faithfully
Stephen Oatley, Esq.
Rachel read the letter, then read it again. Her first thought was that it was a joke. She even looked about her, expecting a camera to be on her, or a crowd to appear, ready to laugh along. But her apartment was unchanged. Outside, the traffic droned on.
Her hands were shaking. Quickly she replaced the letter in its envelope, sitting down because her knees had turned to jelly. The envelope, that anodyne thing, seemed to pulse on the kitchen table. She folded it back out, looked again. Impossible. It was totally impossible. She searched for a clue to its falsehood; her mind tripped over a dozen hoaxes but none fitted with such an outrageous set of claims as this. And yet a voice whispered, It’s plausible, it might be, louder and more insistent each time.
Her phone rang. It was Paul. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘guess what? The City wants to interview you, tomorrow at ten; I’ve booked you a spot at Jacob’s. Sound good?’
She was slow to reply, unlike her. ‘I don’t know, I…’
He was surprised at her reticence. ‘I can put them back, if you like?’
‘Listen, Paul,’ she said, making a decision, ‘I think you’ll have to. In fact, you can clear my schedule for the rest of the week. Next week, too.’
There was a pause. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine.’ Rachel fingered the edges of the letter, half expecting it to vanish beneath her touch. ‘Something’s come up. Something important. At least, I think it is.’ She thought quickly. ‘I might have to go abroad for a while,’ she said, ‘I don’t know how long. You’ll look after things here, won’t you?’
‘Of course. But—’
‘Thank you. I knew I could count on you. I’ll call you later, OK?’
She hung up. Her apartment seemed changed, submerged, a place she wasn’t quite part of and could no longer stand to be in. As if it were a stage set, with cardboard walls and doors that led nowhere, and plastic pieces of fruit gathering dust in a bowl. She went to the park and walked and walked, and watched the people sailing past in their safe, happy worlds, with families and homes they had always known and loved, a hurrying, babbling stream while she remained a solitary rock, confounded by the noise and rush. All the while the letter glowed with promise in her pocket. She sat on a bench, waiting for her coffee to grow cold.
*
‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ said Aaron, when she told him that night.
She’d known he’d question her – he, who had two loving parents and an elder sister who called him ‘Rookie’ and sixteen cousins with who knew how many kids.
‘How will I know if I don’t give it a chance?’
He read the letter again. ‘It looks real,’ he said, with a shrug, turning the page over, as if the word FORGERY might be stamped on its back.
Oh, Rachel knew it was real. She’d spoken to Quakers Oatley Solicitors and the story stacked up. The firm had sounded relieved to hear from her, as if the de Grey estate were one it was seeking to move on from. She had conducted herself as if she were in a business meeting, arrangements, dates, agendas, plans; yes, she would travel to England; yes, she would visit the house called Winterbourne. But she didn’t tell them what she was hoping to find there – some clue to her past, some inkling, however faint, about where she had come from and the people who had made her. It was too much to hope for, wasn’t it? But there was hope, now, at least.
‘What about the gallery?’ Aaron asked. They were in his penthouse, a rooftop tower overlooking Central Park. The vodka in Rachel’s hand was mercifully robust. It had been a sober realisation that really, other than her colleagues, she had no one else here to inform of her intention, just him. ‘Seems like you’re just getting started,’ he said.
She was conscious at moments like these that Aaron wasn’t merely her lover: he was her investor. ‘I am,’ she replied. ‘A week or two away won’t change that. I’ll be online if I’m needed; in the meantime Paul takes charge, he’s more than capable.’
‘You think a week or two is all it’ll be?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know.’ She put down her glass. ‘It depends what I find. A rickety old house, most probably, and a bunch of junk that needs sorting.’
Privately, the thought of that junk containing just one photograph of a man and woman who might have been her parents, or her grandparents, or her aunt and uncle or cousins or anyone, really, made her flush with adrenalin.
‘Will you be OK in such a big place on your own?’ Aaron came to her and rested his forehead against hers, winding her fingers through his. They kissed; he smiled mischievously. ‘It looks kind of…foreboding. Like a haunted house.’
She laughed. ‘You believe in that stuff?’ she asked.
‘You might.’
‘I certainly don’t. Make-believe isn’t my thing.’
‘You don’t think we’re a bit make-believe?’
She frowned, amused. ‘How do you mean?’
‘We’re playing pretend, aren’t we? Pretending we’re together, but we’re not really, not properly. All I’m saying is that make-believe has its perks.’
‘I’m sure it does.’ Rachel reached for her drink, encouraging him to take a step back. ‘But I’m more interested in the facts at Winterbourne. This may be my only shot at finding them. How many adopted kids get a chance like this?’
‘I’m only suggesting you might want a little company while you’re out there.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Creaks and bumps don’t scare me.’
He folded his arms, watching her affectionately. ‘What does, Rachel Wright?’
She finished the vodka, emboldened by it. ‘What kind of question is that?’
‘What does scare you? Because I’m wondering if Winterbourne represents a chance for you,’ he said, ‘to run away from what’s happened here, from real life.’ In that barefaced way of his, he struck her right where it hurt, forging on, heedless of her dismay. ‘Because you haven’t been happy, even I can see that, and by my own admission I don’t know you that well. Working all hours, pouring everything you’ve got into the gallery, barely pausing to breathe – it’s impressive, sure, and I was impressed by you the moment you walked into my office with a torch in your eyes that told me you’d stop at nothing to achieve it. But managing all that has meant you’ve been able to close other, more personal, doors, hasn’t it?’
Seeing her expression, he added, ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn—’
‘You have spoken out of turn,’ she said, coldly. ‘I’m not running away, Aaron. I’m running towards something. Something I’ve been trying for years to find.’
