I loathe her.
“It once belonged to my grandmother, a famous actress whose portrait I hold in my hands.” She pauses and gazes around the room, like we’re all supposed to applaud, or something. “This building is mine. I plan to hand the ownership over to my son Thomas when I return to England next month.” Mrs. Thackeray clears her throat, a wet, gravelly sound that turns my stomach. Then, she looks around at everyone. The shop is silent, except for a couple of coughs and a long wheezing breath from Gavin, who must have caught a cold.
“You needn’t worry,” Mrs. Thackeray continues. “Tommy will take good care of things. However,” she pauses to dab her face again, “his plans do change things, a bit.”
“Change things? How?” Sylvie says in a trembling voice.
“You see, we looked at my grandmother’s records, and these flats were not supposed to be two-level homes. Only single-level flats. Tenants who are using two floors will have their rent adjusted accordingly. If they do not wish to pay more, they will need to move out of the extra rooms they have been using.”
“But, we have a contract,” émile says. His face is so distressed, my heart breaks for him.
“All contracts were intended for single-level flats,” Mrs. Thackeray repeats, speaking slowly, condescendingly, as if speaking to a small child. She sits primly in her chair with her stupid poufy hat on her head, and I hate her more than ever.
“Forgive me. We really shouldn’t discuss business at dinner,” Mrs. Thackeray says. “I only brought this up because I know Rosemary is quite interested in my grandmother’s flat. The empty one next to yours, you know. She’s been sneaking in there quite often, I believe. And there is a matter of grave concern. She must return all the stolen property or I will press charges today.” She looks at me with a gleam of triumph in her faded eyes.
All heads swivel in my direction.
Gavin hurries over to me and presses a piece of paper into my hand, keeping his back to the group so they can’t see what he’s doing. He doesn’t say anything at first, because he’s coughing again, but finally he chokes out a harsh whisper. “Just read it, okay?” He moves away and goes off to hack by himself in a corner.
“What does she mean, Rosemary?” Mom asks, practically shouting to be heard over all the other voices that talk at once.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. There is nothing I can say. Nothing I want to say. I know I should give it up. Confess. Why should I keep pretending? My plan is ruined.
But as I look around the room at faces in front of me, something hard and angry starts to form itself inside my heart. First, I look at my mother, always the one in charge, so full of smothering, overwhelming concern; then at Mrs. T., regally self-righteous and accusing; at Valerie, sweetly confused; at Phil, vaguely embarrassed. Then, there’s Gavin. What is he, exactly? I glance down at the paper he’d pressed into my hand.
Meet me in the empty apartment. I just want to help. Trust me, okay????
Trust him? Can I? I glance around the room for him. He’s by the back stairs. His eyes find mine.
He’s not mocking me. He’s for real. I finally see it, and I know he reads it in my face. He turns and vanishes.
I stand up and face Mrs. Thackeray.
“You can’t prove anything,” I say. My words come out perfectly clear. They’re sharp, like bits of broken glass. Everyone understands. A little thrill runs through me.
Mrs. Thackeray’s eyebrows almost disappear into her white hair.
“I beg your pardon?” she asks. Her voice ends in a surprised squeak.
Once again, everyone starts talking at the same time. Mom gets up and heads in my direction, but Zander holds onto her arm. She whirls back to him, annoyed, and says something that sounds angry. Phil leaves the shop. Valerie stares at me. When I meet her gaze she glances away. Sylvie has tears in her eyes. So does Ansel. émile whispers to him, his head bent down to his son. His face is strained. Mrs. Thackeray stares at me. Her face is hard. I stare back. My legs shake. I’m terrified, but I won’t let her win.
“We should go,” Valerie says, shouting to be heard. “Thanks for inviting us, but . . .” her voice trails off and her face flushes pink when she realizes nobody is paying her any attention. Phil rushes back inside, shoving his way through the shell curtain.
“Where’s Gavin?” he asks, his face crinkled with worry. “He isn’t here.”
“Allow me to say something,” Mrs. Thackeray calls. She raises a hand, and the talk dies down.
“I’ve had the empty flat sprayed for rodents. Rosemary should not enter it for a few days,” she says.