Searching the drawers and cabinets of the closet was like a treasure hunt. Still rummaging for fuzzy socks, she found multiple drawers of lingerie. The silky black and red negligees in multiple lengths reminded her of a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Finally, she discovered socks. Claire couldn’t comprehend that all of these lavish and extravagant clothes belonged to her. Truthfully, she didn’t want them.
Driven by curiosity, she read the labels on the evening dresses: Aidan Mattox, Armani, Donna Karan, and Emilio Pucci. These dresses alone could pay her rent in Atlanta for six months. Fleetingly, she wondered about last night’s dress. Its tag would remain a mystery. It disappeared when the room was cleaned.
Next she inspected the shoes: pumps, sandals, boots, and slip-ons—all with four-inch heels or more. The brands were equally as high-priced as the dresses: Prada, Calvin Klein, Dior, Kate Spade, and Yves Saint Lauren. Never really a shoe person, Claire usually wore casual footwear, Crocs and sneakers—rarely heels and never that high. Of course, every pair was her size.
Her mind slipped back to high school. Ten years ago, she would have done anything for a closet supplied like the one in which she stood. Back then, her sister helped her fit in despite her parents’ modest income. Emily took her to consignment shops, bargain-hunted, and shopped sale racks. It worked. She was part of the in crowd, wearing the right clothes, shoes, and carrying the right purse. As she turned slowly and took in all the clothes, she wished she didn’t have the closet or any of the memories.
She heard the beep, and the suite door opened. Her heart raced. Who was here? And how long had she been in the closet? Stepping into the suite, she saw lunch being delivered by the same young man that brought dinner the night before. Claire hadn’t notice last night, but he appeared Latino. She asked him about the food. He smiled and said, “I bring Ms. Claire lunch.” She asked about Catherine, if she would be coming up. He replied, “I bring Ms. Claire lunch.” Other questions seemed senseless. Claire smiled and thanked him for the lunch.
Each response and smile the young man offered was unaccompanied by eye contact. Claire thought about his job, bringing her food. Obviously with the lack of makeup, he could see her bruises. Hell, he opened a locked door to bring her food. What did he think of her, of the situation? The idea of seeing her plight from someone else’s perspective weighed heavily on her chest. Sadness intensified at the realization that she once again was completely alone.
Instead of going to the table, Claire sat on the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees. Staring into the fireplace, she contemplated turning it on. Time passed without record. She didn’t remember sleeping. Her position didn’t change. The unbearable quiet and isolation combined to create a kind of time-and-space continuum. It was after three on the bedside clock before she moved from the sofa. It was then she realized that the food remained on the table, untouched.
The subtle glow from behind the curtains reminded Claire that she hadn’t looked out the windows since she awoke yesterday morning. She checked for a means of escape the first night, and everything was locked tight. But then it was dark, and she couldn’t see past her own reflection.
Of the multiple golden draperies, the largest covered a section of wall near the sitting area. Claire moved toward it, looking for something to pull to make the draperies move and reveal the secret of the other side. After minutes of searching, Claire found a switch. She lifted the switch. The draperies opened and revealed tall French doors leading to a balcony.
In her hysteria the other night, she didn’t notice that these were doors, not windows. She definitely didn’t see the balcony. Her mind raced with possibilities: maybe from the balcony, she could climb down. Alas no, the French doors were locked and bolted. The key was nowhere to be found. Claire had a good idea who possessed it.