‘Are you sure I can’t get you something?’ The woman leaned round with her lips-only, skin-saving smile.
Ellen shut her eyes behind her sunglasses.After a moment of stillness she heard the woman move away, wafting a faint smell of French perfume. It was sharply familiar. Ellen made herself chase its name, hunting back… L’air du something. L’Air du Temps. The air of time …
Next, a male flight attendant appeared. He was polite and distant. ‘Ma’am, if there’s anything at all …’
Ellen shook her head. She could feel them wondering, studying her face with the hidden eyes. I forgot to ask for the right seat, she thought.This must be 2B. She kept her thoughts turning, chasing them along whenever they looked like settling. She always used to have 1B, with 1A kept empty if she was travelling alone. It was noted in her contract. Once there had been a mistake and she had refused to fly. Carter encouraged things like that, he said it added to her style. Carter. She pictured him, delighted and wary on the other end of the phone. You’d better meet me, she thought.
A hostess parted the curtain that hid Economy Class from view and led a young girl up towards the front of the plane. Ellen turned and watched them pass, catching a glimpse of the child’s face, open and bright, her hair neatly parted and drawn into straight, even plaits. Her full skirt swayed from side to side, the hem flicking along arms and armrests as she walked. The door opened briefly, revealing uniformed shoulders and blue sky. Then she was gone.
Ellen hung her head down, dark hair making a curtain that shielded her face. Her hands lay stiff in her lap.
Angel.
Tears rose misty, like a screen against her thoughts, brimming in her eyes and running down her cheeks. Ellen pushed her sunglasses aside and closed her eyes, pressing them hard with her hands. But still more tears came. And with them the images, sharp and painful…
Lizzie bending over Zelda’s dark head, promising ice-cream and dress-ups and stories by the fire.
And then Lizzie waving to Ellen and calling, ‘I’ll bring her back after tea. Give you a chance to catch up with things.’ A shadow of doubt dulls her smile as she searches Ellen’s face. ‘Are you all right?’
Ellen trying to answer, but only nodding her head.
‘Look, I know what it’s like,’ Lizzie says kindly, ‘trying to stay on top of things. Just go easy on yourself, okay? Zelda, run and kiss Mummy, then.’
The girl skips across the yard, long dark hair dancing about her shoulders. Reaching Ellen, she stops and grins. ‘See you later,’ she sings. ‘I’m going with Lizzie, for the whole day!’
Ellen bends over her, feeling blindly for the upturned face. Not daring to breathe, or speak. Pushing her lips against the warm soft skin.
The child wriggles free and runs away.
Back at the hut, Ellen stands with both hands gripping the rough wood of the doorposts. Watching, frozen, as Zelda climbs into Lizzie’s car. The windows are cloudy with dust, the faces inside vague and ghostlike; already fading …
The horn sounds briefly, the car moves off up the track. A patch of red appearing and disappearing between the trees. Then losing itself, finally, in the blue haze of the summer afternoon.
Ellen gasps, breathless, as if the air around her has been suddenly sucked away. Her body sags back against the door. Moments pass. Frozen, endless. Then she rouses herself, turning to face the gloom of the hut. The empty suitcase, waiting dusty under the bed. And the letter, not yet written. The blank white page, lying ready on the table.
Carter met Ellen as she came out through passport control. He drew her quickly aside and studied her for a second before reaching up to hug her close.
‘Babe,’ he said happily. ‘It’s great to see you. Welcome to NewYork.Welcome home. The car’s this way.’
Ellen rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. ‘I feel like death.’
As they drove in silence towards the city, Ellen gazed out at the passing traffic, grey and dirty. Nothing had changed. Nothing. She sensed Carter watching her.
‘Ellen,’ he finally said, ‘if there’s anything I can do. If you want to talk …’ He spoke lightly, almost carelessly, but his eyes were bright with curiosity.
‘No, I don’t want to,’ Ellen said quickly. ‘But—thank you, and thanks for coming for me.There was no-one else I wanted to call.’
Carter searched her face for a moment, then smiled and waved one hand as if to brush her words aside. ‘You don’t know how many meetings I’ve cancelled, how many careers I have mercilessly stalled, just to be here.’
‘Can you take me to some kind of hotel?’
‘Oh I’m sure we can talk some old place into taking you in,’ he joked. He patted her arm. ‘It’s all set up. You’ll have a good rest, I’ll send a car round at seven, and we’ll go out to dinner. Just like old times.’
Ellen leaned back in the deep soft seat and closed her eyes.
The car swept into the wide curving driveway of the hotel. Doormen and bellboys, responding to Carter’s signs, helped Ellen inside and up to her room.
They opened the door to a suite and switched on lights and called her Miss Kirby.
‘Have I been here before?’ she asked Carter.
‘Yes, lots of times. It’s your old suite, but it’s been redecorated. And I guess that’s a new skyscraper outside.’ He crossed to the window. ‘You used to be able to see the Statue of Liberty.’
Ellen followed him over, pausing as she caught sight of a bouquet of flowers in the bedroom. Brief jolt of hope, stillborn. It would be from the management, or perhaps Carter, or even his secretary.
‘Yep, she was right there, behind that tower.’ Carter pointed briefly, then turned. ‘You rest up, babe.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll get some Perrier sent up.’
‘Thanks.’
Ellen followed Carter towards the door. A frown crossed her face. ‘Oh, Carter. I need some money. I mean, there must be money, somewhere, but I don’t know what happened about all that, when we left. James fixed it up.’
Carter stopped still. ‘Honey, I have been pouring money into your account.’ He held out his hand and counted off on his plump fingers. ‘Royalties on the dolls. Young Designs. Commercials. Interest payments. You’re rolling. A flash of doubt flicked over his face. ‘How much do you need? There’s no trouble, is there?’
Ellen shook her head. ‘No. It’s just to live on. You know what it’s like, in the city.’
‘Sure do. Costs you to breathe!’ Carter pulled out a handful of notes and dropped them onto a sideboard. ‘Take this for now. I’ll get Lois to sort things out for you.’
‘Thanks.’ Ellen bent to gather up the money.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Carter paused, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. ‘So—would it be too much to ask where you’ve been—all this time?’
Ellen froze, one hand hovering over the green notes. She had expected questions, but not so soon. She hunted for something to say, but her mind was blank, a dark painful void. When she looked up, her eyes were shiny with tears.
‘Sorry,’ Carter mumbled. ‘You just take it easy, okay? There’s plenty of time.’ He picked up a room service menu and thrust it towards her. ‘You hungry?’
‘No.’
A dense silence came between them. Carter shrugged it off. ‘What can I say, babe? It’s just great to have you back.’
Ellen’s body was hidden beneath a thick layer of bubbles. She breathed in the fragrant steam and carefully relaxed her body. It was her first real bath in years. She looked around at the mirrored walls, velvet towels, plush chair, carpeted floor. This was her world. At least, it had been only a few years ago. Now it would be again. Easy. She had come and gone before, fading or jumping from one kind of life, self, to another. The deeper the cut, the more it hurt, that was all.
She sank down slowly under the foam, feeling it creep up the sides of her face, slightly cooler than the water beneath. She closed her eyes and let the white froth immerse her. Her hair floated, then sank slowly, settling in long strands over her eyes and mouth, swirling like seaweed. Cold fear grasped her. It filled her body, spreading into every nerve. God help me. The small hands beat uselessly, the mouth open, screaming. Mummy! Ellen stiffened, refusing to move. The pain was too great to fight. Instead she forced herself to take hold of it, baring her flesh in its searing flame. Hanging on until, at last, she felt only a dull ache inside her, then a numb and empty hole.
Ellen saw Carter stand, ready to greet her, as the waiter led her across to the table. Other heads turned her way as well—the ordinary rich, looking out for the could-be famous. Ellen sensed their uncertainty as they studied her homemade clothes, trying to decide if the look was hopelessly wrong or just very new.
Carter stared at her as she drew close. Her hair hung in long loose strands, sweeping back over her shoulders as she walked tall and steady. She wore no make-up, but her lips were pink and her skin was smooth and tanned. She watched him with even eyes burning clear.
Carter smiled but said nothing while the waiter arranged Ellen’s chair, hovered briefly and then withdrew.
‘I couldn’t have imagined another look for you,’ he said frankly. ‘But, hell, you look like you were made in heaven!’
Ellen laughed, brushing his compliment aside.
‘No, I mean it,’ Carter insisted. ‘This is it—the new-look Ellen!’ He poured champagne as he talked. It was Veuve Clicquot, with an unblemished label. No silverfish here.
‘And what is it—the new look?’ Ellen asked, in a mock indulgent tone, covering a small knot of unease.
He winked, as if about to make a joke. ‘Eve,’ he stated, ‘fresh from the Garden of Eden.’
Ellen laughed. ‘Carter, listen to me.’ She leaned towards him as she spoke—then pulled back, remembering that he, himself, had taught her to do this: to lean close, intimately, so that the person listening feels that you care. It gets them ready to hear what you want. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know about dancing, or modelling, or anything. I need time to—see.’
Carter nodded, reaching for her shoulder and squeezing it lightly. ‘Sure you do, babe. There’s no need to rush. I’ll just be here.’
Their eyes met. In that moment, Ellen caught a glimpse of the old Carter—the man who always schemed and planned ruthlessly for his own ends. She felt alone and friendless.
‘Ziggy—how’s Ziggy?’ she asked. ‘Years ago—three or four—I saw her in a magazine, an Australian magazine. I couldn’t believe it—’ She broke off, reading a wary look in his eyes. ‘Is she still working?’
‘No.’ Carter glanced around, as if searching for a diversion. ‘She’s been unwell.’
‘Ziggy! She was never sick in her life!’ exclaimed Ellen.
‘Well,’ Carter shrugged, ‘she was nervous, I guess—highly strung.’
‘You mean she’s had a breakdown?’ Ellen pushed him.
‘I don’t know the details.’ Carter answered her in a deliberately calm and gentle voice, a man used to dealing with troubled women. ‘I haven’t seen her for ages myself. I believe she’s staying in a clinic in New England—near where you came from, in fact.’
Ellen was silent, fixing her eyes on him, wanting more. Carter stalled, pouring and drinking more champagne.
Finally he spoke again. ‘I’ve got her address somewhere. I’m sure I have. I sent flowers.’ His face lightened suddenly, as his wandering gaze found its mark. ‘Michael!’
Ellen turned to see a tall man in a creased daytime suit picking his way across the room towards them. No-one looked up as he passed between the tables, a trenchcoat slung over his arm and a battered briefcase in his hand.
‘Ellen, you remember Michael Holland,’ said Carter, motioning for a waiter to bring over another chair. Ellen looked up as the man drew near, and smiled blankly.
‘No.’
‘Sure you do—sit down, Michael.’
The man sank into the chair as if reaching the end of a long journey. ‘Hi,’ he said to Ellen. His attention was caught briefly by her face, but he gave no sign of recognition. He turned to Carter. ‘Where is she?’
Carter faltered for a brief moment, then laughed. ‘You’re a character, Holland.’ He motioned towards Ellen’s face. ‘Look at Ellen, doesn’t she look wonderful? I bet you hardly recognised her.’
Michael’s eyes met Ellen’s. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t. But then it’s been years.’
Ellen nodded. ‘That makes two of us.’
Carter called for more champagne and some menus. ‘Holland, you’ll eat with us, of course.’
Ellen glanced at him in surprise followed by a tinge of doubt.
‘Michael wrote that Cat Man story on you for Teen magazine. Way back when.’
Ellen took a slow drink, her eyes lowered thoughtfully. She remembered the interview. Holland had been keen and serious, asking her questions and covering his ragged notebook with shorthand. She had been young and nervous, but already able to subdue her panic. Sitting politely, swinging her long legs from a high stool, she had answered everything that he asked her. And he had found what he was looking for. She was already a Cinderella rising star and a new Pavlova— a perfect fantasy figure for her peers.Through him, the world learned that her dancing lessons were paid for by a reclusive old man who lived in a crumbling mansion with forty-seven cats. Their chance friendship had begun with a little girl walking home from school, just like anyone … However you looked at the story, it had been a winner. And it was Holland who had taken her picture, pointing his camera up at her on the high stool, her eyes all dark and smudged with remembering and her lips touched by the smallest, faintest smile. Against all plans and traditions, it had made it onto the cover of the magazine. It was there that Carter had first seen her. And everyone else.
‘It’s still one of my best pieces,’ said Michael.
‘You know,’ Carter jerked his head up, as if getting an idea for the first time. ‘Holland would be just the one to do a story on you now You know, “Ellen Returns”.’
‘Thanks. It makes me sound like a Martian,’ Ellen protested. Now it was her turn to glance around, looking for an escape. Carter, she thought, you never miss a trick, do you?
The journalist was already reaching for his notebook. Ellen watched his face, guessing at how he would be sizing up the possibilities, planning his piece. He could re-use bits of the Cat Man story, do a ‘then and now’. Bring up all the innuendo about her sudden disappearance. And ask why, after so many years, she had chosen to come back …
Michael took a pencil from the pocket of his jacket and held it poised over his notebook. He leaned towards Ellen across the table. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘in a way, you seem just the same as you did back then. All those years ago. Where were we? Some little cafe.’ He grinned. ‘You ordered an espresso, and couldn’t drink it.’
‘Did I?’ asked Ellen. ‘I don’t remember things like that.’
‘Ah,’ Michael said, ‘but I do. Journalists never forget.’ He glanced at Carter, who nodded encouragement. ‘Yes,’ he went on, settling back in his chair. ‘I could retell that interview almost word for word.You were ten years old when my story began. And you’d not yet danced a single step. It was the summer of ’59.’
Ellen stood, suddenly, pushing back her chair. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m very tired.’
Carter jumped up with a look of concern on his face and hurried to stand at Ellen’s side. ‘I’ll take you back, right away.’
‘No, thank you.’ Ellen shook his arm off her shoulder. ‘I’ll take a cab.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. Let me go—please.’
Outside the restaurant, she ignored a waiting cab and crossed the road, heading for a small park. Bright yellow street lamps marked her way, but all else around her was grey: grey buildings and footpaths, dark grey roads. Even the night sky, reflecting the lights of the city, was a dull hazy grey, without stars.
She reached the park and walked in amongst the trees. She knew it wasn’t safe to be out here alone at night, but couldn’t face going back to the hotel—to the quiet empty room and the small pile of things she’d brought with her that looked so faded and lost on the wide plush bed.
She found a small bench, almost hidden under a drooping tree, and sat down.The noise of the traffic seemed far away, and the air was freshened with the smell of wet grass. It was almost dark. She thought briefly of Carter and Holland, bent over their meals. She remembered the journalist, now—she could recall his face—though he’d aged a lot in the years that had passed since the day they first met in the cafe. The Footlight Cafe.
Ellen closed her eyes on an image of metal chairs clustered neatly around dark wooden tables. She tried to escape from it, but the memory drew her on—and she saw herself there, perched on a high stool at the counter. Stirring a cup of dark bitter coffee that had long gone cold.
‘How old were you when you first learned to dance?’ he’d asked. ‘Ten.’
Ten years old. A lifetime ago.
Ellen gazed into the gloom, tracing the outlines of the tangled branches, trying to make their pattern fill her mind. But the words and pictures kept on coming.
There was a little girl, with a pale serious face. She was on her way home from school. Walking alone, as she always did …