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“Your brother gave us the details, sir. You don’t have to stay in London.”
We stand like statues, frozen in postures of grief and denial. We’ve run out of things to say. Our feelings are weighty, and words banal, expressions not able to convey the inner turmoil roiling through everyone in the crowd. To add to the distress, the first drops of rain spatter down, scattering most of the onlookers.
Loud calls for tarps echo around the area and swarms of police and fire service personnel appear out of nowhere and covering things over.
“What should we do about the house?” The gaping hole where the door used to be concerns me.
“We’ll make sure it’s boarded up for the moment.” The police officer has already turned to help her fellows.
“Thank you,” I call out to her retreating back. “We’ll move out of your way, then.” I look for somewhere we can shelter momentarily, but there are no large entryways to stand in. The rain has turned from drizzle to a steady shower.
“We need to go somewhere dry and talk this over.” Dad waves his hand around for no particular purpose. “Your mother is freezing. And wet.”
I study his face. Dad has always seemed young. Imperturbable. But now he is showing every one of his seventy-eight years as he clutches Mum to him, his eyes filmed over. It’s all I can do not to rush over, hug them both, and lie to them that everything will be fine.
“We’re all wet,” Meggy grumps, wiping water out of her eyes.
“The Club?” Eyelashes beaded with the rain, Cress looks cold and small, huddled with mum and Meggy. A blue tinge around their mouths tells the tale.
“Somewhere closer.” Mum’s teeth are chattering. She is shivering after more than an hour, standing on the pavement in a short dress and high heels, with only a light coat. She started swearing softly in Russian as soon as we felt the first drops.
“Bloody hell. We’re all going to be soaked. Find somewhere warm. Stat.”
“Duck and Waffle,” Les suggests. “It’s open all night and has fabulous views of the city.”
Who the fuck cares about views of the city? Or food? Getting everyone warm and dry is essential. “Fine,” I hiss through clenched teeth as I grab Cress and hold her close, trying to stop the shivers running through her.
Frank already has his mobile out. “We have a couple of Ubers on the way.”
* * *
Cress
We pull up to a private entrance to the Heron Tower, one of the tallest buildings in the City. As far as I can tell, the only reason for being here, rather than going back to the Club, is the close proximity. Exhaustion hits me. A hectic day, capped by disaster, has had my adrenaline at a record high. As we’d piled into the Ubers, I whined softly to Max. “I want to go back to the Club and crash.”
“I know,” he soothes, pushing wet hair out of my eyes. “No choice. Try to bear up a little longer.
I reluctantly move out of the Uber back into the chilly night. The short ride didn’t dry me off or warm me up and all I want to do is thaw. From now on, I need to carry a bag big enough for an emergency set of clothing.
As the cold air hits me, I revive. Race-walking into the private elevator, I realize I am looking out through rain drops at Liverpool Station. The wall is transparent. “How high did you say this restaurant is?”
“It’s the fortieth floor.” Les sounds excited. “The lift zooms right up, no stops. Should be a thrill. Need to come back one of these days. Sean would love seeing the aquarium in the lobby.”
Lobby?I mouth to Max. Why the hell aren’t we going up from inside the building instead of in this deathtrap?
As if he can read my mind, Max strokes my arm. “The restaurant only has this private entrance. There’s no egress from inside the building.”
I resolutely face the doors, endeavoring to act excited rather than sick. Even in the dark, the lights of London twinkle and I don’t want to take a chance of looking down. But Max folds me into his arms, holding me against his chest to keep me from seeing out.
The elevator swoops into the air and my stomach swoops too. I wish myself back at the Club. Whisked upwards at speed, acid from my stomach pushes upward. I swallow incessantly, trying to keep my dinner from re-emerging all over Max.
Two private elevator rides later, we land on the fortieth floor. I think back to last November and dinner at Everest in Chicago, another ride in a private elevator to a fortieth-floor restaurant.
“Heights a problem?” Brian asks solicitously while Max rubs one large hand over my back. If I open my mouth, I am sure I will spew, so I give a careful, small nod. When the door opens, I totter out, a death grip on Max’s arm and resolutely move forward, only to gasp at the view. Enormous windows face us. I turn my head into Max’s wet coat.
“Can we sit away from the windows?” My voice is a tiny croak. “Do we have to go down the same way?”
“Brill.” Meggy’s enthusiastic bray jars me into a semblance of normal.
