Crosstalk (26 page)

Her phone rang.
Please don't let this be any of my family,
she thought.
I've had all I can take.

It wasn't. It was the taxi. She told the driver she'd be right down, tried one last drawer, where, luckily, she found the evening bag, stuffed her lipstick, comb, credit card, keys, and phone into it, and ran downstairs. She was already in the taxi and halfway down the block when she realized she hadn't eaten anything, and they weren't going to have dinner till after the play. Well, maybe if she got there early, she could grab something at Starbucks.

But it didn't look like that would be the case. They ran into stop-and-go traffic almost as soon as they turned onto Linden.
Of course,
Briddey thought.
It's Saturday night
. She was doubly glad she'd decided not to drive.

“Holy shit!” the driver exclaimed a block later. “Look at this traffic. It's a fucking nightmare!”

“I know,” Briddey said, looking ahead at the sea of red brake lights.

“What did you say?” the driver asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

She leaned forward and put her hands on the back of the front seat. “I said, ‘I know.' ”

“Know what?”

Oh, God,
she thought.
He didn't say that out loud.
“Nothing,” she said. “Sorry.”

“You okay?” the driver asked, frowning at her in the rearview mirror.

“Yes,” she said, and tried to smile. “I was just talking to myself.” And, as soon as they were moving again, slid over to the other side so she could see if his mouth was moving the next time she heard someone speak, but it wasn't necessary. She recognized the other voices.

And if Commspan's laying people off, you can bet Motorola is, too,
Art Sampson fretted; Lorraine said,
If I have to put up with my supervisor one more day…
; and the florist guy said,
I just hope I don't have to make any more deliveries out there.

Two blocks later Jill said,
I'm having ramen noodles for dinner, and she's going to Luminesce! It's not fair! Just because she's got that red hair, she thinks she's so wonderful! I'll bet you anything it isn't even natural!

C.B. wasn't lying about that either,
Briddey thought.
It
is
just like being stuck in the bathroom in middle school.

I've delivered four arrangements for that Worth guy in one week,
the deliveryman said.
He must be cheating on her big-time. Or else she won't put out, and he's trying to sweet-talk her into it!

“Trent's taking me to Luminesce!”
Jill mocked, her voice dripping with contempt.
“Trent's taking me to Iridium!” “Trent and I are getting an EED!”

“I'm sorry about all this traffic,” the taxi driver said. “I'm going to see if I can find something better.” He turned onto Lincoln, which was better for several blocks before the traffic came to a complete stop. “What time's this thing you're going to?”

“Eight o'clock.”
But it doesn't matter. Trent and I aren't going to the play. I can't with all these voices yammering at me.
And, as if to drive home the point, she suddenly heard Phillip say,
…redhead in that car looks like Briddey Flannigan. You can't tell me Worth's getting that EED done to “connect” with her mind. He's doing it for the sex…Wouldn't mind nailing her myself…

Telepathy is a
terrible
idea,
Briddey thought.
And the sooner I tell Trent about this, the better.
She had to convince him to forget about seeing
Dropped Call
and agree to go someplace where she could explain everything.

And hope he believed her. I
didn't, even after it happened to me,
she thought, remembering how she'd accused C.B. of bugging her hospital room, of playing a cruel trick on her.

And he was,
she thought, furious all over again. But would Trent do the same thing she had, accuse her of making up a crazy story to explain why they hadn't connected? Or worse, think she was insane?

No,
she thought.
Of course he'll believe you. He loves you. C.B. only told you that story about people who hear voices being automatically diagnosed with schizophrenia to keep you from telling Trent.

She leaned forward to see how far they were. They were still nowhere near the theater. She glanced at her phone. Seven thirty. “I'm doing the best I can,” the driver muttered.

“I know,” she said, then thought,
Oh, God, what if he didn't say that either?

But apparently he had because he said, “Don't worry, I'll get you there on time.” He leaned on his horn and roared into the left-hand lane with only millimeters between them and the cars behind and ahead.

Briddey shrank back in her seat. She debated telling him she'd walk from here, but he'd have to pull over to the curb to let her out, which would probably get them both killed, and it might actually be better if she arrived late. If the play'd already started, it'd be easier for her to persuade Trent to forget about seeing it and go somewhere to talk. If the traffic would just cooperate for another half hour…

But after another block of gridlock, honking, and near accidents, the traffic suddenly parted like the Red Sea, and her driver swooped up to the door of the theater and deposited her, saying, “I told you I'd get you here on time.”

And you did,
Briddey thought, looking at the sidewalk full of theatergoers.
Unfortunately.
The people were obviously in no hurry to go inside. They stood there in little knots, smoking, or chatting casually and greeting friends. Briddey glanced at her phone. Only seven forty-five.

She couldn't see Trent anywhere.
Maybe he got caught in traffic, too, and isn't here yet,
she thought hopefully. If
he
was late, that would be even better. She paid the driver and went inside.

And stopped short. The spacious lobby was packed.
C.B. said I shouldn't go anywhere crowded,
she thought, but if he'd meant it would trigger more voices, it didn't. The only voices she heard were from the people around her, chattering about the traffic and the play: “Do you know what it's about?” “No, but it won a Tony.” “I
love
your coat!” “…absolute nightmare getting here.”

She made a circuit of the lobby looking for Trent, slipping between groups of dressed-up women and men in suits, detouring around the lines for the coat check and for souvenir T-shirts and mugs, and looking up the stairway at the people handing their tickets to the ushers and going into the theater, but there was no sign of him. Good.

“Where
is
she?” a woman said close behind her, and Briddey turned to see two middle-aged women in furs. “It's nearly time to go in. If we miss the first act because of her—”

“We won't,” her friend said. “I told her if we weren't in the lobby when she got here, that we'd have gone on in, and that we'd leave her ticket at Will Call.”

Briddey hadn't thought of the possibility that Trent had left a ticket for her. She worked her way through the crowd to the Will Call window and gave her name. The man behind the window flipped through a box of envelopes and then said, “You said it would be under Flannigan?”

“Yes,” Briddey said. “Or possibly Worth,” and he looked under the
W
's and then started methodically through the box again while a line formed behind Briddey.

“Oh, my God,” a woman said in Briddey's ear. “Could you be more annoying?”

Briddey turned to apologize, but the person behind her was an elderly man, and behind him were two young girls, talking animatedly to each other about seeing
Hamilton
the next week. The only woman anywhere in the vicinity was a pretty blonde, and it couldn't have been her because she was smiling brightly at a stocky young man as he told her about the theater's history. “This is the last time I'm letting Jane fix me up,” the same voice said. “The guys always turn out to be complete nerds.”

It's another of the voices,
Briddey thought, and turned back to the impatient-looking man behind the window, who'd obviously just said something to her. “I'm sorry,” she apologized. “What did you say?”

I don't
care
how old the theater is or who performed here,
the blind-date woman said.
I knew I should have insisted on meeting him for coffee first.

“Miss,” the ticket clerk said.
“Miss!”

“Sorry,” Briddey said.

“I
said
I don't have any tickets under either name.” He leaned to look past Briddey. “Next person in li—”

If I'd met him for coffee, I wouldn't be stuck with him for a whole evening. Maybe I can sneak out at intermission.

“Come on, already,” the elderly man said. “He said he doesn't have your tickets.”

Briddey turned to look at him, shocked that he was being so rude, but he was gazing politely at her, and so were the others in line. “Jesus H. Christ, are you gonna stand there all night?”

I'm hearing his thoughts, too.

“Next,”
the clerk said, annoyed, and Briddey realized she was still standing in front of the Will Call window.

“Sorry,” she said, stepping off to the side.

Some people,
the man's voice said pointedly.
What the hell was she doing?

Hearing voices,
Briddey thought. C.B. had warned her to stay away from places like this, and now she saw why. And there'd be even more people inside the theater. Which meant she
had
to convince Trent to go somewhere quiet.

I'll never last till intermission,
the blind-date woman was saying.
Maybe I should ask Theater Nerd here to buy me a program and sneak out the side door while he's getting it.

An excellent idea,
Briddey thought.
I'll sneak out a side door and wait till after the curtain goes up to come in. I'll tell Trent I was caught in traffic and didn't make it in time
. She started toward the door where the taxi driver had let her out, making her way through the crowd.

Watch where you're going, will you?
a woman's voice said, and a voice that was unmistakably Trent's called,
Briddey! Briddey!

Oh, no,
she thought.
Don't make contact now. Not when—

“Briddey!”
he shouted, and he was there in front of her, smiling. “Didn't you hear me? I've been calling your name for the last five minutes.”

“No, I…th-there's so much noise in here,” she stammered. “Can we go somewhere quiet? I need to talk to you about—”

“Listen, there's been a change of plans.”

Oh, thank heaven,
she thought.
He couldn't get tickets after all.

“You'll never guess what happened, sweetheart,” he said. He steered her through the crowd to the stairs. “During my meeting with Hamilton, I happened to mention we were going out tonight and couldn't get tickets for this, and he said he and his wife were coming and insisted we come with them. Isn't that wonderful?”

“The voices didn't join in this time, as she hadn't spoken, but to her surprise, they all
thought
in chorus.”

—
L
EWIS
C
ARROLL
,
Through the Looking-Glass

“Oh, I hoped you'd wear your black dress,” Trent said, frowning at Briddey. “It's so much more elegant and understated. Oh, well, it doesn't matter.” He took her arm and flashed their tickets at the usher. “The Hamiltons are waiting for us up at the mezzanine bar.”

“But I thought it was just going to be the two of us—” Briddey began.

“So did I,” he said, propelling her through the inner lobby, “but I could hardly say no to the boss, could I? You know how important the Hermes Project is. And his wife has been wanting to meet you.”

“Yes, but we need to—”

“I know, we need to relax so we can connect,” he said, leading her over to the stairs on the far side, where arrows pointed up to the mezzanine and balcony and down to the ladies' lounge. “But we can still do that
and
make a good impression on Hamilton. One doesn't preclude the other.”

Oh, yes, it does
.

“And this is exactly the sort of thing Dr. Verrick told us we were supposed to do. If it was just the two of us, all we'd be able to think about is connecting,” Trent argued, leading her up the stairs. “
This
way we'll be forced to think about something else. Between the play and the Hamiltons, we won't have a chance to worry about not connecting.”

And I won't have a chance to tell you about the voices.
Which might start again any minute. She had to convince him this was a bad idea, that boss or no boss, they needed to go somewhere quiet where they could talk.

But where? The staircase was even more crowded than the lobby had been, with busily chatting couples squeezing past each other and equally talkative women standing against the wall in the line to the ladies' room, which extended all the way up to the landing.

“This is ridiculous,” Briddey heard one of them bellow over the general din. “They need more bathrooms!”

I'm going to have to bellow, too,
Briddey thought. “Trent!” she shouted.

“Screw this,” a voice said practically in Briddey's ear, and she turned to see a flawlessly coiffed white-haired woman leaving the line and starting down the stairs. “I'm seventy years old. I can't stand in a line for twenty minutes.”

The woman's lips hadn't moved, but they were pursed in disapproval.
Please,
Briddey thought.
Let somebody else have heard that.

A second later the voice said just as clearly, “The hell with it. I'm going to go use the men's room,” and no one noticed that either.

“Oh, no,” Briddey murmured.

“What? Did you say something, sweetheart?” Trent said from in front of her.

“No.”
And neither did she
.

“Almost there,” Trent said. “Sorry it's such a mob. Just a few more—”

It's sexual discrimination, pure and simple,
a different voice said.
Men never have to deal with lines like this.

The blind-date woman chimed in,
I
knew
I should have sneaked out the side door.

The voices are coming faster and faster, just like C.B. said they would,
Briddey thought, and prayed that the mezzanine bar would be less crowded, but it was so crammed with people that Trent had to take her wrist and drag her through the crowd to the Hamiltons, who were mashed against the far wall.

They didn't seem to mind the crush. “Hello!” Graham Hamilton greeted her gaily. “Or should I say, ‘Moo'?”

“Absolutely not,” his wife said, shouting over the din. “You should say…” She paused, looking humorously quizzical. “What
do
sardines say?”

“I think they're packed in too tightly to make any sound,” Hamilton said. “I'd like you to meet my wife, Traci.”

“Hello,” Traci said, shouting over the din. “I'm so glad to meet you. I've heard so much about you.”

“Get off my foot!” a voice shouted just behind Briddey, and she automatically turned to see who she'd stepped on.

“Is something wrong?” Graham Hamilton asked her.

“No, I…sorry. I thought I heard someone I knew.”

Can't you watch where you're standing?
the voice complained, and a different voice said,
It's too crowded in here,
followed by a third saying resentfully,
Eight dollars for a glass of wine!

I'm starting to hear more and more of them,
Briddey thought.
I've got to convince Trent to leave
.

“If you heard someone you knew, you're doing better than I am,” Traci was saying. “I can't hear a thing.”

“Neither can she,” Trent said. “Briddey, Graham asked you if you wanted something to drink.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Briddey said, thinking,
If he and his wife go over to the bar, I can talk to Trent while they're gone
. “I'd love a glass of wine.”

“Red or white?” Graham asked.

This white wine tastes like piss,
a voice said clearly.

“Red or white, Briddey?” Trent said testily.

“Red, please.”

“Red it is,” Graham said. “We shall return.” He pushed a few steps into the crowd and turned back to say, “If you don't hear from us in a week, send an expedition. Come along, Trent,” and they disappeared into the mob.

“Oh, good,” Traci Hamilton said, moving closer. “They're gone. Now we can talk. I'm dying to know all about your EED.”

“My EED?” Briddey said.
But I thought Trent said he was keeping it secret
.

“I know it's all very hush-hush and we're not supposed to talk about it,” Traci was saying, “but I'm
so
curious. Did you like Dr. Verrick? I hear he's wonderful.”

“Yes,” Briddey said absently, wondering what she meant by “all very hush-hush.”

“Was it outpatient surgery?” Traci asked, and a voice beside Briddey said, “Charise still isn't here.”

Did someone say that out loud, or was that one of the voices?
Briddey wondered.

“I need to text Jason and tell him,” the voice said.

That's what I can do,
Briddey thought.
I can text Trent and tell him we have to leave.
Not the whole thing, of course, but she could at least tell him something had happened and that they had to go
now,
and he could make up some excuse—

“Oh, dear,” Traci Hamilton was saying, “you think I'm being rude, asking you all these personal questions.”

“No, not at all,” Briddey said, though she had no idea what she'd asked. “I'm the one who's being rude. There's a problem with my family, and it's all I can think about.”

“Oh, dear! Is someone ill?”

“No, it's my niece, Maeve. She's nine. She's been having emotional problems, and my sister's beside herself with worry,” Briddey said, feeling guilty for taking Maeve's name in vain, but it was all she could think of. “I really should call her before the play starts.”

“Oh, of course,” Traci said. “I understand completely. Go right ahead and text her.”

Not here, where you might see what I'm typing,
Briddey thought, and said, “I really have to talk to her. I need to get somewhere where I can hear.”
Before Trent comes back
.

“Try the stairs,” Traci said, and, even though she doubted they'd have cleared off, Briddey immediately started for them, keeping a careful eye out for Trent and Graham Hamilton.

They were still in the crush surrounding the bar.
Good.
Briddey squeezed through the crowd to the door and out to the top landing, which was just as crowded, got her phone out of her evening bag, and unlocked it, wondering what to say. “Urgent. Must talk to you in private”?

He might conclude she'd connected to him. But it couldn't be helped. She began to type the message, though it was nearly impossible—people kept jostling her elbow as they pushed past. And if she did manage to get it sent, would Trent even hear the ping? The noise level seemed to be steadily rising.

“What are you doing out here?” Trent said, suddenly emerging from the crowd. “You're supposed to be talking to Traci.”

“I know, but…listen, I have to talk to you. Something's happened.”

“Traci told me,” he said. “Maeve's fine. Your sister is always hysterical—”

“It's not about Maeve. It's about the EED. I—”

“My emotions have started to come through?” he asked excitedly, grabbing her by both arms. “That's great! And it couldn't have happened at a better time!” He glanced back toward the bar. “I can't wait to—”

“
No!
That isn't it. It's…look, I can't tell you here. We need to go—”

“
Go?
We can't go. This is our boss! Leaving would be unbelievably rude.”

“I know,” Briddey said, “but—”

“
Here
you are,” Graham Hamilton said, appearing out of the mob with his wife and two glasses of wine. He offered one to Briddey. “Sorry, they were out of red.”

“Did you reach your sister?” Traci Hamilton asked.

“No,” Briddey said, slipping the phone into her evening bag so she could take the wine from Graham. “I left her a message. I'll try again at intermission.” She glanced at Trent, who was glaring at her. “Or after the play.”

She took a sip of the wine.
Whoever that was who said it tasted like piss was right,
she thought, trying not to make a face and bracing herself for the next voice. But they'd stopped for now, and in a few minutes the play would start and she'd no longer be expected to make conversation. If she could just make it till then…

The lights dimmed and came back up—the signal that it was time for people to take their seats. Trent plucked the wineglasses out of her hand and Traci Hamilton's and took off to the bar to return them, and Graham Hamilton shepherded Briddey and his wife toward the door and down the stairs with the rest of the crowd.

“Shouldn't we wait for Trent?” Briddey asked.

He shook his head. “He'll catch up.”

“I don't suppose Briddey and I have time to run to the ladies' room, do we?” Traci asked her husband.

“No,” he said firmly, even though the line on the stairs had dwindled considerably. “The curtain's in five minutes.” He led them down to the main floor. “They don't let you in after it's gone up.”

“He's right,” Traci said. “Remember when we came to
Kinky Boots,
Graham?”

“Yes!”

“He had to go out to the lobby to take a phone call, and they wouldn't let him back in till after Act One,” Traci explained as they headed down the aisle. “It was so annoying. He missed half the play.”

“Here we are,” Mr. Hamilton said. “Sixth row. Ours are those empty seats in the middle.” He leaned over the man in the aisle seat. “Excuse me, I believe we're down there.” He pointed at their seats.

“Of course,” the man said, and stepped out into the aisle, and they made their way to their seats. And if Briddey was going to hear more voices, it would surely be now as they edged past people who were already in their seats and obviously annoyed at having to stand up again.

But the only voice she heard was Traci Hamilton's, exclaiming, “These seats are much nicer than last time! I hate front-row seats! All you can see is the actors' feet!” and then Trent's as he made his way toward them and sat down next to her, talking about how he'd gotten stuck behind some unbelievably slow people.

The voices must have stopped, thank goodness,
Briddey thought, and turned to the Hamiltons. “These are wonderful seats,” she said. “Thank you so much for inviting us.”