CHAPTER 2
Pan-de-mon-i-um!It broke out.
Screams and wails and arms and legs filled the air. A sharp pain in my back alerted me to the fact that Power Suit’s Louboutin had stabbed me between the shoulder blades. Another pain in my face as Fleek Brow’s enormous key ring whacked me across the mouth. I tried to swat all the debris away with one hand as I clung to the railing with the other, my knuckles turning a bright white from the effort. My handbag slipped down my arm and I made a grab for it. And then the strap ripped and, like a million marbles been blasted out of a cannon, the beads shot into the air, pelting me like bullets. They bounced off the floor and the walls and ceiling with the frenetic sound of a death-metal drumming solo.Yes, that was the perfect soundtrack for this moment. A murderous, ear-shattering guitar riff accompanied by the violent shriek of lyrics about dying in the flames of hell.
And then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. The elevator ground to a halt, the death-metal song that was playing in my head concluded with a savage, growling crescendo, and then—silence.We all held our breath as the silence around us screamed.
Five seconds passed, six, seven, eight, and then suddenly the elevator was filled with new sounds—our desperate cries for help. I stood up, my heart banging in my throat so hard that I was worried it would shoot out. I was shaking, panting, gasping for air and wailing for help. Power Suit threw herself at the doors and tried to pry them open.Pop—a red-painted false nail flew off and hit the floor. She banged her fists against the door so hard that things started to shake again.
“Careful!” I yelled at her, afraid her shaking might dislodge the elevator again, but it dislodged something else instead. I watched, my jaw dropping in horror, as the steel trapdoor in the ceiling shook and then fell. It plummeted down, picking up speed as it went, and then, to my horror, smashed into Fleek Brow’s head. She stood there for a few seconds, looking stunned, and then her eyes glazed over, the blood gushed and she fell backwards with a bang.
“Oh my God.” I threw myself to the floor and shook her. She moaned and gurgled. “We need to get out of here,” I screamed at Power Suit. She looked at me as if her eyes were about to burst from their sockets, as if her lower jaw was about to snap off and tumble to the floor. She nodded at me, her dark lipstick smudged across her cheeks, and then she turned and hit the big red alarm button. A new sound filled the air. The siren was so loud that I had to cover my ears and bury my head between my knees.
I’m not sure how long we waited like that, alarm blaring, each one of us in our own shocked world. Time, at this stage, seemed to have taken on a whole new nebulous meaning. Seconds felt like years as men chopped at the steel doors with axes and shouted things like, “Don’t worry! We’re coming for you!” All I could do was sit on the floor, my knees pulled towards my chest, and try not to totally flip the fuck out. It’s true what they say about having a near-death experience: your life really does flash in front of your eyes. But not the good parts. As I sat there, regret after regret, and painful memory after even more painful memory flooded me. Broken hearts, friends and family I didn’t have, books with zero words in them . . .
The door finally burst open. Sweaty axe-wielding men in uniforms (which, under less life-threatening circumstances, I might have gawked at) piled into the lift. A paramedic carrying a huge first-aid bag looked around at us and then made a beeline for the woman on the floor, whose bloody brows were no longeron fleek. I couldn’t move for a few moments, despite the men telling me it was safe to stand up. I think it was in that moment that I finally understood the meaning of the phrase “shell-shocked.” I felt far away, removed from my body in some strange way, and it was only when I felt the hands beneath my arms, the gentle pull, the powerful lifting into the man’s arms, that a part of me clicked back to life. He carried me out and, as he did,applause.
I looked around and, to my horror, realized just how many people had gathered outside to watch the spectacle—iPhones in the air, filming it. A free reality show unfolding right in front of their eyes, no Netflix subscription required. I wondered what the soundtrack for this might be.
I wiggled and jumped out of his arms, almost losing my footing as I went. His arm shot out and stopped me from falling. A few gasps rose up as I steadied myself on my feet.
“Careful there, ma’am,” he said. I felt confused, nervous, and my hands reached for the beads on my bag. But it wasn’t there. I looked over at my empty arm.
“My bag, my bag,” I wailed loudly, as if it was the most important thing in the world. I looked around for it, and that’s when I remembered all the beads. Bouncing, ricocheting, pirouetting inside the elevator. I turned and looked inside. The woman on the floor was still there; the paramedic was securing something around her neck and setting up an IV. I shuddered as the needle slipped into her arm, and then quickly looked away; I could feel the color drain from me as the white static buzz of dizziness prickled my skin.
“Sit, sit.” The fireman guided me to the floor, gently putting my head between my legs as it spun like a planet on an out-of-whack orbit.
I heard a woman’s voice, soft and sweet and kind. “Here,” she said, reaching into her shopping bag and pulling out a Coca-Cola. She opened the can and passed it to me. I nodded gratefully and raised it to my lips. Sugar and fizz and sweetness made me feel instantly better.
“I’ll get your bag,” the fireman said sympathetically. “Just sit for a while.” I nodded again, aware that I was in worse shape than I’d initially thought. I sipped the Coke and, with each sip, I could feel my color return, my head steady itself, and soon my legs were no longer shaking. The fireman came back with my bag and handed it to me—well, what was left of it, anyway. The strap had been ripped off and a large gaping tear in the bag rendered it useless. I looked inside to make sure all my things were still there—cell phone, wallet. And that’s when I saw it.
“What the . . . ?” It looked like a secret compartment inside the bag had been ripped open. I stuck my fingers into the tear and touched something, a lot of somethings. I gripped what felt like pieces of paper between my fingers and pulled them out. I stared at them. They looked old, very old. Stained brown and dusty from time, creased as if they had been read over and over again. I scanned them briefly. They looked like they’d all been written by the same person, same handwriting. I opened the first one and started reading.
9 July, 1949
My love,
I’m sorry I couldn’t get away to meet you today, but I was stopped by the police, demanding to know where I was going. We are all in such shock about what happened yesterday. It’s all over the radio, it’s all anyone can talk about, and I feel sick because I don’t know what this new law is going to mean for us.
I turned the letter over in my hands and studied it carefully. There was no address on the back of it, nothing to tell me where it had come from or who it was for. I looked down at all the other letters and started reading them briefly. They were all love letters, that much was certain. As I skimmed them, familiar words and phrases and dates caught my attention. And, just as I was starting to piece the bits together and understand what these letters were about, my phone rang. I jumped at the loud sound; it reminded me of that alarm. I grabbed my phone and looked at the name flashing across the screen. My heart fell into my feet once again.
The phone stopped ringing and I breathed a sigh of relief, but that was quickly interrupted by the stream of WhatsApp messages pinging angrily on to my screen.
Daphne (the second esquire):Where are you?
Daphne (the second esquire):You’d better be on your way.
Daphne (the second esquire):I cancelled a lunch meeting for this!
Daphne (the second esquire):I am fast losing my patience here.
My fingers were shaking as I tried to type as quickly as possible.
Becca:I’ll be there in five minutes. Was stuck in an elevator.
Daphne (the second esquire):Sure you were.
I could almost hear the sarcasm in her voice dripping from those tightly pursed lips of hers. I looked up as a gurney rushed past me; it was Fleek Brow and she was being rushed away with a great sense of urgency. I watched as the gurney raced through the hallway. I could see the flash of red and blue ambulance lights as she disappeared out of the front doors. I hoped she was going to be okay.
“I’m on my bloody way, okay! I’m up. I’m walking. I’m on my way!” I heard that familiar agitated voice and looked over to my left. Power Suit was talking into her phone again, the urgency in her voice palpable. She hung up angrily and then turned and marched away from me. Her heels clanked loudly on the marble floor as she went. And then,it was just me. The other two women who I’d shared this harrowing experience with were gone. And I didn’t even know their names. I stood up and dusted myself off. It was time to go. Time to face the music.Whatever the hell that music was going to be.
