I tried to slow my brain to rational-thought speed as I packed my things. My fifty dollar traveler’s check would probably buy me a couple of nights in a cheap hotel. Then I could wire Uncle Con for money. Who knows—Wogs and Judy could be safely back in Kennebunkport by now, with no need for secrecy. I only needed money for—how long? I couldn’t remember exactly how many days I had to survive until my flight to Boston. I checked in my purse for my ticket in its TWA folder behind my passport.
But the folder was empty.
No ticket inside.
My non-refundable, non-replaceable ticket to home and sanity was gone.
I stared at the dog-eared folder, feeling as if a large stone had fallen on my chest.
Alistair had stolen my ticket, the bastard. More Gaslighting He must have hidden it somewhere. Somewhere stupid. To prove what a flake I was—and how I needed him.
I ransacked the bedroom, then his office, throwing random things across the room in an act of pure rage. It eased my pain somehow, making that mess. He was such a neat freak. I got into a kind of rhythm, opening drawers and flipping through stacks of papers, then letting them fan out as I tossed them on the floor.
I was having such vengeful fun, I didn’t notice he’d come home until he spoke.
“I’m telling myself this is about your jealousy of Thea, and not a comment on the quality of those manuscripts.” He spoke in a lazy voice, resting against the doorjamb, smirking.
I wanted to hit him.
“Thea?” I could hardly spit out her irrelevant name. “I don’t give a fuck if you fuck Thea. But what I do give a fuck about…” It felt good to say the “f” word. I sounded like Delia. “You stole from me, Alistair. You may call it ‘Gaslighting’, but it’s stealing.”
“You’re destroying my life’s work because I hid your cigarettes? That’s a serious addiction you have there, Nick.”
He kept his smirk on.
My head roared. “My ticket, Alistair. My plane ticket back to Boston. Where is it? Where did you put it, you bastard?” I lunged at him, ignoring his injuries. I wanted to make him hurt—anything to force him to tell the damned truth.
I think I was as surprised as he was when my fist hit his right cheek, just below the bandage. He howled and grabbed my wrist with his good arm. I couldn’t believe how strong his grip was.
“Stop, Nicky! For god’s sake.” He looked directly in my face, his eyes cold. “Have you gone insane? What plane ticket? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I met his gaze with coldness of my own. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Do you think you can keep me a prisoner here? A little pet heiress to keep around so Delia Kent thinks you’re rich and studly?”
He released my arm. “Of course you’re not a prisoner. You’re free to go. Any time.” He stomped down the hall to the front door, which he opened to a blast of cold air. He held it open. “Now would be good.” The smirk had come back.
I grabbed my pack from the bedroom and ran out into the night. I didn’t stop until I was half way to Grosvener Square and realized I didn’t have a clue why I was heading there—or anywhere. I had no place to go.
Alistair wanted to make me feel crazy—and he’d succeeded. I felt like screaming out loud like some street lunatic—screaming my rage at the traffic lights, the drizzly sky, the whole city of London. I kept walking faster and faster toward…what? I didn’t know any cheap hotels. I had my Frommer’s guidebook in my pack, but it was buried. I probably couldn’t read it by the wimpy streetlamps, anyway. I kept walking, my breath coming in painful huffs and puffs, but I couldn’t stop. Somehow I had to put as much distance as possible between me and sadistic, crazy, smirking Alistair Milbourne.
But that wasn’t going to be much of a distance was it? Not without a ticket home.
I put down my pack and looked out at Grosvener Square, just ahead. Shadowy men lurked near a couple of benches near the statue of FDR. The American Embassy loomed like some great Fascist tomb. The drizzle was starting to soak into my hair. I had to get shelter somewhere. I shouldered my pack again and made a run for the lights of Oxford Street and the tube station. People looked funny at me as I ran by, but I didn’t care. When I finally got underground, I stood panting in front of the tube map, not feeling any safer. I lit a cigarette and stared at the map, trying to focus. Where the hell was I going? My eye immediately went to the brown path of the Bakerloo line that led to the Maida Vale stop.
Of course. I had no choice. I had to go to the Brontës. I looked at my watch. Not eleven yet. They’d still be awake. Maybe creepy Grayson Bell and his traveling freak show had moved on. I could hope.
Emily greeted me with an oddly enthusiastic hug. “Nick! Thank god you’re here! We had no idea how to get in touch with you. Anne thought you might…” She turned and called over her shoulder. “Anne, Nicky Conway is here. All in one piece.”
Anne came running, looking bleary eyed, as if she’d been asleep, although she wasn’t dressed for bed. She, too, hugged me with unprecedented enthusiasm.
“Let me make us some tea. I think I fell asleep reading. I’m done in from cleaning all day. Housecleaners should get more money than they do, don’t you think? It’s exhausting work.”
They walked me back to the kitchen—which I hardly recognized as the same place. The table was cleared and the only dishes in evidence were washed and neatly arranged in the drying rack.
“You’ve, um, really spruced things up.”
I didn’t want to ask about the mouse.
“Things were such a mess when you came by,” Emily said. “I’m so embarrassed we let it get that grotty. We had to spend two days cleaning after we finally kicked them out—Horst and his filthy friends.”
Anne made a face. “We found them having a threesome in my bed.”
“And stealing,” Emily said. “I kept losing my earrings. And music tapes. Then I saw a whole stack of tapes in her pack—that bitch, whatsherface.”
“Kaatje. I think that’s Africaans for skanky whore.” Anne rolled her eyes. “We made her dump out her pack and we found scarves, jewelry, clothes—and then your ticket. We’ve been going crazy trying to figure out where you might be so we could give it back to you.”
Emily snorted. “Anne even wanted to contact Alistair Milbourne—as if you’d be stupid enough to fall for his line of bull again.”
I didn’t hear much after the word “ticket.” It took a moment before I could get the words out. “My ticket? Are you talking about my return plane ticket to Boston?”
“TWA from Heathrow to Logan. September 15th.” Anne said. “Kaatje had it in her purse. I don’t know how she thought she was going to use it. She’s like, half your height.” She poured me a cup of tea and put it on the table.
“My ticket. You have my ticket. Alistair didn’t steal it.” I said the words slowly, fitting them into my brain, as my rage at poor Alistair subsided. “I didn’t miss it until today because I still had the folder. The TWA folder—with my itinerary and stuff.”
“Alistair? You’re really in touch with Alistair Milbourne? See, I told you.” Anne turned to Emily with exaggerated smugness.
Emily sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you used to be really into him, but I thought you were over it. He came here one day last winter, but I refused to let him in. He went all looneytunes and threatened to kill himself. Total creep-out. I got it on with him maybe once—and that was just because I was screamingly bored with Herodotus.”
Anne looked at me with concern. “Are you really involved with him again? We read in the Times that somebody named Alistair Milbourne tried to jump off London Bridge a couple of days ago. Was that him?”
I took a sip of tea and tried to decide how to frame my story. I didn’t want to make Alistair sound too awful. After all, he hadn’t actually stolen my ticket. He’d just tried to get me to stop smoking. And flirted a little with a Greek heiress. He didn’t deserve what I’d done to his manuscripts. Or to be hit. I’d hit the poor man—and I was supposed to be taking care of him. I wondered if I should phone and apologize right now. Probably too late. But I should call first thing in the morning. I’d left an injured, suicidal man alone after hurting him and accusing him of a terrible thing he didn’t do.
So I toned down my suspicions that Alistair had only faked the suicide attempt. I told them he probably tried to jump for real because he was in love with Delia Kent. Or because Dame Mary Whitlock said his play sucked. Or because his mother was a monster. Or all of the above. And how I thought he was getting over it and maybe we had something real going on between us until he started flirting with Dimitrios Pop-o-whatsis’s daughter. And left me alone with a plate of overdone Beef Wellington. And hid my cigarettes. And then I’d gone nuts and accused him of stealing my ticket. And he’d thrown me out into the London night.
Which I probably deserved.
But Anne and Emily said I didn’t. While the three of us finished up their whole pack of Marlboros.
It was close to two AM by the time we went to bed. They were full of advice on what I should and shouldn’t have done in dealing with Alistair. And how I must not have any more contact with him, no matter what. They also offered up copious apologies for their “druggy kleptomaniac friends.” They didn’t mention Grayson by name, but I imagined he’d been helping himself to their stuff along with the other travelers. And having orgies in other people’s beds. That sounded like him.
They ushered me into the tiny former maid’s room where the vagabonds had been sleeping. But the hippie crash pad look had been banished. A daybed was made up with a pretty rose coverlet and fresh sheets. They said I was welcome to stay until my flight home if I wanted. As I slid into the smooth sheets, I felt a pang when I realized I hadn’t actually got my ticket from the Brontës. Silly, but I wanted it back in its folder next to my passport. I was kind of over the traveling thing and only wanted to be home. As I drifted off, I flashed on an image of Alistair alone in the cottage, trying to get into his pajamas with only one arm. I felt bad for a moment, but the guilt didn’t keep me from falling into the deepest sleep I’d had in weeks.
In the morning, over toast and lemon curd and tea, I thanked the Brontës again for their hospitality, and for saving my derrière by finding my plane ticket.
“I think I’ll feel better when I have it back in my own little hands,” I said, pouring milk into my second cup of tea. “Where is it?”
The two women gave each other a look that made me freeze mid-pour. My hands shook as I put the milk bottle back on the table. I wanted the pregnant pause to end in a punch line. But it went on. And on.
“Um, is there something wrong with my ticket?”
Anne harrumphed. “No. The ticket’s fine. But we thought it made sense to give it to your friend, because he was going looking for you. We wanted to get it to you as soon as possible. He said he knew how to get in touch with your family in Kennebunkport…”
As my brain screamed, Emily interrupted. “We didn’t have any idea where to find you and he said he could find out where you were staying from your uncle.”
My sip of tea wouldn’t go down for several seconds. Grayson. He hadn’t left with the rest of them. He was still here. Or somewhere. With my ticket.
“Don’t worry,” Emily said. “He’s coming back this morning to tell us what he found. He’ll have the ticket with him, I’m sure.”
What could be worse? When I thought Alistair had my ticket, I’d held some hope he’d give it back. But not Grayson. Or if he did intend to return it, he was sure to ask a terrible price.
“What’s wrong?” Anne said. “Do you need to lie down? We shouldn’t have kept you up so late last night. It must have been such an ordeal, living with Alistair with him faking a suicides and Gaslighting you. It’s like you were Ingrid Bergman in that movie.”
I reminded them the suicide might not have been fake.
But Emily ignored this and gave me a big smile. “Better to be Angela Lansbury. You know, you kind of look like her—doesn’t she, Anne?”
“Yes. She does,” a voice said from the hallway. A male voice.
I froze, unable to turn around. I felt two hands on my shoulders. They were warm, but my own body had gone corpse-cold.
“Don’t I get a hug? I’ve been protecting you from the dark threat of Communism, Miss Conway. Stopping Ho Chi Minh from landing on the beaches of Kennebunkport.”
I turned and was engulfed in khaki. A uniformed soldier squeezed me against his hard body with powerful arms. Not Grayson Bell’s skinny appendages. He smelled clean and sexy and familiar—like Dial soap and Old Spice.
But I didn’t have a have a clue who the man was.