Author: fallensea
Category: Thriller
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The courts should have been packed with adrenaline and unresolved stress by now. I could understand Gerty and Edna bailing on practice while they got over their disappointment, but not the rest of the club. There was no reason for everyone else to skip out, not unless I had somehow led them to believe I was no longer hosting the club now that I was on the super team, but that was ridiculous.
I waited until my patience admitted defeat, but I didn’t leave. I practiced on my own, hitting the ball against the fence like thunder controlling the sky, ignoring truths of friendship I was not yet willing to confront.
***
After my brutal workout on the tennis courts, I needed hydration. Coffee wouldn’t do. I craved cold, clean water, so I went to the breakroom. Olivia was there, eating an orange, which she nearly choked on when she saw me.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” I said gaily, reaching for a water bottle in the fridge.
“What do mean by that?” Her voice was small but sharp, full of accusation.
I closed the fridge door slowly, as if Olivia were a deer easily startled. “The first few days you were early to the meetings, like me, but lately you’ve been slipping in with the other new hires. It was just a joke. Chill.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s funny,” she snapped.
I set the water bottle down on the counter of the kitchenette, no longer thirsty. “You mad about something?” I demanded, not one to beat around the bush.
She folded her arms, defensive. “There’s no need for you to point out that you’re earlier to the meetings than me. It’s not a competition.”
Upon appearance, Olivia could easily be misjudged as timid, but she was not overly sensitive. Something bigger was brooding beneath the surface. Doing everything in my power not to bite back, I said, “I wasn’t being competitive. That was my roundabout way of saying I miss our early morning chats.”
Her confusion was evident. She dropped her arms, but she held back, leaning away from me.
“What’s really up?” I pressed.
She looked away. “I’m new here, so it’s hard to know where to place my trust…”
If Olivia was having doubts about me, someone was spreading rumors. “Have I given a reason for you not to trust me?” I pointed out.
She bit her lip. “No.”
“Come on, Olivia. You know better than to listen to rumors. The people that do the whispering are the ones you have to watch out for. They’re either trying to manipulate you, sabotage you, or sabotage someone else.”
Finished, I seized my water bottle and stepped away, but Olivia grabbed my arm. “You’re right,” she said hurriedly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have judged. You should know who’s spreading the rumors.”
“I don’t really care—” I began, but Olivia cut me off.
“It’s Gerty and Edna, but mostly Gerty. They’re warning the new hires against you, telling people you seem nice, but you’re actually really selfish and unreliable and would do anything to get to the top, even if it meant betraying your friends. I know you consider yourself close to them, so I thought you should know.”
Maybe too close. I was in shock, but I tried not to let it show. “Even more reason not to judge,” I said, and I excused myself.
When I was a girl in school and boys pushed me down, I got up and pushed them right back. Anger was my go-to. I didn’t feel hurt or question why. I exploded. It was obvious Gerty and Edna were distancing themselves from me, but I hadn’t thought it was with malicious intent. I never imagined they’d go as far as to try to ruin my reputation at work. I walked down the corridor towards my office, my fists clenched into tight balls. Their rumors were a dare I couldn’t refuse. I needed to confront them, but when I passed Edna in the corridor, I changed my mind. Work wasn’t the place, not unless I wanted people to believe the rumors they were spreading.
“Hey,” Edna called sweetly. “Happy Monday!”
I ignored her and kept walking. I went to my office, a dragon returning to her den, but Edna followed me in.
“You look like you could blow the lightbulbs out. You okay?” she asked, trying to sound friendly.
I didn’t know what the hell Edna was playing at. Did she not know I would find out? Did she not realize whispers were like water—they trickled everywhere, unable to be contained?
“Can we meet for a coffee after work? You, Gerty, and me,” I asked, detached, refusing to look at her.
“I can’t. I don’t think Gerty can either,” she said with a hint of regret that I almost believed.
I kept my cool. It was easy—my anger was ice. “That’s a shame. I really feel like we need to talk.”
Gerty suddenly popped up behind Edna, which caused Edna to shrink into an uncomfortable huddle.
“Good morning,” Gerty chirped, smiling broadly.
I had never realized how fake that smile was before, but now I saw it. Gerty threw compliments at people like cheap perfume, only to slight them behind their back. Resentment wore a jeweled mask when it didn’t want to be discovered.
“Oh, Hayley, you look so ashen and skeletal. You have to look after yourself,” she hissed, causing Edna to shrink further. “If you don’t look after yourself, then maybe you shouldn’t be at work.”
Leave the team. That’s what she meant. Her message was clear.
“Hayley was just asking if we wanted to meet for a coffee after work to talk,” Edna said weakly.
Gerty flipped her raven-black hair behind her. “I can’t. Sorry.”
That was no surprise. “That’s fine,” I replied without blinking, raising walls around me that could not be shot down. “I don’t need to waste my time on two-faced assholes. You can leave my office now.”
***
Focusing on my work was impossible. The barrier wasn’t strong enough. I needed to vent, so I called Marietta. Edna was her cousin, but I trusted Marietta with the anger I felt, the ice threatening to melt into tears.
“They’re just jealous,” Marietta assured me. “You’re working with the new client. They’re not. They’re being petty. They’ll get over it.”
“They might, but I don’t think I can,” I claimed. “This cuts deep.”
“Edna is my cousin, and I love her, but there’s a reason I’m not as close to Gerty as I am to you. Whenever we hang out, I always get the sense that I’m sitting next to a cat licking her lips.”
“She’s made it clear she’s jealous of you too,” I said, glancing to make sure my office door was firmly shut. I didn’t need Mr. Tremblay walking by and overhearing me on such a juvenile call. “She hates that you’re dating a hockey player.”
“I know!” Marietta exclaimed into the phone. “I can hear her eyes rolling every time I bring him up. Like, get over it. Be happy for me.”
“For sure,” I said. Then, in desperate need of lighter conversation if I hoped to survive the day, I added, “Are you all set for the gala?”
“I just need my dress,” Marietta said sprightly. “Any word on it?”
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I found it. If you can wait another little while, it’ll be a steal. When is the gala again?”
“Not until July. What if the dress sells out?”
“It’s already off the hangers. It’s as good as put aside for you. We just have to wait for the new season to start, and then it’ll be repriced with the discount.”
“Thank you so much!” Marietta squealed. “I can’t wait to put it on. How do you have such good connections?”
“I’ve promised at least a dozen people my vintage gown collection if I die,” I told her.
“Better watch your back. People will murder for a nice vintage gown. Killer fashion,” she joked.
A yellow flyer was slid under my door, distracting me. “I gotta go,” I muttered. “Work stuff.”
“Say no more. Chat soon.”
With the phone still in my hand, I picked the flyer up and felt my rage return.
Tired of early Mondays? So are
we! New tennis club meeting on Sundays. Contact Gerty or Edna.
Chapter Nineteen
Malaise
Strelitzia—the Bird of Paradise flower—named so because the flower looked like the Bird of Paradise in flight, a sunbird with elaborate feathers spread in defiance against the slaughter of the sun. I reached out to touch its tropical petals, which glowed blue and yellow in the oily night that surrounded me, but my fingers scraped against a surface of corroded brick. The flower, with its inflorescent stem, was an illusion, no bigger than the size of my fist, painted outside the door of the converted warehouse where I lived.
An unnamed graffiti artist the public had deemed the Owl had painted it here, and in other places throughout Toronto. Vending machines, streetlights, government buildings—they’d all become canvases for the artist, back stories for the Bird of Paradise flowers. Created with phosphorous paints, the flowers could be seen faintly during the day, but at night they came to life. At night, they were ablaze. The graffiti was so popular, newspapers had started featuring it in their Arts section any time a new flower blossomed amongst the grit and glory of the city.
My momma had told me beautiful things were meant to be free so they could shed their inspiration amongst the rest of God’s creations. Artists set things free by creating them. I’d worked my fingers across this particular Bird of Paradise many times before, but tonight I felt the truth behind my momma’s words. I needed inspiration, and the painting fulfilled that need.
It was late. I’d spent another long night at the office. There was hardly any point going home, but as much as I loved my job, I wanted a hot shower and the comfort of my apartment. The pain in my abdomen dwelled, and it was getting worse with every step I took.
Around me, the pre-dawn hours ignited the docklands of the waterfront that my apartment overlooked. An early ferry sounded its horn, making its lonely journey across Lake Ontario to Ward’s Island where, in a few hours, it’d pick up the first of the lily pad jumping commuters. Strongly brewed coffee and the sound of tired laughter came from the construction crew preparing for work that was part of the redevelopment plan for the waterfront. Across the black waters of the lake, the lights of the skyscrapers lit up the financial district, beckoning me back.
Normally, such sounds and sights brought me comfort, but not tonight. I felt nothing but pain and frustration. I left the Bird of Paradise and stumbled up the flight of stairs to my apartment, gripping at the mosaic walls with one hand as tightly as I gripped my stomach with the other, irritated that the elevator in the building was still broken. It sat stationary in the corridor like a bad tenant.
When I reached my apartment, I stretched out on my couch. I was alone, but it didn’t feel that way. My apartment was decorated as if I lived in Paris, with dark herringbone wooden floors, period-style trinkets on the shelves, and embellished furniture that was pretty to look at but rarely sat in, my colossal white couch the one exception. Above me in the living area was a cascading chandelier I had picked up in an antique store, and beside me were floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the water. Reflected in those windows was an apartment full of guests, but my guests were not people. Fitted on iron-ribbed dummies around my apartment was my collection of vintage gowns.
My pieces were varied, from the beads and lace of the twenties to the soft, classic silhouettes of the forties. The collection was valuable, but that wasn’t its purpose. A woman didn’t buy couture because it was expensive. She bought it because it tapped into her feminism, her power. Couture was a form of self-creation. I purchased one piece a year, after my savings rebuilt from the last purchase.
Across from me was my favorite piece—a white floral dress with a bateau neckline, cinched waist, and full skirt. Supposedly, it was made as a costume piece for Marion Davies in the 1936 classic Cain and Mabel, but there was no paperwork to confirm it. There wasn’t a lot of drama to the dress, which was probably why it was disregarded. The era was known for its drama.
Fits me well, I thought, writhing on the couch. I’m tired of drama.
The couch was my haven, but a burst of nausea forced me to the bathroom. Hot and shivery, I pressed my head against the cool porcelain of the tub. I was experiencing a violent malaise that left me weak and breathless. Malaise—the word sounded so pretty, like it belonged on a runway, but its meaning was ominous. I was losing control of my body. Forces I trusted in seemed to be working against me, and it was terrifying.
“Remind me to call Dr. Bach,” I murmured, talking to no one as the bathroom spun around me, and then I was sick in the tub.
Long after I was finished being sick, I continued to lay with my head against the tub, my mind rolling in and out of memories that had no place in the moment. Most were of my mother and the time we’d spent together the summer before she died. I was nine. While my father worked a tense and demanding case that required all of his attention, my mother entertained me so that I would not notice the meals he missed. She pushed me on the tire swing by the lake, took me for long hikes and to museums—activities she believed to be healthy.
On a hike, I expressed my desire for a bike, one with a basket and a bell. Soon after, such a bike waited for me downstairs, along with a promise that my mother would take me on a trip to Montreal where we could ride our bikes along the river and the cobblestone streets. But rain began to fall. Then my father’s case finished, and he had no interest in bikes or Montreal. The promise got lost in busy schedules, and then my mother left on her trip to Antarctica. After she died, I donated my bike to charity. When I went to Montreal, it was only to shop.
If you had ever been to Milan or London or Madrid, like I have, you would know the next best thing to Paris most certainly is not Montreal.
Gerty’s words from our recent trip clawed at me. Mixed with the grief I still felt for my mother, and the fear of the unknown pain I was experiencing in my stomach, my rage from earlier returned. It burned through my grief and through my pain. I stood, using the sink for support, and I claimed back control. I would not let whatever was happening to my body rule me, no more than I would let Gerty or Edna deprive me of my joy.
With the strength of my frustrations, I slammed both of my fists down upon the sink, crushing small porcelain fragments away from the rim, some of which fell into the bowl, others onto my feet. Blood instantly dripped from my hands onto the cracked porcelain, draining the rage from me. I was still, incapable of feeling or thought as I watched the blood fall against the fragments. And then I screamed, my voice a thorn yelling at the rose.
Chapter Twenty
Wool and Leather
The corridors of the firm were cramped, but they were decorated with a simple sort of pleasantness. Against the neutral tones of the walls were elaborate paintings of the seaside charm of Bas-Saint-Laurent, the region of Quebec Mr. Tremblay was from. I admired the paintings for the same reason I hunted down vintage gowns—there was an enduring beauty in the wistful silhouettes and languished lines that encompassed both the paintings and the gowns.
Mr. Tremblay found me in the corridor standing in front of a pastel canvas showing a fisherman lining his nets across the Saint Lawrence River, unaware of the salmon hiding in the depths of the water, away from him. Like the fisherman, Mr. Tremblay was an older man, his youth long faded from his face, but he was kind, much more so than much of the staff who worked beneath him.
“And what about this painting has you so fascinated?” he asked, adjusting the sleeves of his suit.
“Have you ever heard of the story of Yeh-Shen? It reminds me of her.”
“Enlighten me,” he urged.
“It’s an old Chinese legend that far outdates any modern fairytale. Yeh-Shen was an abused orphan girl who lived in a cave with her stepmother and stepsister. She was a servant to them, but she found joy in life, especially after she befriended a golden fish in a lake. Unknown to Yeh-Shen, the fish was sent to her by her deceased mother to be her guardian. Through trickery and betrayal, the fish was eventually
captured and eaten by her family. Yeh-Shen was devastated, but one of her ancestors visited her and told her to pray over the bones of the fish. When a festival drew near, she prayed for fine cloths to attend, and attend she did, but she lost a golden slipper before returning home. Eventually, the golden slipper led her to the love of the chief, but I believe the story to have much more depth than a servant girl becoming a ruler. It’s about the wisdom handed to us by our ancestors, of cherishing the people who came before us as much as they cherish us.”
Mr. Tremblay studied the painting of the fisherman. “I can imagine her by the river, speaking with the fish,” he said. “Do you like stories, Hayley?”
“I do. Old ones—old books and old movies. I’m fascinated by the past. When you look at the past, you see just how connected we really are, how unique but cohesive we are. Yeh-Shen isn’t the only story where a fish is linked with wisdom. Jesus is popularly symbolized by a fish, and Irish mythology also tells of a salmon of knowledge. Borders may divide us, but we all share such similar experiences.”
“If fish represent wisdom, perhaps I should invest in a fish for my office.”
“Or perhaps we should all pray over bones.”
Mr. Tremblay chuckled. “Do you know why you’re so good at your job, Hayley?” he asked, but he continued without waiting for an answer, used to controlling a conversation. “Because you have no fear of your own voice. When you speak, it’s always thoughtful and genuine. I grow so tired of the false praise thrown at my feet, knowing those I share my hours with see nothing more in me than a promotion and a pay rise. When I walk the halls of my own company, I want to be treated as a colleague, not a god.”
Finished with the conversation, he left, as if his confession was nothing more than a passing whisper.
From the print room nearby, Gerty whined loudly, announcing her presence down the corridor. “I still don’t understand why Olivia was hired for the super team. Why wasn’t it me?”