Replay (31 page)

Andrew asked to have the photos back, but Olivia put them away in her drawer, promising she’d return them to him as soon as they’d been scanned.

Andrew left her office and went straight to see Freddy.

“Back already, Stilman?”

“Looks like it, Olson.”

“You look awful. Was Brazil that bad?”

“Argentina, Freddy.”

“Oh, yeah. South America is all the same—let’s not argue.”

“What about you? Everything going well at work?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Freddy answered. “But don’t expect me to say anything more than that.”

“I’ve got a cop friend. He’s retired, but he can still pull strings. You only need to ask.”

Freddy looked at Andrew distrustfully.

“What are you plotting, Stilman?”

“Nothing, Freddy. I’m not plotting anything. I’m tired of our petty squabbling. If you really are on the trail of a serial killer and I can give you a hand, then I’ll be happy to—that’s all.”

“Why would you help me?”

“To stop him from committing another crime. Does that seem like a good enough reason to you?”

“You really make me laugh, Stilman. You’ve sensed I’m on to something big. Do you want co-author credits while you’re at it?”

“No, that hadn’t crossed my mind. But now that you mention it, you’ve given me an idea. Instead of turning our backs on each other, what if we were to publish a report together one day? I know someone who’d be thrilled.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“My most loyal reader, Spooky Kid! I can just imagine how happy that’d make him. We could even dedicate it to him.”

Andrew walked back to his desk, leaving Freddy, whose cheeks had flushed red, to reflect on his proposal.

A text message from Valerie reminded him to drop by the tailor’s to get his wedding suit altered. He turned on his computer and began working.

* * *

Andrew spent the whole week on his article. He’d started having nightmares again since he’d returned from Buenos Aires. He dreamt the same scenario each time: he was running along the Hudson River footpath with Freddy on his heels. Freddy always caught up with him and stabbed him under Valerie’s amused, conspiratorial gaze. Sometimes, just before he died, he’d recognize Inspector Pilguez, Marisa, Alberto, Luisa, even Simon among the group of joggers. Each time, Andrew woke up suffocating, frozen to the bone and dripping in sweat, with the excruciating lower back pain that now never completely went away.

Wednesday, Andrew left his office a little earlier than usual; he’d promised Valerie he’d be on time for dinner with their maid of honor and best man.

On Thursday, the air-conditioning in Andrew’s apartment gave up the ghost, and Valerie, who was woken each night by Andrew’s cries, decided they’d move then and there into her East Village apartment.

Andrew felt increasingly exhausted. His back pains got so bad he sometimes had to lie down on the floor by his desk, much to the amusement of Freddy on his trips to and from the bathroom.

When Andrew left for work on Friday, he swore to Valerie he wouldn’t let Simon take him to a strip club. In fact, Simon took him to the last place he’d expected.

* * *

Novecento was jam-packed. Simon elbowed them to the bar. Andrew ordered a Fernet with Coke.

“What’s that?”

“You won’t like it. Don’t bother trying it.”

Simon grabbed the glass, took a swig, made a face and ordered a glass of red wine instead.

“Why did you bring me here?” Andrew asked.

“Hey, I didn’t force you to come. If I recall your story correctly, tonight’s the night you fell head over heels, isn’t it?”

“I don’t find that at all funny, Simon.”

“Just as well. I wasn’t trying to be funny. What time did the fateful encounter that screwed up your marriage take place?”

“You don’t like Valerie, Simon, any more than you like that we’ve decided to get married. You’ve brought me here so I make the same mistakes again. Is that the best you could come up with to ‘screw up’ my marriage, as you put it?”

“You must really be at the end of your rope if you’re getting so aggressive. You’ve got it all wrong—I brought you here to help you see your fantasy for what it really is. For your information, I like Valerie, and I like the thought that you’ll be happy together even more!”

Simon spotted a Bond girl lookalike with legs up to her armpits walking across the room. He stood up and wandered off without a word, leaving Andrew alone at the bar.

A woman sat down on the bar stool next to Andrew and flashed him a smile as he ordered a second Fernet and Coke.

“It’s quite unusual for an American to like that drink,” she said, staring him in the eye.

Andrew stared back at her. The sensuality she exuded took his breath away. She had a startlingly naughty glint in her eye. Her long, black hair fell elegantly down the back of her neck. He could hardly tear his eyes away from the sheer beauty of her face.

“It’s the only unusual thing about me,” he said, standing up.

Outside Novecento, Andrew inhaled the night air deeply. He took out his phone and called Simon.

“I’m outside. You do what you want. I’m going home.”

“Wait for me; I’m coming,” Simon replied.

* * *

“Why the long face?” Simon said as he joined Andrew out on the sidewalk.

“I just want to go home.”

“Don’t tell me you fell in love at first sight again.”

“No, I won’t. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Name me one single thing I haven’t understood about you in the past ten years.”

Andrew thrust his hands into his pockets and started walking up West Broadway. Simon followed close on his heels.

“I felt the same as I did the first time around.”

“So why didn’t you stay?”

“Because I’ve caused enough harm as it is.”

“I’m sure you won’t even remember what she looks like in the morning.”

“That’s what you thought last time, but events proved you wrong. There’ll be no more lies—I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll probably think of her sometimes, sure, but I’ve made my choice. True love is the love you have, not dream of. I hope you find it one day, Simon.”

* * *

When Andrew walked into his apartment, he found Valerie doing leg lifts in the middle of the living room dressed only in her bra and underwear.

“Aren’t you asleep?” he asked as he took off his jacket.

“Yes, of course I am—with my feet in the air and my hands under my butt. It’s early. Did Simon fall crazy in love with some stripper and desert you? I can add a setting at the wedding table if things get serious between them.”

“No, Simon didn’t meet anyone,” Andrew replied, lying down next to Valerie. He lifted his legs and began copying her exercises in time with her.

“Was the evening a washout?”

“My stag night was great,” Andrew answered. “Much better than I’d thought it’d be.”

T
he next day, Andrew dropped by Mr. Zanetti’s for his wedding suit fitting. The tailor asked him to step up onto a low box. He surveyed Andrew and lifted the right jacket shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, Mr. Zanetti; I’ve got one arm longer than the other.”

“Yes, I can see that,” the tailor replied, pinning the fabric.

“I know you wouldn’t want anyone to accuse you of doing a bad alteration, but I’ve got an important article to finish.”

“And you’re in a hurry. Is that it?”

“A bit, yes.”

“So, did you go back there?” Mr. Zanetti asked, not taking his eyes off his work.

“Where?” Andrew replied.

“That bar, of course. That’s where your troubles started, isn’t it?”

“How do you know about that?” Andrew exclaimed, stunned.

Zanetti gave him a broad smile.

“Do you think you’re the only person to have been treated to a second chance? You’re very self-centered, my dear Mr. Stilman. And naïve.”

“So you too . . . ”

“That stranger in the bar—have you seen her again?” Zanetti interrupted. “Of course you’ve seen her. You look even more awful than last time. But I suppose if we’re hemming your pants, that means you’ve decided to get married. Funny—I’d have guessed the opposite.”

“Why . . . Why did it happen to you?” Andrew quizzed, his voice trembling.

“The only question that should concern you, Mr. Stilman, is why did it happen to
you
. If you don’t make it more of a concern, you’re going to die soon. Do you really think you’ll have a third chance? That’d be taking it a bit far, don’t you agree? Stop trembling or I’ll end up pricking you.”

Zanetti stepped back and examined Andrew’s suit from top to bottom.

“It’s not quite right yet, but it’s better than it was. A quick tuck below the shoulder and it should be perfect. I love perfection, and old habits die hard at my age. If I told you my age, you’d be amazed,” Zanetti added, bursting out laughing.

Andrew went to step down from the box, but Zanetti held him by the arm with surprising strength.

“And where do you think you’re going in this outfit? So, you chose your teenage love? Wise decision. Take it from someone who knows. I’ve been married four times, and it’s wrecked me. But you probably won’t have time to worry about that if you still haven’t found your murderer. I don’t mean to ramble on, but it’s something you really need to think about.”

Zanetti walked behind Andrew and gently pulled at the bottom of his jacket.

“You really are oddly proportioned. Stand up straight, please. It’s difficult enough as it is. Where was I? Oh yes, talking about your killer. Do you have any idea who it is?” Zanetti asked, bringing his face up close to the back of Andrew’s neck. “Is it your future wife? Your colleague? That mysterious serial killer? That mother whose adopted daughter was taken away because of you? Your editor?”

Andrew suddenly felt an intense tearing in his back. The pain took his breath away.

“Or me?” Zanetti sniggered.

Andrew looked at himself in the mirror opposite. His face was frighteningly pale. He saw Zanetti behind him with a long, blood-spattered needle in his hand. Andrew’s legs gave way and he fell to his knees on the box. A bloodstain spread across his shirtfront. As he collapsed face-first onto the ground, Mr. Zanetti’s insane laughter echoed around the room.

Everything went dark.

* * *

Andrew woke up drenched in sweat with Valerie shaking him vigorously.

“If getting married is stressing you out that much, there’s still time to put if off, Andrew. Tomorrow it’ll be too late.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked, sitting up in bed. “What day is it?”

“It’s Saturday. Two in the morning. Saturday the 30th,” Valerie replied, looking at the alarm clock. “Actually, our wedding is today.”

Andrew jumped out of bed and rushed into the living room. Valerie pushed back the sheets and followed him.

“What’s up? You look terrified.”

Andrew glanced around the room, and threw himself onto his bag, which he’d spotted on the floor next to the sofa. He opened it frantically and took out a thick file.

“My article! If it’s already the 30th, I haven’t finished my article on time.”

Valerie walked over and hugged him.

“You sent it to your editor by e-mail earlier tonight. Calm down! I thought it was excellent. She’ll think it’s fantastic too. Please, Andrew, come back to bed. You’re going to look terrible in the wedding photos. I will too if you keep me awake.”

“It can’t be the 30th already,” Andrew muttered. “It’s impossible.”

“Do you want to cancel our wedding, Andrew?” Valerie asked, looking him hard in the eye.

“No, of course not. It’s got nothing to do with that.”

“What doesn’t have anything to do with that? What are you hiding from me, Andrew? What’s scaring you? You can tell me everything.”

“If only I could.”

J
ust before the ceremony started, Valerie’s mother came up to Andrew, patted him on the shoulder and leaned forward to whisper something in his ear. Andrew pushed her gently away.

“You thought I’d never marry your daughter, didn’t you? I understand why. The idea of having you as a mother-in-law probably put quite a few suitors off. But here we all are in church!” he replied sardonically.

“What’s gotten into you? I never thought anything of the sort!” Mrs. Ramsay protested.

“And a liar to boot!” Andrew chuckled, walking into the church.

Valerie had never looked lovelier. She was wearing a simple, elegant white dress. Her hair was tied up and topped with a small white hat. The priest’s sermon was perfect, and Andrew was even more moved than at his wedding the first time round.

After the ceremony, the little procession left the Church of St Luke in the Fields and walked down the path through the garden. Andrew was surprised to see his editor, Olivia Stern, among the guests.

“I didn’t want our wedding night to be spoiled, waiting for her feedback on your article,” Valerie whispered in her husband’s ear. “While you were at home sweating blood over your work yesterday, I took the initiative of phoning her at the paper and inviting her along. She is your boss, after all.”

Andrew smiled and kissed his wife.

Olivia Stern wandered up to them.

“It was a beautiful ceremony, and you both look stunning. Your dress suits you to perfection,” she told the bride. “I’d never seen you in a suit before, Andrew. You should wear one more often. May I borrow your husband for a minute or two, Valerie?”

Valerie left them and joined her parents, who were walking ahead.

“Your article is outstanding, Andrew. I don’t want to bother you on your wedding day, so I hope you won’t mind if I sneak off—it’s for a good reason. I’ll send you my notes tonight. Sorry to make you work the day after your wedding, but I need you to write me a few more pages. I’m publishing your piece on Tuesday. I’ve bagged the front page and three inside pages. You’re going to be famous!” Olivia said, tapping him on the shoulder.