Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
“You’re sure you’re okay helping me?”
Jenna rolls her eyes at me. “For the millionth time, yes. I don’t mind getting into a bit of trouble if it’s for a good cause.”
“Thank you a billion times over.” I hug her petite frame tightly. “Here’s the note to Angela.”
“Got it. I’ll give it to her in an hour or whenever she realizes you’re not here. Whichever one comes first. That should give you enough of a head start. Do you know how you’re getting to Battersea from here?”
I’ve studied the Tube map so often, I picture it in my head when I sleep. “I take the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square and change to the Northern Line for Waterloo Station. Then I catch the South Western Railway to Queenstown Road. Art’s flat is a two-minute walk from the station.”
“That’s an awful lot of changes.” Jenna sounds worried. “Maybe you should take a cab or rideshare instead.”
“Don’t you think the Tube will be faster?”
“No, especially since you’ve never ridden it before.” She shakes her head. “Taking a cab will be about the same amount of time. Not to mention there’s less of a chance of you being recognized.”
I tap my head, feeling the stringy, stiff ends of the wig I’ve borrowed from Jenna.
I’ve gone from a blond with shoulder-length hair to jet-black hair that falls to my hips.
I’ve also exchanged the dress I arrived in for a pair of jeans, a black-and-white striped T-shirt, and gray trainers. “I guess you’re right.”
“So you’ll take the cab, then?”
“Yeah, I will.”
“That’s a relief.” She sighs. “You can walk right over to the Waldorf Astoria across the street. They always have cabs waiting.
“Perfect.” I grin.
“Promise you’ll ring me if there’re any problems,” Jenna urges.
“Deal.” We shake on it.
Jenna and I hold our breaths and wait after she sends a text to her friend Jeremy. A minute later, we hear a knock on the door. As she pulls it open, Jenna occupies the space in the doorway with him, momentarily blocking it from Angela’s view. “Good luck,” she whispers as I creep past her.
Hugging my body to the wall, I move down the hallway as fast I can and slip down the stairs to the lift. My heart is hammering against my ribs as fast as a Formula One race car speeding down a straightaway. So far, so good. If all goes right, I’ll be at Art’s flat in thirty-two minutes.
“This has to work,” I mutter.
The moment I’m outside, I jog across the street to the posh five-star hotel and ask the doorman to hail a car for me. I don’t have to wait long, and soon, I’m inside. I just hope I’m far enough away by the time Jenna hands Angela my note.
I wrote:
Dear Angela,
By now you may have realized that I am no longer enjoying a girls’ afternoon with Jenna.
I’m deeply sorry you’re finding out this way, but there was something extremely personal and important that I needed to take care of alone.
I know I am asking a lot of you, but please trust me when I say I am safe.
As soon as the errand has been completed, I’ll ring you straightaway.
Regards,
Alice
Whether Angela trusts me enough to wait for me to ring her or if she’ll report me to the security office, who knows. Either way, yes, I’ll be in deep trouble, but to me, it’s a risk worth taking. No matter the consequences. Art put everything on the line for me. It’s my turn to return the favor.
Twenty minutes later than I’d planned, the cabbie drops me in front of the Queenstown Road Train Station. Walking across the street to the café, I slip into the back alley and ascend the stairs toward Art’s flat.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
I scrunch my eyes closed. I don’t need to glance at the screen to know its Angela.
Taping the Ignore button, I jog up the remaining four steps and approach the red door of number 4A.
With a shaking hand, I lift the knocker, rap it against the door three times, and wait.
My throat is dry. My legs are quivering.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Ten seconds pass. Then twenty. Thirty. A minute. Two minutes. I preen my ears. I can hear the faint sign of a meow, but no other sounds from within.
I lift the knocker once more. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Two more minutes pass. Nothing. Lifting open the mail slot built into the door, I peek inside. Sharp claws swipe at my fingers.
“Ow.” I pull my hand back and shake it. There’s a small gash and some blood. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.” I don’t have any plasters or tissues on me. Reluctantly, I use the hem of my shirt. It needs washing anyway—what’s a little blood.
Turning my back against the wall, I lean into it and sink down onto the ground. I bend my knees and rest my forehead against them.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I berate myself.
Out of all the scenarios that I’ve run through my head, Art not being home wasn’t one of them.
I had one crack at speaking to him and I’ve failed.
After this escape charade, Angela isn’t going to let me out of her sight ever again.
Well, maybe not forever, but for a very long time.
I pull the wig and wig cap off my head, letting my natural hair tumble free. What do I do now?
“Think, Ali. Think.”
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Option one: I could stay here until Art returns. Except there is no telling how long that’s going to be. He could be working. Or even out of town. But the cats are around, so that’s a positive.
Option two: I could leave a note and slip it through the mail slot. It’s probably faster and more personal than an email. The only thing is, I don’t have any paper. Maybe I could pop into the café downstairs and grab a napkin to scribble a note on.
Option three: I give up and ring Angela to pick me up. That’s likely what’s going to happen eventually, but I came all this way and I’m not leaving without making an effort.
So I suppose the clear winner is option two.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
My head begins to ache. Angela isn’t relenting.
I decide to answer the darn mobile and let her know I’m almost done.
Reaching into my pocket, I grab the device and slide to unlock the screen, mindful of my injured finger.
Taking a deep breath, I begin, “Angela, I’m so, so, so sorry.
I promise I’m going to spend the next five years making it up to you. ”
“Princess Alice! Finally! Where are you?” she asks, sounding exasperated.
“I’m in Battersea.” I give her Art’s address.
“Stay where you are! I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I will.” I apologize to her again and disconnect the call.
Angela is likely still in Covent Garden.
It’ll probably take her about a half hour before she’s here.
I know she asked me to stay where I am, but if I pop down to the Corner Café, it’ll only take a second to find a napkin and borrow a pen.
A good barista never goes far without one.
Besides, technically, it’s just the ground floor of Art’s building.
Inside the café, I spy several customers sitting at tables chatting, while others are working on their laptops. Nearly everyone has a nice ice-cold beverage. Suddenly, I need one too. I’ve forgotten just how thirsty I am from the cab ride and all the running around.
“Can I help you?” a cashier asks in a bored tone.
“Yes. I’d like an iced vanilla soy latte please.”
“Size?”
“Large.”
The cashier pushes a few buttons on the register. “Your name?”
“It’s Ali—son,” I sputter, momentarily forgetting myself. Luckily, the cashier doesn’t seem to notice. She scribbles something on a cup and rings me up. I pay with my mobile. Just as I start to step off to the side, I pause. “Oh, do you have an extra pen I could borrow?”
The cashier wrinkles her nose.
“I promise I’ll give it right back.”
Wordlessly, she reaches into her pocket and slides a black marker across the counter to me. “See that you do.”
“Thanks.” Smiling brightly, I dash over to the condiments area and swipe a napkin from the dispenser. I only need one, but they’re packed so tightly, I have to grab a wad of them to get any out.
Uncapping the pen, I begin to write:
Dear Art,
I’m sorry we missed one another. I’m so sorry for everything. You have no idea how much I’ve been dying to see you so we can . . .
A person walks up behind me. I hear them coughing. I turn my head.
“Do you mind?” a man dressed in a blue football jersey and black joggers asks.
I blink a few times.
He frowns. “I’m trying to get to the creamer.” He holds up a paper cup.
“Oh right. Sorry.” I hastily grab my napkins and pen and step to the side, using the lid of the rubbish bin as my new countertop.
. . . talk things out and make things right. I completely understand if . . .
“Alison!” the barista shouts.
. . . you don’t want . . .
“Order for Alison,” she repeats.
Recapping the pen, I hurry over and pick up the drink. But the barista holds it hostage, putting out her hand. “Pen first.”
“I’m not quite done. I need it for two more seconds.”
She slides the drink back toward her, tapping her fingers against the counter. Reading between the lines, I quickly finish writing.
. . . anything more to do with me. I hope we can at least still be friends. Please email or ring me anytime. My number, in case you don’t have it, is + 44 0712 345678. My email is a.wales@.
-Alice
Internally, I’m cringing. There is so much more I wish I could say, but I’m out of time. This soddy note will have to do.
“All done.”
Like a crocodile snapping its jaws shut, the barista curls her fingers around the marker and slams my drink toward me. The top comes off, spilling some of the coffee onto the counter and my shirt. I inhale sharply.
For a split second, our eyes meet. Hers are cold and give off a It’s not my fault you didn’t move fast enough vibe.
“Hey, lady, I’m ready to order,” a teenager shouts from the register.