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“Mr Tanner, you’re home.”
My hand whips out of Rick’s pants, a bright red flushing my whole body. I can’t believe I did that, or thought about doing that other thing. I hurry from the car, embarrassed, probably glowing, and really very wobbly on my feet. Unbelievable. I smirk at myself, checking for traffic each way, and then bolt across the road to get out of the rain. I’m a slut. I chuckle and hover under the canopy, waiting for him to get to me. Time to make babies. Or at least start practising more than we already do until the pills start weaning out of me. You just wait until I get him up into that apartment. He’s going to pay for whatever that’s just been. Dirty man.
He finally waves the driver off, his hand up in the road, and turns to walk for me. It’s a second in time I’ll never forget. One last smile, one last cheeky, lovely, happy smile. And then the truck hits him and his body slides under it.
Chapter 4
Gray
The elevator descends through the levels, eventually opening to reveal the private parking lot. I glance around for a few moments before stepping out into the world, eyes searching for anyone else. There won’t be anyone, but it doesn’t stop me checking. I don’t talk to people unless I have to. I have neither the want nor the interest to bother. They’re all irrelevant to me, nothing but ambient bystanders in a life I’m existing in. The closest I get to it is emails and board meetings, the first of which was relatively entertaining today.
My new Finance director got killed. Run over by a truck after his welcoming party the other night. I’d chuckled at the email detailing funeral arrangements, slightly amused at the way life delivers misfortune, and then looked over the finances associated with that misfortune. Unfortunate, but easily reconcilable when a new member’s brought on board to cover his position. There’s also a large insurance premium associated with his death already in place, so the wife will be accounted for. No need for lawyers to go digging where they’re not welcome, or for me to have to pay her off.
It’s colder than I thought. My fingers rub over each other as I make my way to the waiting car, one hand reaching for the door of the blacked out Lincoln.I slide in and listen to the driver, Tom, talking to security as he starts pulling away. It’s the same rota as usual being conversed.
“Smoke on route.”
Smoke. It’s a sensible name for me. Hidden. Nothing but a wisp of latent energy that’s barely seen by anything before it evaporates back to nothing again. I stare out into the night as we pull out onto the streets, watching the passers-by blankly as they get on with their evening. Couples amble. Youngsters making their way out to dates, or nights in bars. I close my eyes and lean back, trying to push the oncoming sense of irritation down. People. Too many people.
A long breath pulled in and eventually I open my eyes to gaze at the near black screen between the driver and me, choosing that visual instead of outside. It’s calm in here. Still. Quiet, but for the drone of the engine under me. I frown and think of the work I was doing earlier, the sequences and structures. Close. The answer is there, right under my fucking nose somewhere and yet I can’t damn well find it.
We eventually slow and I look out into the crowds of well-heeled people walking the streets, all of them wearing the sort of apparel that’s needed for this part of town. Opening night normally brings them all out in droves. None of them care for the sound per say. They care for the ability to be in the right place at the right time, seen by the right people. I sneer and sink into the gloom, not interested in their attempts to talk to me when I get out of here. They’ll smile and wave, the women trying to make their moves regardless of the partners or husbands on their arms. Grayson Rothburg, New York’s most eligible man. The one no one can get to.
The car pulls up outside the Metropolitanand I watch as two security come up to the side of me. The door opens slowly as they talk into earpieces, one hand reaching for my arm to help me out. I shrug it off immediately, wondering when the hell they’ll stop doing that, and glare at both of them. They’re here to stop me being shot, not to help me.
I keep my head down and walk the short distance to the lobby, listening to them as they keep by my side and look around for threat. There won’t be any. I doubt it, anyway. But I did make this life for myself. Prudence in outside situations is necessary. Although - I glance at the hundred or so other people around me - I wonder if I should bother with the security anymore. Maybe I should let nature take its course, let the world have its way with me as it chooses. The struggle wouldn’t be there then – the torment.
The private elevator opens and we walk in, both of their bodies flanking the front of me to shield me. I stand looking at their backs as the floors pass by, taking in their frames. Jackson and Richards. They’re sleek. Polished. Black suits to blend in with every tux here, my own included. They stand firm, protecting me at all costs, as is their jobs every day of their lives. My face is too well known, no matter how much I hide from the world. I can see the tabloids already tomorrow, some of them managing a side shot of me while I’m here hidden in the depths of a box with curtains veiling me. They’ll tell of the reclusive billionaire with haunting chestnut eyes and black hair, who still, after all this time, visits the opera. And then they’ll screech my company’s name in bold all over them, showing how I profit from all the sick people in the world, making my millions from others’ pain and misery. It’s not a lie. I do. I live in luxury while some sit in squalor and their own infections or syndromes, unable to move because of their disease or misfortune. Money. Everything costs money. Most people haven’t got enough of it to save themselves.
“Sir?”
I look up at Jackson, acknowledging his hand out to the side by moving forward into them both. I expect it’ll be a nauseating read in the tabloids. For both myself and the rest of the world. At least those sick and diseased will have another good reason to hate me. It might keep their spirits up long enough for another year of life.
Jackson leads the way through to my box, Richards behind me, as all three of us walk swiftly along the gilded corridor to get there. I don’t acknowledge the few others around us heading for their own boxes, nor do I make eye contact. Eye contact left me a long time ago unless it’s to do with making profit or research. I have no need for friends, nor do I have the inclination to care about finding them. I am solitary. Private. Unsociable. And I care little for anyone’s opinion on that.
I eventually sit behind the veil of curtains shielding my box. They’re red velvet, matching the interior of the building’s fabric. Everything is red, including the carpets, apart from the gold filigree work decorating the furnishings. I don’t like it much. It’s lavish, and grandiose. I suppose it’s intended that way, predisposed to showing the world how excessive the opera is, but to me it seems a little vulgar. Gauche even. Operatic overtures should be listened to by everyone, not only those that can afford the luxury of it. Perhaps they’d understand the meaning of life if they paid attention to the rise and fall of the notes, realise the significance of their short time here.
A champagne cork pops behind me, as the curtains draw back slowly, and I get a brief glimpse at the crowds before the lights start dimming down. The seats are full, as they always are on opening night. A sea of excess and luxury spreads out before me. Diamonds twinkle in the lights. Capes of silver and gold thread reflect under the bright illumination. Row after row of black tuxes with splashes of coloured dresses sitting between them, all of them talking quietly or laughing. It creates a dull drone of noise, something akin to whispers and gossip.
I sigh and take the glass of champagne offered from my personal attendant while I’m here, and then gaze at the other boxes from the dark depths of my private space. La Bohème. It’s been a while since I’ve heard Puccini. Three boxes hold politicians and their families. Two more of them with yet more wealth. Antoli Aterac – oil. A few actors of little interest. One old actress with her younger spouse. And one woman alone. I can barely see her from here. Silver dress. Off the shoulder. A thick choker on her neck. Long gloves. She’s slight. Small. The box around her seems to drown her form as she sits perfectly still. I find myself staring at her, trying to look a little closer, but all I can see of her features is red lips which appear dower in this light, as if she’s fateful of something.
The room finally grows dark and I’m left with no ability to see her at all other than the faint outline of the silver under the light illumination from the spotlights. Still, I look at the box, unable to look away from something unusual here, until I hear the first note played. My gaze goes back to the stage the moment it begins, lips occasionally sipping champagne to keep my thirst quenched in this dry heat. That’s all there is until the performance is done.
That and memories.
Chapter 5
Hannah
Ishouldn’t have come. I don’t even know why I have. I’m dressed in my favourite opera gown, the one Rick bought for me on our wedding anniversary, and I’m pretending he’s beside me. He’s not. He’s cold and lifeless in a parlour, waiting for the funeral I’ve arranged as precisely as a good wife should. Invites have been sent. Food and wake arrangements in place, but it’s like I’ve been on automatic since it happened, barely registering life around me as it’s happened. Dead. Instantly. It still doesn’t make any sense.
The ambulance and police vehicles arrived, all of them closing down the street and trying to save him from the mangled wreck his body was in, but nothing worked. I sat and shivered in the back of an ambulance waiting for good news, all the time knowing it wasn’t coming. I just didn’t understand. He was right there next to me in the car. I only walked across the road. We were going inside to make babies. We were perfect. We were meant to be together. This was our last move, the one that meant we could settle and be a family.
Gone.
My eyes stay glued to the stage, watching as the enactment carries on in front of me, but I can barely hear the sounds coming from it. I’m too busy in my head, trying to figure out what’s next and why and how. It’s still so senseless. He’s gone and I’m alone with nothing. Tears well in my eyes as the woman sings on, the loud crescendos breaking my head space and making me think about feelings and sentiments. I sniff, dabbing my eyes with a tissue. I can’t cry yet. If I cry it’ll all come out and then I won’t be able to hold it together for the funeral. I must. I will. He deserves the best and falling into a mess of tears and screaming hysterics won’t help anything. I’ll go deep inside myself, block it out until I have time to analyse or think before despair beds in.
The male lead comes on the stage, his arms reaching for the singer. She’s crying. Pretend tears. An actress. She doesn’t know what real tears are. She’s just showing a masquerade of feelings – playacting. I can do that. I will do that. I’ll make believe, try and imagine him sitting next to me still. He’d be joking now, trying to distract me from this performance. He hated it. Didn’t see the point or the reasoning for it. I sniff again, remembering all the times he took me to the opera, all for me. He said it was his way of paying me back for all his trips away.
