Nocturnal (25 page)

28. “We should start using our new names”

The woman on screen – late fifties, comfortably lined, tortoiseshell reading glasses – sobbed like her heart had just been broken. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she drew breath in quick, shuddering gasps. Then, after a lingering close-up, the camera pulled back to reveal her pink dressing gown, a couch in front of a crackling log burner, and a copy of
The Bridges of Madison County
in her lap.

Relieved laughter murmured through the audience.

A handsome, silver-haired man entered the frame, placing a reassuring hand on the crying woman’s shoulder. “Charlotte, I don’t know why you put yourself through it.”

She laughed through the sobs. “It’s just escapism, Bill. I enjoy it.”

He began massaging her neck and shoulders, her face melting at the sensation.

She said: “Especially when I know I’m coming back to you.”

I squirmed in my seat at the mawkish scene, but the mostly retired audience let out a collective sigh. They’d got their fifteen dollars’ worth.

As the credits to
Sensible Shoes
rolled, I stayed in my seat and watched the crowd shuffle out. There were contented smiles all round. I was smiling, too, in a bitter-sweet way. Eleanor Cook hadn’t needed my help after all.

Leaving the sanctuary of the cinema, I put on my dark glasses and lowered my head to the grey afternoon. Daylight still made me nervous, but keeping conventional hours was an important part of my self-imposed rehabilitation program. Slowly, I was learning how to function as a normal person again. I made a point of venturing out on overcast days. I was getting used to sleeping nights. I’d even managed to commit to a relationship. Life wasn’t easy, but it was a million times better than the life I’d left behind.

The fire had been my cue to leave the country. Change was coming anyway, and after my near death experience at the Pipers’ fishing lodge, I figured my good luck in America was well and truly tapped out.

The day after the fire, I sold my car, packed a suitcase, and bought a cheap flight to Melbourne, Australia. It had come down to a toss-up between Melbourne and London – big, English-speaking, not-too-sunny cities that were thousands of miles from California – but Melbourne eventually won out because it seemed like the ends of the earth.

CC helped tidy up my affairs in San Francisco. She settled my outstanding bills, closed out the lease on my Ellis Street office, and put my apartment on the market. The one thing I was sad to leave behind was my business. I could write from anywhere, but to preserve my anonymity, I had to kiss goodbye to the client list I’d spent eight years building up. And that really stung.

During my first few months in Melbourne, I kept a subterranean profile, mindful that I was still very much a loose end. I avoided dark alleys, and tensed up every time I heard footsteps behind me, convinced I was about to feel a cold blade in my neck. The Piper children had to have known I’d escaped – in the local news coverage of the fire, there was only a vague suggestion of arson, and certainly no mention of a body. It was a minor story, even by Napa County standards.

But after a while, I realized they weren’t coming for me. They’d achieved closure that night by the lake. For their own peace of mind, Oliver, Tiffany and Kendall were holding onto the view that I’d perished, choosing to ignore the inconclusive news reports.

The Pipers had moved on. And in many respects, so had I.

“I’m back,” I called out, pushing open the door to my new home. One of the perks of moving to Melbourne had been cashing in on the San Francisco property boom – the proceeds from my modest one-bedroom apartment had bought a spacious three-bedroom penthouse in Melbourne’s Docklands.

She padded into the hallway to greet me, dressed in one of my business shirts that just made it to her thighs. “How was it?” she said.

“Not bad. Much better than I thought, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would’ve made it better.”

She gave me a long hug, and then stepped back to appraise me. “Don’t be sad. You’re better than some geriatric rom-com.”

“It was a paying job. And a movie credit would’ve looked great on my CV.”

“Yeah, well I wanted to dance on Broadway, and now I’m getting creeps to jerk off on the Internet. Shit happens.”

“Touché.” 

I followed CC into the window-lined living room, where the city’s skyline blurred into the concrete-colored sky. I grabbed a beer from the kitchen, and she sat cross-legged on the sofa, positioning her iPad on her lap.

“You’re working?” I said.

“Just playing a recording,” she said, frowning down at the screen. “I’ll let you know if there’s a paid request.”

CC had been rattling around my apartment since she’d moved in three weeks ago. She was keen to work the Melbourne clubs, but I didn’t want her name appearing on any local payroll data, just in case one of the Pipers started digging again. We both needed new names; new identities.

In the meantime, CC was operating a live-cam. She made next to nothing, but it stopped her from climbing up the walls.

She looked up from her iPad. “What’s up?” she said.

“Nothing. I was just thinking how gorgeous you look.”

“Really?” she said, lifting a hand to her hair. She’d recently cut it shorter, like I’d suggested. “I’m still not used to it,” she said. “Doesn’t it make me look old?”

“No, not at all. You look hot.”

“Well, I’m growing it back anyway. I’m sure it’s half the reason these pervs aren’t biting.”

“Those pervs have no taste.”

“That’s a sweeping generalisation,” she said, tapping away at the screen. “God, they’re so cheap though. As if I’m going to show my asshole for free.”

She threw the iPad onto the sofa with a grunt of disgust. Then she looked up at me with a twinkle in her eye. “So you want to get into the movie business, huh? I’ve got a pitch for you.”

“Does it involve a stripper who risks her life for the man she loves?”

She grinned. Because I was the only person CC could talk to about her incredible night of bravery, I’d heard the story many times before. How she’d driven back to Chloe’s apartment in SoMa after recharging her phone, only to find the Pipers bundling me into the back seat of my Corolla. How she’d tailed us all the way to Lake Berryessa, keeping her distance on the interstate and then turning off her headlights on the quieter roads. And then how she’d held her nerve when she saw Oliver pouring gasoline over the fishing lodge, waiting until they’d driven off before launching her one-woman rescue operation.

“I’m thinking
Pretty Woman
meets
Cape Fear
,” she said.

“A romantic thriller?”

“Exactly. In the final scene, the hero gives into his feelings and begs the stripper to move in with him.”

“I wouldn’t say I begged.”

“Oh you begged, Sam. Like a little dog.”

I sat down next to her. “That reminds me. I’m picking up our IDs tomorrow. We should start using our new names.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Even in private?”

“Even in private. The more we use them, the less likely we’ll slip up in public.”

“God,” she groaned. “I don’t even
like
my name.”

“I don’t like mine, either. But you don’t get to choose. It depends on who’s died recently, and who has the same vital statistics…”

“–Yeah, yeah. I know the reasons already.” She sighed and threw her head back. From the side, with her cropped blonde hair, she looked just like her. She turned to me and said, “Okay,
Johnny.
Would you be a gent and fix me a martini?”

I smiled. “Of course, Lucy. It would be my pleasure.”