5. Victoria
5
VICTORIA
I sleep heavily and wake up feeling groggy and lethargic. The events of the evening before feel like a movie scene that I watched with one foot in that hazy dream-world between sleep and being awake. I only know that it was real when I spot the shimmering black dress draped over the chair in front of my dressing table.
Caleb Murray wants me to pretend to be his wife.
Caleb Murray.
I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists like a child waking up on Christmas Day excited to see what Santa left under the tree. I mean, he’s one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. He’s a billionaire. A fucking billionaire . And of all the women in the city he could’ve chosen to fake-wed, he chose me.
“What’s wrong?” a small voice asks. “Are you sick?”
“No, sweetie.” I roll over and stroke the hair away from Abigail’s flushed face, still smiling.
“Are you angry with me for breaking the projector?” Her bottom lip rolls out, and her eyes grow large with tears.
I pull her into me, and hold her tightly, relishing the warmth of her small body next to mine. “No, Abigail, I’m not angry with you. You didn’t mean to break the projector, did you?”
“No. It was already broken. I was trying to fix it, but Mrs. Lawrence said I shouldn’t have touched it, and it was my fault it wouldn’t work.”
I have to push Caleb Murray out of my head until this is resolved. Abigail is more important than a silly projector, and it occurs to me then that I could ask Caleb Murray to replace the kindergarten equipment for me. He wouldn’t even miss the money. It would be like candy money to someone like him.
But firstly, I need to find Mason and speak to Mrs. Lawrence about getting Abigail reinstated back in kindergarten. She can’t have this on her record all through her education. She’s a bright kid, brighter than most kids her age, and it isn’t her fault that the teachers don’t know how to handle her. But most importantly, I need to address the use of the word ‘stupid’ when addressing a five-year-old child.
I scramble eggs for our breakfast, while singing along to old pop songs on the radio channel. It surprises me that Abigail seems to know all the lyrics to songs that were released in the last century. Where does she even learn this stuff?
“Auntie Sienna likes this song,” she says when Cher starts belting out ‘Believe’.
That’s where she learns this stuff.
I try calling Mason, but the call goes straight through to his voicemail. I don’t leave a message; I don’t want Abigail to hear the panic I know I won’t be able to keep from my voice.
Where is he? I can’t believe that he left Abigail alone in the apartment last night. Sure, she was asleep, but anything could’ve happened to her—my pulse races just at the thought of all the terrible things that you read about in the news. I’m just grateful that she’s alright.
Locking Mason away in the same corner-cupboard of my mind as Caleb Murray, I get Abigail dressed and we take the subway to the school.
I’m nervous about meeting Mrs. Lawrence. She’s a stout woman who wears her hair pulled back into a severe bun, no makeup, and ugly practical shoes with patterned socks. It’s my bad that she always reminds me of Miss Trunchbull from Matilda .
Abigail has no such anxiety. She keeps up a steady stream of chatter all the way there, hardly pausing to breathe. She doesn’t even need me to respond, which is just as well as my mind keeps wandering to the feel of Caleb Murray’s tongue in my mouth.
Mrs. Lawrence greets me with a limp handshake, not quite what I expected. It does nothing to ease my nerves though. Mason still hasn’t called me back, and I should’ve given my decision to Caleb already.
“Abigail.” Mrs. Lawrence peers at us from behind her desk, pudgy fingers entwined. “Do you have anything that you would like to say?”
“She didn’t break the projector—” I begin until the head teacher cuts me off with a look that would splinter glass.
“I would like Abigail to answer the question.”
Okay…
“I was trying to fix it,” Abigail says, and my heart melts at the confidence with which she addresses the older woman. I decide on the spot that I will kill anyone who tries to bully this confidence out of her. “Because it was broken.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Lawrence turns her attention back to me. “You understand that this was an expensive piece of equipment that the school will now have to replace.”
“I think I can help with that.” I hope I can help with that, if only one of the wealthiest men in the city doesn’t go back on his promise.
Mrs. Lawrence’s mouth quirks to one side like she seriously doubts I have that kind of money to hand over.
I’m so sick of being the person who works hard and never gets anywhere that my fingers automatically flex, and adrenaline pumps through my veins.
“I want to talk about Abigail being told that she was doing something stupid.” I clear my throat; this is no time to sound feeble and puny. “What she did wasn’t stupid. She has this knack of fixing things around the home, like toys and plugs and…” Stop rambling and get to the point, I admonish myself. “And even if it was a stupid thing to do, it isn’t acceptable for a teacher to use that word in front of a child.”
Mrs. Lawrence’s expression doesn’t falter. “Are you quite finished, Miss Callahan?”
I nod, having already run out of steam.
“In cases like Abigail’s, in my experience at least, regular elementary schools have neither the funding nor the resources to challenge the child and help them to grow. The child subsequently gets bored, and then, in time, gets labelled a troublemaker.”
Wait, it almost sounds like she’s on our side.
“Despite what you might believe, I have Abigail’s best interests at heart,” she continues.
“You do?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of gathering some information for the Lutheran Preparatory Academy.” She slides some leaflets across the desk towards me, and I pick them up moving on autopilot. “The school will be more suited to Abigail’s advanced needs.” Pause. “Unfortunately, it is not government funded.”
My stomach twists as I study the images of young children with smiling faces on the leaflets in my hand. What Mrs. Lawrence is saying is that this is going to cost me more money that I don’t have.
Yet.
By the time Abigail and I are standing on the sidewalk outside the school, I’ve already made up my mind.
We wander into Central Park, find a bench and sit down. While Abigail feeds the birds with a bag of crumbs that I brought with us, I slide the business card from my pocket and message Caleb Murray.
Okay, I’ll do it.
His reply comes straight back to me.
How soon can you get here?
Shit!
I try calling Mason, but his calls are still going straight through to voicemail. I text him: Call me back. It’s urgent! Nothing.
I try Sienna next. As bad as I feel for always falling back on my best friend, Sienna is like a second mom to Abigail, and I trust Sienna with her more than I trust Mason. But she isn’t picking up either. Then I remember that she has a meeting with an art gallery that might want to showcase one of her paintings. I quickly type out another message and hit send:
Good luck!
I scroll through my list of contacts which mostly consists of ex-employers and people I’ve worked with and fallen out of touch with. It doesn’t usually bother me that I’m not like other women who have a vast friendship group, people they meet up with once a week and chat with on the phone every day. But right now, with Abigail suspended from kindergarten, it means that I’m stuck for someone to look after her.
Unless… I wonder if Denise will watch Abigail for half an hour if I take her with me to the Wraith. She can sit at a quiet table with a bowl of ice cream and a reading book, and she’ll be fine.
I type out a message to Denise— Sorry, I need another favor —and then delete it. I’ve already pushed my luck too far, and I didn’t even get a chance to explain to Denise why I got fired, so I figure it will be best to rock up with Abigail and talk to her face to face.
“How do you fancy going to a posh hotel for ice cream?” Okay, so I’m assuming that ice cream will be on the menu, but I’m not lying about the posh hotel bit.
“What flavor ice cream?” Abigail studies me intently.
She’ll recall this conversation word-for-word when we arrive, and if it doesn’t pan out just like I said, it will throw her all out of synch, which will make it harder for me to settle her down at bedtime. But what choice do I have?
“What flavor do you want?”
Her mouth scrunches up to one side while she ponders her favorite ice cream. “Pistachio.”
Pistachio?
“Sure. It’s a fancy hotel. They’ll have every flavor ice cream you can think of.” Please, God, I thin,k let them have fucking pistachio or at least let them have a chef who can whip some up in five minutes.
“What flavor do you want?” The question takes me by surprise.
“Sweetie, I have to go to a meeting with the man who owns the hotel, so I won’t be getting ice cream.”
“Is it a meeting about a job?” She jumps off the bench and waits for me to do the same.
Tears sting my eyes. Abigail doesn’t miss a thing. “Yes, it is. So, I’ll need you to be extra-good for my friend Denise.”
“Who’s Denise?”
She slips her hand into mine and we walk through the park heading towards Manhattan. “A nice lady I’ve known all my life.”
“How come I’ve never met her before?”
“Because she’s very busy.”
This seems to satisfy her, and I try to quell my racing pulse the closer we get to the gleaming black spear of a hotel looming above the skyline.
“You’re not wearing your interview clothes,” she says when FAO Schwarz comes into view.
I peer down at my faded jeans and puffer jacket. She’s right. But I don’t have the time or the energy to go home and come back again; I’m afraid that I’ll talk myself out of what I’m about to do, and Abigail needs this. Sienna needs this.
We all do.
Because now that Caleb Murray has offered me a lifeline out of this way of life, I can’t imagine an alternative future without it, much to my own chagrin. But you know what, he chose me for a reason and, like the poker player bluffing his way through a round, I’m going to play it for all I’m worth.
“This is a different kind of interview.” I grip her hand more tightly. “I can… I can wear whatever I want.” Abigail isn’t the typical five-year-old who will buy into any story I tell her; it has to be believable.
Fifteen minutes later, we stand outside the Wraith, and she tilts her head back to stare at the top. “Why is it black?”
“I guess the owner wanted it to look different than all the other buildings.”
Abigail looks all around and shrugs. “They should’ve made it smaller then.”
I can’t argue with that kind of reasoning.
My heart is racing when we step inside. The young woman behind the reception desk takes one look at Abigail and her eyes widen as if she’s already imagining fingerprints on every surface.
I approach her with a chin-jutting confidence that I don’t feel and hope that Abigail doesn’t mention ice cream. I don’t want to freak the woman out any more than she already is.
“I’m here to see Denise Cartwright.” I smile like this is a regular occurrence. Nothing to worry about at all.
She scans her computer screen, deliberately avoiding eye contact with either of us. “Ms. Cartwright isn’t on site today.”
“She isn’t? Where is she?”
She turns gray-blue eyes my way. No smile. “She’s at the Titan until six p.m.” It’s obvious from her tone that she thinks it’s none of my business.
“Okay.” My mind is galloping at an even faster pace than my heart.
What do I do now? Turn around, walk away, and hope that Caleb Murray doesn’t find someone else to replace me? There must be hundreds of women better suited to the role of a billionaire’s wife than I am, and he probably knows all of them. But I can’t do that.
One glance at Abigail’s huge brown eyes peering up at me, and I know that isn’t an option. This is her future at stake here too.
I have no choice. “I have a meeting arranged with Caleb Murray.”
The woman opens her mouth and closes it again, swallowing whatever it was that she was going to say. Her eyes slide back to the screen in front of her. “There’s nothing in Mr. Murray’s diary.”
I doubt that, but I keep this observation to myself. Spine straight. Try to look like I have as much right as anyone else to be here. “Can you please tell him that Victoria is here to see him?”
“I…” Her eyes settle on the top of Abigail’s head briefly. “I don’t think?—”
“Victoria Murray .” I emphasize the last name. It gets the reaction I was hoping for,
She raises the phone to her ear, turns away, and says, “Miss Ingram, there’s a Victoria Murray here to see Mr. Murray.”
I can imagine Miss Ingram’s face right now. But she must be expecting me too, because the receptionist tells me to take a seat and Mr. Murray’s personal assistant will be down shortly.
Less than a minute later, the elevator door opens, and Miss Ingram steps out, eyes hard as stones and lips forming a narrow line. She falters when she spots Abigail standing beside me, her hand in mine.
“What’s this?”
I knew there was a reason why I didn’t like Miss Ingram.
“This is Abigail.” I force a smile. “My niece.”
“Can we get pistachio ice cream now?” Abigail asks, choosing her moment.