.”
“I’m glad you got there okay. I just wanted to see if the SIM card we installed in the phone works.”
“Apparently it does.” The Ramirezes insisted they be able to reach her by cell phone. Carol was glad they had. It didn’t make her feel quite so isolated. Paul Vigiano was paying the charges, so that wasn’t a problem.
She chatted with Rigo, glad he was concerned about her. However, she didn’t want to prolong the conversation until it became maudlin. “I’d better go out and look for something to eat. That’s the best way of adjusting to local time. While walking to the hotel I saw Italian, Greek, and Indian restaurants. There’s also a Burger King, so I won’t starve.”
She disconnected and made herself presentable. She had spoken to Paul on the phone several times before she left. She wanted to stay in his good graces, and possibly be able to get more financing from him if she needed it, so she’d discussed with him how she could best look for Cynthia. That gave her a purpose, because at the moment she hadn’t the faintest idea how to look for herself. All she knew was she wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar. Frances had confirmed that.
CHAPTER 25
Carol waited until nine thirty to purchase her all-day tube pass so she received the cheaper rate. Having recovered some of her lost sleep, she was again very conscious of her financial situation. No more Heathrow Express rides. She rode the Circle Line from Paddington to Sloane Square, feeling at home on the rumbling train. She was able to find a seat after the second stop and observed the other passengers. Their variety convinced her London was every bit as cosmopolitan as Los Angeles.
Since she had no leads on herself, she had decided to follow one Paul had given her for Cynthia. It was an address in Chelsea. Cynthia’s first and apparently only letter had come from there. Then she evaporated like a puddle when the sun comes out. Carol’s immediate mental association with Chelsea was a line from the musical, Cabaret, “…with whom I shared four sordid rooms in Chelsea,” sung by Sally Bowles, in reference to a dead roommate named Elsie who had apparently been an alcoholic and drug addict, as well as a prostitute.
That had been before World War II. There was nothing sordid about the modern Chelsea, which was bordered by the River Thames on the south and featured a number of streets with high-class retail establishments. Carol was happy to spot a McDonald’s, not because she craved fast food or was homesick for the U.S., but because she knew its prices would be within her budget in case she was in this area when she became hungry.
She kept her map folded into a small square because she didn’t want to look too touristy, but she didn’t want to get lost either. The address she was looking for was off Kings Road. She kept pace with the fast walkers that crowded the commercial area, feeling good about being able to stretch her limbs. She was certain it would take her several days to recover from being cooped up on the plane.
The building that matched the address was in surprisingly good shape, not exactly a hangout for a starving artist. There was an intercom system at the entrance. Carol pushed the button that matched the flat number Paul had given her. She waited, wondering whether anybody was there.
“Yeah.”
The voice was that of a man, probably not old.
Carol got up her courage to respond. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“About what, mate?”
“About a missing girl who might have lived here for a while.”
Pause. Had she scared him? He finally spoke. “Come on up. Top floor.”
He buzzed her in, and she quickly opened the front door before he changed his mind. Once inside, she realized this wasn’t quite as luxurious as it looked from the outside. For one thing, there was no elevator—or lift as they called it here. She had to walk up three flights of stairs. The flat in question was on the fourth floor. Actually the third floor in local terminology, since the first floor was the ground floor. Confusing.
Noises assailed Carol’s ears from behind closed doors as she passed the first two landings, including a crying baby. She wasn’t puffing too badly when she reached the floor in question, whatever one called it, but she still paused several seconds before knocking on the door in front of her. The pause before she heard a noise inside was much longer. Had the guy decided he didn’t want to see her, after all? Finally she heard footsteps and latches being unlatched, and the door swung inward. The odor of fresh paint wafted through the doorway.
The young man holding the door handle wasn’t scary looking at all. He was a tall beanpole with long, red hair that hadn’t seen a comb today, wearing a torn T-shirt and torn jeans, both spotted with paint. His emaciated look made Carol wonder whether he was starving. He spoke first.
“Well, don’t just stand there like a bloomin’ idiot. Come on in.”
“Thank you.” Carol repressed a stronger response and walked past him into what must be called a loft—a large open space with a wooden floor and slanted roof beams overhead. A skylight let in the sun’s rays and several windows also helped brighten the room, which was filled with artist’s paraphernalia: easels, canvasses, brushes, tubes of paint, cloths, and a cloth-covered table with a bowl of fruit sitting on it. A glance at the canvas on the easel in front of the table told her he was working on a painting of the fruit.
He followed her look. “I’m doing that for a rich old lady. Gotta eat, you know. She’s wants a portrait of apples, that’s what she gets. Care for a spot of tea?”
“Thank you.”
He grabbed a kettle from a small stove against the wall, filled it with water from a nearby faucet attached to a sink, and lit a gas burner under it. Carol realized she had to say something besides thank you.
“I’m Carol…Golden.”
“Sean MacTavish. I’d shake your hand, but I’m a bit messy.”
He showed her large palms that had paint on them, in spite of the fact that he carried a towel he kept wiping them with. He pointed toward a small wooden table with several rickety chairs around it.
“Have a seat.”
“I didn’t mean to take you away from your work.”
“S’okay. I need a break. I can only paint so many apples at a time. Besides, it’s not often a pretty bird comes to call.”
Carol perched on one of the chairs. Sean continued standing where he could keep an eye on the tea kettle. His accent was apparently Scottish, but she didn’t have any trouble understanding him.
“I don’t want to take up much of your time. Two years ago a young woman named Cynthia Sakai came to London. Her folks got a letter from her with this return address, but then nothing more. She vanished into thin air.”
“Two years.” Sean ran a hand through his mop of hair, probably leaving some paint in it. “That’s a long time. I’ve had this place about a year.” He turned as the tea kettle whistled and poured water into two cups. He placed one in front of Carol and offered her a choice of herbal tea bags.
“Not quite the traditional way we’re supposed to do this, but my girlfriend got me hooked on the herbal stuff.”
Carol selected a peppermint tea bag and dropped it into her cup. “I know it’s a long shot, but I told her grandmother I’d look for her. Her parents came over after she disappeared, but they didn’t find a trace of her.” Bringing up the question of why she would hope to succeed where they had failed.
“I don’t know the bloke who had the place two years ago.”
Sean placed a tea bag in his cup and then proceeded to pour liberal quantities of milk and sugar into it. How could he taste the tea? Carol drank hers straight. He sat in one of the chairs facing her and leaned back so it only had two legs on the floor. The chair creaked, and she was afraid it was going to collapse under his weight.
Sean sipped his tea and stared at her from his slanted position, as if he needed to be farther away from her to see her clearly. It unnerved her. She knew men liked to mentally undress women, but they were usually less obvious about it. She spoke to try to relieve her tension.
“She looked something like me—the missing girl, I mean.” Why was she so flustered?
“Take off your mackintosh for me, would you, sweetheart?”
Now he was trying to undress her for real. For a moment, she didn’t know what a mackintosh was. Then it came to her from somewhere. It was a word Brits used for a raincoat. She told herself she had no reason to be afraid of him. She took it off and laid it on the table. She was wearing a sweater underneath against the chill—plus jeans, so she was still well covered.
He looked at her some more. She decided to ignore him and sipped her tea. She apparently wasn’t going to learn anything here. That was frustrating, because it was her only lead for Cynthia.
Before she could think of a question to ask him to try to gain more information, he spoke. “Have you ever done any modeling?”
Modeling? She was about to say no when she remembered she might have done swimsuit modeling. She temporized. “Not recently.”
“You would be perfect for a project I have.”
“Look, I’m here to find out what happened to Cynthia. I don’t have time—”
“The job pays well. In cash—pound notes with our good queen’s likeness.”
That stopped her. This might be a chance to cover some of her expenses. “What do I have to do?”
“Pose for me each morning for three hours. I’d say it will take six or seven days.”
“Wearing what?”
“Your birthday suit. My client likes his women the way God created them.”
“No way.”
“I see we have an uptight Yank. Descended from the Puritans, no doubt. I’m glad we got rid of them. Although you do have a wee bit of an oriental cast to you. That’s what makes you exciting—the combination of ingredients.”
Flattery would get him nowhere. Although the accusation that she was uptight rankled her it was more than that. It was the thought of being alone with him while naked. Didn’t artists always sleep with their models?
“It’s cold in here.”
“I have a space heater. I’d be glad to turn it up to roast to keep you toasty.”
“My left arm was injured. It’s getting better, but I’m still wearing a bandage on it.”
“We’ll pose you so that arm is out of sight.”
She had one more thought. “I’m pretty skinny. I was…sick for a while and lost some weight.”
“Although I’m a great admirer of Renoir’s nudes, I like my women less zaftig than he did. So does my client. You’ll be fine.”
She was running out of excuses. Maybe she should be running out of here. Sean walked over to a desk piled high with papers and extracted something from the mess. He came back and handed her a business card.
“Here’s my number. Call me when you decide to take the job.”
The arrogance. She had a retort on the tip of her tongue when he spoke again.
“About the girl who disappeared. Go and talk to Lord Binghamton. He lives just ten minutes from here. He owns the lease on this building. He’ll have a record of who lived here when. I’ll write down his address for you.”
He took the card and wrote on the back.
“A Lord? What do I do, just knock on his door?”
Sean smiled. “He’s very approachable. I’ll ring him up and tell him you’re coming.”
Sure he would. Did he think she was born yesterday? Now he was trying to get rid of her. He gave her explicit instructions on how to find the Lord’s house. She half listened.
CHAPTER 26
Carol wished she had listened more attentively to Sean’s directions. She had to use her map to navigate. The address wasn’t far from the Sloane Square tube station, and that helped. When she reached the correct block after a couple of wrong turns, she saw that the homes were attached—what she would call row houses. Even Lords lived in row houses.
She stood in front of the brick, three-story structure, wondering whether she actually had the nerve to knock on the door. It didn’t look as foreboding in reality as it had in her imagination. She wondered what her previous self would have done. This was the only lead she had. If she didn’t pursue it, she had nothing left.
The houses were almost right on the street, so she only had to take a few steps to reach the front door. There was even a doorbell. She pressed it and heard a satisfying musical chime coming from inside. Now she was committed. Except that she had an urge to run.
Before she could put that thought into action, the door opened and a uniformed maid regarded Carol with a quizzical look. Not the young and luscious maid of cartoons, but a middle-aged woman with a spreading waistline who had undoubtedly been a fixture here for at least a generation.
“May I help you, dearie?”
“My name is Carol Golden. I would—”
“Yes, yes, of course. Come on in. We knew you were going to call. I just wasn’t picturing a young lass like yourself.”
Carol entered and was surprised to find herself in a house as modern as that belonging to Sebastian Ault. What had she been expecting, the Victorian furniture of a Sherlock Holmes movie? The maid took her jacket and ushered her into a room with hardwood floor, white sofas, and a white carpet that covered part of the floor in front of a fireplace. All this must be hell to keep clean. The spaciousness of the inside told her it was much wider than her vision of a row house.
The maid told her Lord Binghamton would be along shortly and asked her to sit on one of the sofas, which she did, very gingerly, afraid of getting it dirty. Then she looked at the walls. They were covered with framed paintings, many of them old, some of them, she suspected, quite valuable. She stood to see them better. They reminded her of the paintings of the impressionists—Renoir, Monet, Manet, Pizarro. Sean had mentioned Renoir. She knew she had seen paintings by these greats before. Among the paintings here were a number of nudes.
“How do you like my art collection?”
Carol jumped. She had been so intent on looking at the paintings she had ignored the footsteps of the gentleman entering the room. Judging from his upper class accent and his impeccable dress, he must be the lord. He was slightly bent and walked with a cane, but he still carried himself well, even though he might be older than Ault. Were jeans and a sweater appropriate attire in the presence of such an august personage? Too late to worry about that now.
She turned toward him, wondering whether she should bow. “You have a beautiful collection…sir.” She couldn’t bring herself to say “My Lord.”
