A Voice in the Night, page 10
A smirk appeared in the corner of Brian’s mouth. ‘Sure. You got it.’ He sloped off, but not before he gave Lucie a backwards glance.
Martin slipped back onto his stool. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘How do you know Brian?’
‘We play squash together.’ He straightened and buttoned his jacket in an effort, Lucie supposed, to look professional. ‘Sorry, it was a mistake coming here. If you don’t mind, could you look like you’re taking notes?’
So far, she hadn’t met any of his friends or colleagues. He couldn’t afford the scandal, he said, nor did he want her tainted by the label of ‘the other woman’. It meant she’d never seen him through the filter of someone else’s relationship with him; hadn’t had a chance to discover how he socialised with friends, or learn things about him he’d never otherwise reveal.
She propped a notepad on the counter and waved a pen in the air for the benefit of Brian. ‘You better ask me some complex questions. Play this for real.’
Martin grinned. ‘Tell me something I don’t know about you.’
‘Like what?’
‘Your all-time favourite book.’
‘Anna Karenina,’ she said without hesitation.
‘No? That’s crazy. Me too.’ He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and she spilled over with longing for him. ‘I guess it makes sense.’
‘How so?’
‘We both enjoyed reading about an affair so much, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.’
She’d never asked him if she was his first extramarital dalliance, and while she itched to know, she dreaded discovering a parade of lovelies before her. ‘Your turn. If you had the chance to live somewhere else, where would it be?’
‘That’s easy—Oxford in England, for sure. Gee, what a great old town. I went over for a conference, couldn’t get over the place. The history, the buildings, the weight of learned forebears. If I had my time over, I’d be born British and go to that university. It even smells of old age.’
Lucie giggled. ‘Can you judge a city by its aroma?’
‘Sure you can. Think about Manhattan in summer: that quintessential smell of food, garbage and people. Riches mixed with poverty.’
‘Sydney smells of sunshine and blue skies.’
‘Is that where you’d go?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’ There were too many places on her bucket list to explore before she returned home. ‘First I want to do a stint in London. Imagine being a hop flight from so many amazing places, like Venice, Paris, Geneva … Although if I got in with a big international firm, I’d try for a posting in Asia—Hong Kong, Singapore, even Tokyo.’
Martin fell silent. ‘I forget how young you are.’
‘We could travel together.’
‘Holidays, yeah. Not quite the same, is it?’ He stroked her hand under the table. ‘Tell you what, I promise I’ll take you to England some day, and we’ll explore those cobbled streets, churches and cute villages.’
Was he hinting at being closer to leaving Penelope. ‘Does that mean—?’
He pressed his index finger against her lips. ‘Ssh. Don’t let’s wreck the evening.’
‘Be careful.’ She looked over his shoulder, but there was no sign of Brian. ‘I think your friend has left.’
‘Good. Let’s order.’ He snapped his fingers at the barman. ‘Menu, please.’
Dinner out—anywhere out—was a rarity. And the mention of an overseas trip. Surely, surely, their time was coming. She bit back a smile. Patience. She needed patience.
‘You happy for me to choose?’ He pulled his glasses from his breast pocket and perused the menu. She marvelled at how his face altered from cheeky to professional when his eyes went behind those classic circular frames. ‘Anything you don’t eat?’
‘Oysters.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Tofu. Rice pudding. You?’
‘Thousand Island dressing.’
‘You’re limiting our choices here.’
‘Babe, as long as I get to have you for dessert, I’ll be a satisfied man.’
Lucie touched pen to paper. ‘I’ll make a note of that, Mr Cornish.’
NEW YORK
PRESENT
The Algonquin Hotel didn’t disappoint with its lush Edwardian styling and sumptuous lobby filled with potted plants and leather sofas. All the time Lucie had lived in New York she’d never paid a visit, and she took a moment to explore the Round Table Restaurant and the Blue Bar, imagining Dorothy Parker holding court and the literati who’d debated and partied there for more than a century.
As befitted a hotel for writers, her small, elegant room had a work desk beneath a black-and-white photograph of 1920s New York. After showering then changing into a pair of warmer slacks, multilayered tops and fur-lined boots, Lucie headed onto West 44th. The wind whistled up the street, and she tamed her hair into a makeshift knot. She stood on the sidewalk, tugged on gloves, and gazed up at the towering buildings. The years dropped away, taking her back to the turn of the century, her life ahead of her, in love with Mr Right, and planning a glittering future where anything was possible and everything an adventure.
She made her first priority a visit to Ground Zero, although she dreaded reliving it all. And the significance of the day wasn’t lost on her: it would have been Martin’s fifty-eighth birthday. Serendipity.
The bus dropped her in Church Street, where the breeze had whipped into fierce gusts. Her hair escaped from its scrunchie, and she rummaged in her bag for a woollen beret. Swallowing hard, she walked across the forecourt of the World Trade Center Memorial to where once the North Tower had dominated. She struggled to summon up one hundred-ten storeys rising into the sky, filled with people going about their business, earning a living, arguing, doing deals. This hole in the ground, walled and lined with charcoal stone, obliterated all signs mankind had ever inhabited here, except for the names carved in relentless lines.
As she looked into the depths of the building’s footprint, water streaming down its carcass into a pool, it seemed laughable that Martin had somehow escaped the carnage. And even if he had, she’d still lost him. He’d vanished from the lives of everyone who knew him. To conjure wild theories about him behaving in a cowardly or shameful way seemed outrageous—and disrespectful. All who had died here deserved to be remembered as heroes. She wrapped her coat tighter around her body and gave herself up to this moment: at last she had a place to mourn him, pray for him, say her final farewell.
Around her, adults and children—some in reverence, others out of curiosity—circled the vast memorial, their faces bleak and strained. Conversation was muted, peppered by murmured sadness at the loss of a pregnant mother, a first responder, a flight captain. Lucie edged her slow way among the sombre visitors, along three sides of the former building, until she saw his name: Martin Franklin Cornish. She traced her gloved finger over each letter, etched in bronze into the stonework.
A white rose stood vibrant and tall, fitting perfectly into a small hole next to the M. Odd. Had someone been here earlier to say a prayer and pay their respects? She stroked the petals, which fluttered in the brisk wind coming off the Hudson. Then her tears flowed; not just for her loss, but for all of them. At Ground Zero, the ghosts lived on.
A voice—female, nasal—dragged her from her reverie. ‘They do it for everyone. The rose.’
Lucie wiped away stinging tears with the elbow of her coat, and turned to the small, pale-faced woman next to her. ‘Oh?’
‘The authorities. They place a rose in those holes on their birthdays. Remembering the dead. God knows how long they’ll keep doing it.’ She nodded at the rows of names. ‘Friend?’
Lucie wished she’d go away, not wanting to share this moment—not with a stranger, not with anyone. Giving a polite nod, Lucie turned back to the memorial.
‘Sorry.’ The woman moved off. Then stopped. ‘Normally there’s water fountains—too windy today.’
‘I prefer it this way.’ Lucie didn’t know why she said it. After all, she’d never been here before. Well, not since they’d gouged out the charred remains and turned a place of terror and destruction into this permanent tribute to lost lives. She pretended to study name upon name upon name.
‘Bye, then.’ Finally the woman moved on, and Lucie returned her focus to Martin. But the moment was broken.
She stared over at the museum and shuddered. Living through those days was enough; she didn’t need to see relics neatly labelled for public consumption. The smell of ash, the stink of fear, the hundreds of Have you seen? posters stuck on wire fencing would stay in her memory forever.
She took the white rose from its holder, heard a sharp intake of breath from a man standing beside her, and pushed the flower into the buttonhole of her coat’s lapel. At least she could take this small—very small—part of Martin with her. She’d press the petals between the pages of Anna Karenina, one last private joke between them. She again quashed the notion that maybe the joke was on her.
She walked to Greenwich Street and thrust her arm out for a yellow cab. As the taxi eased its way back past the memorial, she mouthed ‘goodbye’ to Martin and settled in for the slow crawl to the Upper West Side. Not much had changed: the same Walk signs, potholes and steam rising from the sidewalk grates. The same press of people, smart and determined. The same stop-start traffic and constant blare of sirens.
Soon the bustling crowds thinned, office high-rises giving way to apartment buildings. When they pulled in at the corner of 72nd and Riverside, she saw the building had been spruced up: glossy black paint now outlined the windows, and a revolving door had replaced the swing ones. Inside, the doorman’s high, heavy oak counter had been taken out, leaving the mail cubbyholes accessible with miniature lockable doors. Even the lifts had been modernised with silent sliding doors instead of concertina gates. Small, disorienting changes that further erased the past, nudging Lucie askew.
A large, liveried black man stood behind the desk, more of a lectern now, that occupied the corner inside the entrance. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ he asked with a bright smile.
Lucie cocked her head. ‘Alby?’
‘Why, yes.’ He looked pleased.
‘I lived here. Sort of. Years ago. You wouldn’t remember.’
Grey strands now flecked his black hair, and the buttons of his jacket strained a little to hold in his belly. But his eyes still held sympathetic warmth—the eyes of a trustworthy man. He squinted at her. ‘I remember you. The Aussie girl.’ He pronounced it ‘orzi’. Easing his ample frame from behind the desk, he asked, ‘You back on holiday?’
‘Passing through.’ Now that she was standing there, she wasn’t sure how to open the conversation. ‘Actually, I hoped you’d be here. I wanted to ask you about that day.’
Alby raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean 9/11?’
She nodded and bit her bottom lip. ‘I’m wondering what you remember from that morning. More specifically, if you remember anything about Martin. Martin Cornish.’
‘Let’s sit,’ Alby said, voice gentle. He took her elbow and steered her through the lobby, and they sat side by side on a hard, stylish bench. ‘You’re not the first to ask me,’ he said. ‘His wife stopped by one time … Penelope, her name was. Maybe twelve years or so back. She asked questions, too. I didn’t tell her nothin’.’ He scratched his head. ‘Not sure why—didn’t take to her, I guess. And I felt sorry for you. Sorrier for you than for her.’
Lucie kept her hands clenched in her lap. She hadn’t expected to learn Penelope had come back. ‘What questions?’
Alby hesitated. ‘About you, I s’pose. She wanted to know if her husband had many visitors. Women visitors. It’s not my place to say. So I said nothin’.’
‘Thank you, Alby.’ Lucie exhaled the breath she’d been holding.
‘But Lawson—the other doorman back then—he overheard. “Oh, you must mean the young blonde lady,” he said.’ Alby tilted his head and spoke to the ceiling. ‘That Penelope, she kept her face straight as a poker. “That’s right,” she said. “I want to find her. I’ve got something to give her. Do you know where she worked? Or her name?”’ Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Alby wiped his brow. ‘I didn’t like her tone. Told her we didn’t know nothin’—well, tell truth, I didn’t know your name. Lawson, he looked at me and saw I meant business, and he shook his head. “Sorry, can’t help,” he said.’
Lucie’s ears pricked up. Had Penelope really wanted to give her something? Or had it merely been a ruse to get information. ‘Is that all?’
‘She tried to give us money. I refused, told her she’d be wasting her time. She left then, looking sour as a winter lemon.’
So Penelope had known or had suspicions about the affair, yet it had taken her seven or eight years to start digging. Why? Lucie knew very little about the woman. Would it have crushed her to discover Martin’s infidelity, or had she found out and not cared? Either way, something must have happened to suddenly pique her interest.
A discreet cough from Alby caught Lucie’s attention. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ he said. ‘After she’d gone, Lawson told me, “I could’ve used that money. I could’ve told her about the other woman.’”
‘Other woman?’ Lucie’s voice rose involuntarily.
Alby patted her knee. ‘Your Martin wasn’t two-timing you. His PA—Lawson didn’t know her name—was waiting for him that morning, here in the lobby. She had a whole stack of papers, said Martin had to sign them so she could get ’em to his lawyers, or maybe she said “City Hall”—Lawson couldn’t remember.’
‘And did he sign them?’ Her heart rate picked up at the thought of Martin being delayed, making him late for his meeting, and missing the elevator to the 102nd floor and certain death. Don’t believe it. It’s nonsense.
‘Lawson didn’t know. Mr Cornish, he just left with the lady in a hurry.’
‘Are you in touch with Lawson? Could I talk to him, see what else he can remember?’
Alby’s eyes grew damp. ‘Sorry, miss, but Lawson passed on three years ago.’
‘Oh, sorry to hear that.’ Another dead end. ‘Did Penelope leave an address or mention where she lived?’
‘Nope. She wasn’t one to shoot the breeze. Some letters—bills—came for Mr Cornish after he died, but we sent ’em to his office.’ Lucie shook Alby’s hand and said goodbye. On the sidewalk she scanned the building’s facade, and when she spotted the eleventh-floor apartment a swell of memories beset her. Not for the first time, she wondered what Martin had planned to tell her that night over dinner.
Deep in thought, she headed back towards midtown by cutting through Central Park. The chance of locating the PA seemed slim, but as far as Lucie could fathom, she was the only person able to she’d light on Martin’s movements that morning, unless she’d shared details of their final meeting with colleagues.
Exiting the park at 59th Street and Fifth Avenue, Lucie walked on until she spied Barnes & Noble, where she took the escalator to the cafe. Once settled with a coffee, she googled Martin’s old firm. It had moved premises since 2001; these days it was located in Hearst Tower. She checked out the senior management and saw that most were either too young to have known Martin or had not been with the business long enough. Two names stood out: Lyle Jackson and Teri Radtke. Lyle was described as a founding partner; Teri the whiz-kid who, over twenty years, had climbed the ranks from secretary to director. Could she have been Martin’s PA? Lucie’s cappuccino went cold as she checked the woman’s bio, LinkedIn profile, and many Google mentions—‘inspiring speaker’, ‘dedicated LGBT+ rights advocate’, ‘occasional New Yorker columnist’.
Before Lucie could tell herself it was a bad idea, she had dialled the firm. Teri was out of the office, so Lucie asked to be put through to Lyle. With scant idea of how she’d explain herself, she plunged in.
‘Yes?’ he snapped down the phone.
She swallowed, then affected a breezy tone. ‘I’m Jane Franklin from Yesterday’s News Today. I’m researching for a documentary the channel’s producing called The Lost Men!’
‘Yes.’ Lyle clearly meant ‘get on with it’.
‘We’re keen to talk to colleagues and friends of up-and-coming business stars whose lives were cruelly cut short by the events of 9/11.’
He grunted. ‘Martin Cornish. Don’t you people ever give up on new angles that’ll dredge it all up again?’
‘It’s in the public interest, sir. Did you know Mr Cornish? Would you talk to me about him?’
‘No.’
‘But—’
‘Speak to my associate, Teri Radtke. She was his PA. I didn’t know the guy well, but I’ll tell you this for nothing, and off the record, Martin Cornish would never have made it big. So you’re wasting your time.’
For a split second, she hesitated. “That’s not what our initial research tells us. How so?’
Lyle paused. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’ He hung up.
Lucie stared at her phone, incredulous. Why badmouth a dead man, even off the record? Perhaps Lyle still felt professional jealousy—or was this a settling of old scores? Her stomach turned. What if something more insidious was going on, something that reflected badly on Martin? Something that could destroy her memory of him, and make a mockery of the years she’d spent idealising and mourning their time together. She put her phone in her bag. You’re being stupid, Lucie, letting your imagination run riot.
She took the escalator down to Fifth Avenue. As she stepped into light flakes of snow, her phone rang. A number she didn’t recognise.
‘This is Teri Radtke. You called?’
Lucie hadn’t expected her to respond so soon. ‘Yes, my name is Jane …’ Her mind went blank, unable to remember the fabricated name.
