There was a long pause. “Really?”
I twirled the extension cord of the phone between my fingers. “She’s missed me these past weeks and Cove is depressing.”
He let out a small laugh. “Okay, fine, I’ll make it a suite. We’ll send her shopping on Saturday so that you and I will get some time.” I heard him rap his knuckles on his desk. “Now, don’t give HP or the Antipodean any more of your precious time. You are not a bad person, Angela Petitjean, you are gorgeous and underappreciated. It’s time to assert yourself. Draw the line.”
“You’re the boss,” I said, and hung up.
The following weekend, my mom and I flew to Boston. The Boston Hotel used to be a jail. It’s a stone, gray behemoth, which in the right light could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the grandeur of any building in Oxford. The original police station lanterns still flank the entranceway in bossy blue, and wherever you sit in the lobby you can look up at haunted ceilings and see the ghosts of old wrongdoing.
Freddy met us in the hotel bar, Precinct, on the Saturday afternoon. As Mom and I walked down the shiny stairs into the low-ceilinged bunker we found him sitting on a high stool by the bar, listening to the lilt of jazz on the sound system.
“Greetings!” He stood up from his stool and buttoned his blazer over a gleaming white shirt. “Welcome!
“How are you?” he asked me, taking my hand briefly. “There, there, you’re with me now. You can forget all this awful business with those benighted ingrates. A better life begins right now.” For the second that I hugged him, I felt safer than I had all week. “And Mrs. Petitjean, how glorious. You look younger every time I see you.”
Mom fluttered a hand to her throat and blushed. She’d bought new shoes for the trip and swayed in them. Freddy just reached the height of her shoulders.
“Here, please, allow me . . .” He motioned us to a private table set back in a darker corner of the bar and pulled my mother’s chair out for her. As she sat, he raised his eyebrows at me but couldn’t maneuver over to the seat next to me. He was stuck by Mom. I suppressed a smile at our secret communication. “Ladies, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us some cocktails.” He gestured at the bartender with an upwards nod. “And I trust the room is to your liking?”
“It’s huge, Freddy. You didn’t have to treat us like royalty,” I said.
Freddy bowed slightly. “It’s my pleasure.” He winked and raised his martini glass for a toast as we stretched our drinks forwards, green olives bobbling over the table at the bottom of our glasses. “Now, what news? Angela, my darling, I know you don’t want to go into maudlin details, but seeing as Harrison Ford banished you from his house, you’re very welcome to stay at mine.”
“She won’t need to,” said Mom, sucking an olive off the stick in her drink. “She can live with me, and I can help her bring her life around.”
“It’s HP I want to bring around, Mom,” I said. “Can we just leave it?”
A look of hurt passed over Mom’s face, and I immediately regretted my tone.
“Sorry,” I said. “Mom’s been great, Freddy. We’ve been in a sorority all week, haven’t we, Mom? I’ve learned endless things about ballroom dancing.”
“It’s been lovely, darling.” She put down her olive stick carefully. “But honestly, I can help you set yourself straight, maybe even fix things for good with the Parkers—even if there was a bedroom incident.”
“A bedroom incident?” Freddy’s head tilted.
“Mom, that’s private!” I’d tried hard to keep the facts of my dismissal from HP’s house to myself, but in a weaker moment I’d let Mom in on it. Part of me needed help: I needed her to pull me out of the quicksand and tell me I hadn’t ruined everything.
Freddy looked straight at me, like I was an old joke.
“You know what?” I pushed my drink away. “I don’t really feel like parading my private life around for all to see, thank you, Mother. It’s really none of your business. Nor is it yours.” I tipped my chin upwards at Freddy.
“Absolutely. Absolutely right. Apologies,” Freddy said.
“Yes, dear,” Mom echoed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Your secrets are not mine to tell. Now let’s just get past this and move on.” She eyed Freddy meaningfully in a way I did not like.
The waiter drifted within waving distance, and Freddy took the opportunity to change the subject. “I’m a bit peckish. Would either of you ladies like a spot of food?” He pulled a menu from the center of the table and scanned the appetizers. I could see his brow creasing. “We could order here and have them bring it up to our room.”
My mouth felt clammy. I was trying to get Freddy’s attention, but he wouldn’t look up from the menu. He flourished a hand at the waiter, who came over and took Freddy’s orders for oysters and foie gras.
We went back up to our suite and ate on the silk couch, watching the sunset over the Charles River. I picked at my food, my headache thumping. Foie gras seemed wrong to me—a spread made from the choked, force-fed geese of France. I pictured them with hoses jammed down their throats, and felt guilty on their behalf. Had I been that pushy, that unkind? All of a sudden there was something horribly relatable about them.
The afternoon had blurred into evening; soon it would be time to go to bed.
“So where are you sleeping, Frederick?” Mom asked, pinching skin on the back of her hand and then pressing it flat.
“I’m not sure we’ve decided. But the master bedroom is that one . . .” He gestured to a set of closed white doors and strained to pop the cork out of a fresh bottle of Krug Brut Vintage. “Feel free to freshen up.” He handed Mom her champagne.
“Oh, I’m perfectly fresh, thank you.”
“Most likely I’ll sleep on the couch,” Freddy said after a pause. “You girls can take the bedrooms.”
“That’s fine,” my mother breezed. “Whatever suits best.”
Freddy sat down beside Mom and me as we watched the sun dip behind the embankment. Its globe glittered away to nothingness, leaving only scurrying people on the riverbank, oblivious to the insignificance of their lives. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t hold back my tears.
“Angela, good heavens, you’re upset!” Freddy said, hunching low to get a good look at me. “What on earth’s the matter?” He put his arm around my shoulders, and it spilled out of me then, my worst, deepest fear. I couldn’t help it.
“I think there’s something wrong with me.”
He laughed as if I were making a joke.
“I think I might have something serious, like a personality disorder.”
Freddy shifted deeper into the couch cushion, squashing me down. “Well, that’s no biggie,” he said. “Haven’t we all.”
“Angela, you’re . . . fine. You’re doing just fine,” my mother said. “You were too involved, you know, too vulnerable, and Saskia was not protecting you. This too shall pass. Maybe now you can finally . . .”
“Move on?” Freddy offered.