The Ghost (4 page)

I'm going to miss you, he whispered. It was the understatement of a lifetime.

Me too, she said softly, and then put her arms around him. For a long time, he just stood there and held her, wishing that none of it had happened. As far as Charlie was concerned, if it weren't for Simon, they could still be living there, busy, and distracted, and going their own ways much of the time, but still happy to come home to each other. And if they'd still been together, he could have refused to go to New York for the firm. Her job in Europe was far too important to ask for a transfer. I'm sorry, Charlie, was all she said, as he stood there wondering how ten years of his life had vanished into thin air. He had lost it all, his wife, his house, and even his residency in Europe. It was as though the clock had been turned back, and he had to start over at the beginning. The real-life game of Chutes and Ladders. He had climbed the ladder nearly to the top, and with one false step he had slid all the way to the bottom. There was something agonizingly surrealistic about it.

They walked out of the house hand in hand, and a few minutes later, she drove off. It was Saturday, and she had promised Simon she'd drive to Berkshire to meet him. Charlie hadn't even bothered to ask her this time if she was happy. It was obvious that her life was completely intertwined with Simon's. It had only taken him nine months to understand that. And every moment of it had been torture for both of them.

The rest of Charlie's things had gone into storage shortly after that, and he moved into Claridge's for the last few days of his stay in London, at the expense of the firm. There was a very nice dinner for him at the Savoy to celebrate his departure. Everyone from the office came, and a number of important clients. Other friends tried to invite him for dinner before he left, but he said he was too busy tying up loose ends at the office. He had hardly seen any of them since Carole left him. The required explanations were far too painful. It was easier for him not to go out, and leave London in silence.

And when he left the office for the last time, Dick Barnes made a polite little speech about looking forward to seeing him again, but Charlie knew he wasn't. It was obvious and natural that he was hoping Charlie would stay in New York, and leave Barnes running the London office. And Charlie didn't blame him. He didn't blame anyone, not even Carole. He called her to say good-bye the night before he left, but she was out, and he decided it was just as well. There was nothing left to say now except how sorry they both were, and all he ever wanted from her was an explanation of how it had happened. He still didn't understand it. She was far more philosophical than he was. But then again, she had Simon. Charlie had no one in his life to console him.

It was pouring rain when he woke up on the day he left, and he lay in bed at the hotel for a long time, thinking of what was happening, where he was going, and why he was leaving. He felt as though he had a boulder on his chest, and for a minute, he thought about canceling everything, quitting the firm, trying to buy his house back, and refusing to leave London. It was a crazy idea, even to him, and he knew he'd never do it. But for an instant the idea was very appealing, as he lay there, listening to the sound of the rain, trying to make himself get up and get into the shower. He had to be at the airport at eleven o'clock, for a one o'clock flight. The morning ahead of him seemed endless. And as he lay in bed, thinking about it, he had to force himself not to call Carole. He took a long, hot shower, put on a dark suit, a white shirt, and an Hermes tie, and promptly at ten o'clock Charlie was outside the hotel, waiting for a cab, sniffing the London air for the last time, listening to the sounds of traffic moving by, looking up at the familiar buildings. It almost felt like leaving home for the first time. He still couldn't believe he was going, and he kept hoping that someone would stop him before it was too late. He kept wanting her to come running down the street and throw her arms around him, and tell him it had all been a bad dream, and it was over.

But the cab came finally, and the doorman looked at him expectantly, waiting for Charlie to get in. There was nothing left to do but get in the cab and go to the airport. She wasn't coming. She never would again. She wouldn't be coming back to him, he knew that now. She was Simon's.

He had a heavy heart as they drove through town, watching people come and go, to perform their daily tasks or do errands, and as they drove, it poured. It was a freezing November rain. It was typical English winter weather. And in less than an hour, they were at Heathrow. There was no turning back now.

Would you like something to drink now, Mr. Waterston? Some champagne? A glass of wine? the flight attendant asked pleasantly as he turned from his reverie at the window. They had been in the air for an hour, and it had finally stopped raining.

No, thanks, I'm fine, he said, looking a little less grim than when he boarded. They had all noticed that he looked desperately unhappy. He declined cocktails, and left his headset unused on the seat beside him. He turned his face toward the window again, and when they came by with dinner, he was asleep.

I wonder what happened to him, one of the flight attendants whispered to a co-worker in the kitchen. He looks beat.

Maybe he's been out every night cheating on his wife, one of the women offered with a grin.

What makes you think he's married? The flight attendant who had offered him champagne looked disappointed.

He's got a mark on his third finger, left hand, and he's not wearing a ring. It's a sure sign he's been cheating.

Maybe he's a widower, one of them said cheerfully, and her two cohorts groaned at the idea.

Just another tired businessman fooling around on his wife. Trust me. The oldest flight attendant grinned, and headed down the aisle into first class with fruit and cheese and ice cream sundaes. She stopped to look at Charlie again, he was sound asleep and never stirred, and she rolled slowly past him.

Her colleague wasn't entirely wrong. Charlie had finally taken his wedding ring off the night before he left London. He had taken it off and held it in his hand for a long time, just staring at it, and remembering the day she'd put it on him. It had been a long time ' ten years in London, nine of them with Carole. And now, as they flew toward New York, even Charlie knew it was over. But he still had his wedding ring in his pocket. And as he slept on the flight, he dreamed that he was with her. She was laughing and talking to him, but when he tried to kiss her, she turned away from him. He couldn't understand it, but he kept reaching out to her. And in the distance he saw a man watching them ' she was turning toward him ' and when Charlie looked up, he saw the man beckoning to her, and she went to him. She slipped right through Charlie's hands, as he watched her go to him ' it was Simon, and he was laughing.

Chapter 2

THEY LANDED ON the runway at Kennedy with a hard thump, which woke Charlie with a start. He had been sleeping for hours, exhausted by the activities and emotions of the past few days, or weeks ' or months. ' It had been undeniably hellish. It was just after three o'clock in the afternoon local time, and as the prettiest of the flight attendants handed him his Burberry, he smiled, and she was disappointed all over again that he hadn't woken up sooner, or talked to her during the flight.

Will you be going back to London with us, Mr. Waterston? Somehow, just looking at him, she had gotten the impression that he lived in Europe. She was based in London like the others.

Unfortunately not. He smiled at her, wishing that he was going back to London. I'm moving to New York, he said, as though she cared. But no one else did either. She nodded and moved on as he put on his raincoat and picked up his briefcase.

The line of people disembarking from the plane moved with the speed of cement, and eventually he made it off the plane and picked up his two bags at the baggage claim, and then found a cab waiting outside for a fare into the city. As Charlie got into the cab, he was surprised by how cold it was. It was only November, but it was freezing. It was four o'clock by then, and he was going to the studio that had been rented by his firm until he found his own apartment. It was in the East Fifties, between Lexington and Third, and if not large, at least it was convenient.

Where do ya come from? the driver asked, gnawing a cigar and playing tag with a limousine and two other cabbies. He narrowly missed hitting a truck, and then launched headlong into the Friday afternoon traffic. If nothing else, it was familiar to Charlie.

London, he answered, looking out the window as Queens sped by. There was no pretty way into the city.

How long ya been there? The driver chatted amiably, continuing to dart in and out of traffic. But as they approached the city, and rush hour traffic clogged the road, the sport became less exciting.

Ten years, Charlie said without thinking, and the driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

Long time. Ya here to visit?

I'm moving back, Charlie explained, feeling suddenly exhausted. It was nine-thirty at night for him, and the neighborhoods they drove through were so dreary, it depressed him. The route into London was no lovelier, but at least it was home now. This wasn't. He had lived in New York for seven years after graduating from architectural school at Yale, but he had grown up in Boston.

There's no place like it, the cabdriver proclaimed with a grin, waving the cigar at the view beyond his windshield. They were just crossing the bridge, and the skyline looked impressive in the twilight, but even seeing the Empire State Building didn't cheer Charlie. He rode the rest of the way into town in silence.

When they arrived at Fifty-fourth and Third, he paid the cab driver and got out, and identified himself to the doorman. He was expected. The office had left his keys for him, and he was grateful to have a place to stay, but when he saw the place they'd rented for him, he was startled. Everything in the single, compact room seemed to be either Formica or plastic. There was a long white counter with gold sparkles in it, and two bar stools covered in fake white leather, a sofa that converted into a bed, cheap furniture with plastic seats in a grim shade of green, and there were even plastic plants that caught his eye as soon as he turned the light on. Looking around at the sheer ugliness of it left him breathless. This was what it had come to. No wife, no home, nothing of his own. The place looked like a cheap hotel room, and all he could think of was what he had lost in the past year. It was impossible to remember anything positive that had come from the upheaval he'd been through. All he could think of were the losses.

He put down his bags, and looked around with a sigh. And then he took off his coat and dropped it on the room's only table. It was certainly going to give him plenty of incentive to find his own place very quickly. He helped himself to a beer from the fridge, and sat down on the couch, thinking about Claridge's, and his house in London. And for a crazy moment, he wanted to call her ' You wouldn't believe how ugly this place is' . Why did he always think of telling her the things that were funny or sad or shocking? He wasn't sure which one this was, probably all three, but he didn't even bother to reach for the phone. He just sat there, feeling drained, trying not to see the emptiness of the apartment. There were posters on the wall of sunsets and a panda bear, and when he checked the bathroom, it was the size of a closet. But he was too tired even to take his clothes off and take a shower. He just sat on the couch, staring into space, and finally he lay back, and closed his eyes, trying not to think of anything, or remember where he had come from. He lay there for a long time, and eventually he opened the convertible bed, and he was asleep by nine o'clock. He didn't even bother with dinner.

And when he woke up the next day, the sun was streaming in the windows. It was ten o'clock, but his watch said three. It was still set for London. He yawned and got out of bed. The room looked a mess with the unmade bed in the center of it. It was like living in a shoe box. And when he went to the refrigerator, there were sodas and coffee and beer, but nothing to eat, so he showered and put on jeans and a heavy sweater, and at noon he ventured out into the street. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and absolutely freezing. He ate a sandwich in a deli on Third Avenue, and then walked slowly uptown, glancing into shops, noticing how different people looked than they did in London. There was no mistaking New York for any other city in the world, and he remembered easily that there was a time when he once loved it. This was where he and Carole had met, where he had started his career, where he had enjoyed his first success in architecture, and yet he had no desire to come back here. He liked visiting it, but he couldn't imagine living here again. But he was, for better or worse, and late that afternoon he bought the New York Times and went to look at two apartments. They were both ugly and expensive, and smaller than he wanted. But where he was living was worse. And he was immediately reminded of it when he went back to the studio at six o'clock. Sitting in one tiny room was unbearably depressing. He hated being there, but he was still jet-lagged and tired, and he didn't even bother to go out for dinner. He spent the night working instead, on some papers they'd sent him about current projects in New York. And the next day he walked to the office, even though it was Sunday.

The ugly little studio was only four and a half blocks from the office, which was probably why they got it. They had offered him a hotel, but he had said he preferred an apartment.

The office was a beautiful space on the fiftieth floor at Fifty-first and Park, and when he walked into the reception area, he stood looking at the view for a while, and then walked slowly around the models. It was going to be interesting working here again. Suddenly after all these years, it all seemed so different. But nothing prepared him for how different it really was on Monday morning.

He had woken up at four, and had been waiting for hours, working on a variety of papers. He was still on London time, and he was also anxious to get started. But when he got to the office, it didn't take long to sense that there was a palpable aura of tension. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the associates seemed to be constantly jockeying for position. They told him little secrets about each other's work when he called them in one by one, and one thing was obvious, there was no sense of a team here. They were a group of talented individuals, doing everything they could to get ahead and crawl over each other. But what surprised him most was the kind of work they did. They were supposedly talented, and he got the impression they worked hard, but the designs they were all working on seemed far less advanced than the ones produced by the same firm in Europe. He realized that it was something he had never noticed on his quick trips through town in the past, but he had always been concentrating on the work that he was responsible for in London. This seemed very different, and far less exciting.