"Hey kid, watch where you're going!" Steven Jeffries blared his horn as loud as it would go at the dark haired girl who dashed across his path, satchel clutched to her side, yelling a rushed, harried apology.
He was not in the best of moods. It was towards the end of his shift, and boy, had it been a long day. The old she-devil of a Duane-Reade manager, Leslie Priestley, had been complaining about him - again. His manner, his lateness, his everything. It took great will power for the man not to begin informing her heavily that he had a wife and two pre-teen sons, all of whom would kill him were he was not back in time for soccer practice.
He watched as she made it onto the pavement, circling her own little spot as if unable to comprehend the scale and the heights that were Manhattan. She kept on colliding with harried strangers who cast her looks as if she were the devil incarnate for halting their progress for a succession of precious seconds.
He sighed. He'd seen this before. Girls, little more than children really, drawn to Manhattan like bees to honey, desperately aspiring for fame and fortune - only to find themselves totally dwarfed by it all and disorientated upon arrival. In the end wanting nothing more than to see the welcoming streets of home beckon.
"Look, kid, d'you even know where you're going?" He wasn't a heartless man. He didn't want to see her end up like some of the girls in the big city.
"Umm... No, not really," she seemed taken aback from his concern, with good reason. Sarah Williams, to whom all had adored and strived to please, had spent the last day traveling by night train, changing trains three times. She had been totally ignored by everyone and all. It made her quite indignant that no one would give her, daughter of the peerless Linda Williams, a care.
"Are you heading anywhere? Got anywhere to go?" She approached cautiously, like a wild animal being offered tantalizing scraps of food by a clumsily intimidating human. She was edgily sizing him up, checking, as her father would say, that he was 'reputable.'
"Umm...yeah. I'm looking for this address. You wouldn't know it, would you?" She produced a scraggy, much thumbed scrap of paper from her jeans pocket, handing if over to him. She studied him anxiously as he looked over the address with care.
He gave a low appreciative whistle before answering, "Whoa, you must have some friends in high places, kid, to have an address like that." He passed it back to her, she seizing it back in an instant.
"I do, actually." Sarah gave a smug smile of hopeless self-assurance, without realizing it for a second. Stephen didn't really care, he saw money now. Anywhere to live in that block had to pretty special. Its name was spoken in terms of respectful reverence, the name of Trump Tower.
"Look, you'll get plastered to the concrete if I let you wander about alone. Hop in. I know where it is." He opened the door. It was lucky for her that he was reputable, for she ambled in most happily, strapping herself in securely and posing herself for the ride.
On the short distance ride, what had began as annoyance, developed into curiosity, then emerged as concern. He'd seen during the cross town trip just how much of a child she really was, with her snub nose, near total ignorance and her blind trust in everyone without question or consideration for the danger. She looked older than she was really, could of passed for sixteen, but she was so childish in all other ways. She looked lost without a parent clinging onto her hand to prevent her from being led from the straight and narrow.
He pulled up outside the towering building, with its black shadowed windows that for all the world seemed to ascend into the clouds. She opened the door and stood beneath it, gasping in stunned awe, taken aback by the sheer majesty.
All this time, Steven Jeffries sat watching from his ramshackle car. The noise of the engine groaning and wheezing, in the back of his mind, passed unnoticed. He watched the inevitable play out before him.
He found himself realizing he hadn't even asked her name. Wordless in his turmoil, as she bounded through the swiftly revolving doors that caught the sun in a brilliant glare as they made their swift, ceaseless progress. He didn't know what stopped him from crying out to stop her, to even ask her who she was going to see.
She left him as faceless and unreachable as any stiffly suited stranger in the swarm of the street.
"And you are?" The receptionist, an impossibly sarcastic condescending man had watched the girl race into his revered, precious reception. Sarah, in her haste, didn't see the plush two inch deep cerulean blue carpet and the human-sized vases bursting over with fresh orchids. He watched as she muddied the carpet and knocked an orchid out of place from the arrangement that had taken hours to prepare.
"Sarah, Sarah Williams. I'm here to see this address," she slid the much scrutinized piece of paper across the top of the reception. The attendant regarded it with barely voiced disdain, before speaking.
"Can you not read...?"
"Of course," she wasn't going to let herself be intimidated now, not now that she'd come so far. She read off the address, carefully, but confidently. She was incensed when he gave a mocking, condescending laugh when she spoke the number. What began as a light chuckle descended into frenzied screeching; it scared her. She took a few steps away from the desk, as the man regained a sense of composure. He held her gaze with malice, oh yes, how he would look forward to shattering the dreams of this one.
"I am afraid, my dear, that no one, no one, sees the occupant of that room. Mr. King brings in his guests personally, or he goes to them. Never them to him." It struck her then, just who she was here to see. She had guessed, had known him as a likely possibility, for she knew him as the only tangible link to her mother – but had never truly known until his name was uttered with near holy reverence by the beetle eyed man sat smirking with glorious satisfaction before her.
"You don't understand, he'll see me. He knows me. He really will."
"He will not, now please leave. You are blocking the reception for guests with real inquiries."
"Look, please, you've got to, you have to, you have no idea what this means..."
"Yes, I do. Another silly little girl looking to be booted to stardom by a famous man. Now I demand you leave, I will call security if you -"
"What will you truly do if the girl doesn't leave, man?" Sarah and the man at reception turned to look at the source of the dark purring voice, the voice of Jeremy King.
The man so confident and sure almost flinched back at the sight of her. It was clearly her. Everything about her...her hair, her stance, her eyes, her beautiful eyes, he knew the woman behind the girl. He knew his wife. Never, in his entire life had Jeremy King been at a loss for words. He just stood, staring at the girl in whom he saw the image of his much beloved wife, the wife he no longer had.
Sarah was struck by what she could only think of as his beauty. His blond hair was slightly tousled, flawlessly placed and swept back against his forehead. His skin was pale, his cheek bones set high adding a distinguished air and emitting a sense of dwarfing, effortlessly exercised superiority. But the aspect of him that took her most was his eyes. His horribly, arresting eyes. They were both a pale, clear blue, almost alarmingly pale. Whilst they were cold, they were not cruel. There was a certain warmth and a suffocated passion within them that shone luminously as she looked on at him unable to tear her gaze free.
It was disconcerting. The intensity scared her, and almost without meaning to, she took a step back, crashing into a towering porcelain vase. It promptly crashed to the floor, spilling its excessively fragrant exotic contents to the floor.
The room fell to a deadly silence, all eyes on Sarah Williams. She had finally taken centre stage.
"You, - you little fool!" The man who previously sat stoically behind the mahogany desk, stood up, his face blazing in his outrage. He raised himself stiffly from the padded, care worn chair, exiting his well fortified domain to approach Sarah, who visibly cowered at his fury.
Sarah, who could do nothing but mutter 'sorry' over and over in ineffectual nervousness and intimidation, as the little balding man took position before Sarah. She recoiled as he jabbed his rounded fore finger at her, screeching and blazing his bloated wrath, his voice reverberating about the room.
Then she felt a hand, heavy and safe in its presence, rest on her shoulder.
Sarah turned around , away from the man, to look on as her savior spoke smoothly to the little man still blazing his anger, "Send me the bill, you petty little man. Do you know how easy it would be for me to snatch your precious little career from you? Now, leave." The man gulped, before skittering off to his blinded office, his intimidation rising to rival that of Sarah.
Jeremy turned to her, offering an arm. She found herself unable to refuse, as he led her up the stairs. They moved out of sight of the man whose only concern was maintaining control over his aggravation, his humiliation before the most powerful and influential man he knew or could ever hope to.
"Now, I think you had better explain some things to me," Jeremy stood aloft, holding his head with the bearing of any noble king of long ago, his eyes never leaving Sarah as she sat before him, absorbing all in quiet awe.
It was beautiful. That was all she could think of. How wonderful his rooms were, and so many rooms he had! What had began years ago as a single floor had grown to three, it rivaled the size and scale of any mansion. The walls were decked out with mirrored panels, gilding, and painted ceilings that would not look out of place in a vast Renaissance cathedral. All simply existing as a display of wealth to impress and inspire – and how effectively they worked their magic on Sarah. Sarah, who sat peering into the multitude of twin faces, occasionally waving, crossing her eyes – just to see the bizarreness of her doubles follow her every move, the every twitch and quirk of her ceaselessly gesticulating face.
She didn't even register that he'd spoken for a while, she was too engulfed by everything, how it all so fitted her fairytale. She could picture her mother here. Yes, she could see it very well, her mother lounging on the chaise with the mauve silk upholstery, smiling, beckoning for her daughter's embrace.
But his voice did hit her in the end. A voice like that had to. It did not exist to be ignored or overlooked. An actor's voice exists to be projected and heard by hundreds, to domineer, enrapture, ensnare a captive audience for the duration of the act. And how well Jeremy used his beautifully trained voice. How well he knew the levels of intonation and volume to use. When he spoke to her again, repeating the same line, louder, his voice reflecting his fast failing patience.
She jerked her head towards him, smiled, and mumbled a shaky apology. All she could think was how handsome he was, far more so than any photographer could capture. His voice never failed to send a thrill searing through her, a thrill she didn't particular understand or pay notice to – but it was a sensation, the existence of which frightened that poor little girl.
"Me? You're right, I sure as hell do have a lot of explaining to do!" She gave an awkward little laugh, an utterance not returned or reflected on by Jeremy. He had turned slightly, pouring himself a glass from a vintage bottle of red wine, muttering slightly to himself the year, "1943. A good year."
"Umm, well yeah, to cut a long story short – I'm looking for my mom, and I was told you would be able to help. I know you, you and my mum, went out, after she went away. Do you know where she is? Will she be coming back soon?" She brought it all out in a rush, as if she could barely stand to speak of the memories. The events that still scarred her, still scorched and haunted her dim, distorted memories. Yet, she had hope, as she looked at him earnestly. He turned once more to face her, arching an eyebrow, as he spoke.
"What is your name, Miss Williams?" He had to be sure of who this girl was before embarking on his tirade. He felt confident, loosened by the wine, he knew what he had to do now. Knew exactly what he had to show the girl who sat lost in her fantasies before him. Knew just what he had to make her understand.
Sarah creased her brow as to how he would know that, before it clicked – her mother would have still borne her father's name when she met him – for she hadn't belonged to him then. She felt reassured at finding a sense of normality and grounding in what otherwise appeared as the perfect manifestation of her fairy tale stage. And so, confidence and assurance recovered, she answered him.
"Sarah."
He moved over to her carefully, positioning himself against the mirrored wall, facing her as she sat, the sheer intensity of his gaze and stance demanding her unwavering attention. "She spoke of you often, Sarah, longed for you, she never forgot you. I didn't know who you were at first Sarah, I just saw a pretty little girl, but now I know you, the only one ever capable of taking the one thing I ever truly wanted from me." Sarah felt an awful lurch in her stomach, a sensation of nagging uneasiness. A horrible sense that she had just committed a huge mistake – and she was about to pay.
She sat rigidly in the chair as he gazed at her, his eyes boring through her in a cruel judgment of a child. She wanted to dissolve, to be eaten up by the ground, to run away, but her legs were petrified to the floor. As he drew closer, he knew how to intimidate so well with his fellow actors, scared them sometimes with the conviction and passion he could carry off with such depths of false emotion. But that was nothing to when it was real – and oh so truly meant.
"She was nervous at first, your mother, as was to be expected. She had just left everything, and all she had ever known behind to come to me. She had no reason to trust me, blindly placed herself in my care and keeping, just as you have done now. You little fool! Do you have any idea what you have done by entering here? When you saw me, you should of bolted, little girl, ran home to your father, for that is where you are safe. You're nothing more than a child Sarah, playing with your toys, immersing yourself within your fantasies – just as we all do. But Sarah, you must leave your fantasies, girl. You are not going to stay a child for much longer."
He drew closer as she shrank back. Death would have been a welcome escape to her frenzied sensibilities as she followed his every slight step towards her. To be spared from whatever masked horror he was to inflict.
"I am sure you entered here with such a little fantasy, expecting to see your mama seated waiting. Did you not? It is a pretty notion to perceive life with such low levels of sense or perception. Charming in most contexts, but it can get dangerous, Sarah. Here it is dangerous for you followed me blindly, expecting me to play to your set script, but you will not get that Sarah. You will receive something of far greater significance. Something you will not truly understand, because I don't either."
"You came to find the truth of you mother, is that right?" He came horribly close to her. She barely dared to breathe, silent in her fear. She closed her eyes as the sensation of his warm breath settled on her neck. "Sarah?" She nodded fervently, anything, anything to keep him away.
"Your mother never left you, not in truth. She may have been lost from your thoughts, I'm sure, after being replaced. I heard your father remarried. Never have I seen your mother sadder." He retreated slightly, moving to stand over her as she sat in rapt attention to his every word His eyes drifted toward the mirrored walls, as he tightened his grip on the flute of his glass and drank slowly as he gazed transfixed by his own reflection. His tortured, desolate eyes. The horror of what he spoke almost intrigued her, fueled her interest to an extent supplementing the terror. "I expect you have a new mother now?"
She spoke. She couldn't stop herself, her voice barely intelligible as it shook and wavered with the fear. "No, never. I've...I've just never had a mother at all, not really..." she trailed off, shocked that she had even dared to speak. In her tired, heavy eyes she could only see that he would shame her, twist her words, manipulate their true purpose and intent. This was what she feared of the strange, strange man who she barely knew.
"Oh, but you did Sarah. If you agonized over her at all, you may take comfort in that she agonized for he poor little child for the rest of days. Agonized more than you can imagine. She grew more distant, more frenzied as her life progressed. She devoted countless hours writing you letters that she never sent, buying presents that were never delivered. I found her trying to board a train once – a train towards you, her child. She lost all balance. Last year, she left, didn't even pack a bag. I never saw her again."
The man paused, a frown creasing his perfect brow as he looked at his glass as it stood empty, the remnants of the wine forming a red pool at the base. He moved carefully over to the bar, effortlessly drawing another bottle, silently pouring another glass to its fullest.
Sarah felt dizzy. It felt like her head was lolling back, she couldn't believe it. After all the painstaking years imagining her mother as the fairy princess of her stories, when all she was doing was desperately thinking of, longing for the daughter she didn't have the strength to remain for. All her mother had longed for was the mendacity and normality that she herself had scorned in its entirety.
"Do you want a drink?" She looked at him, regaining some sense of time and place, surfacing for a time, as he proffered her a glass. As if she were a lady of high society. As if she were her mother.
"Do you even know how old I am?" Her voice conveyed her sense of shock. She barely sustained her fear at what he was proposing by the request, her bottom lip wobbling uncontrollably. She looked at it – the icon of an adult world, a world to which she did not remotely belong. Her legs shook as she raised herself from her high-backed chair and began backing away slowly to the door, seeking her escape.
"Seventeen? Linda must have indeed married young to have a daughter already as old as you. Already more your mother than she ever was herself." He advanced on her. If he hadn't tottered slightly in his step, he would have appeared the perfect figure of dark seduction.
"Stay back."
"Why Sarah? What do you think I'm going to do? I wouldn't harm you, how could I harm you? The last vestige of the only woman I can ever say I loved?" He was drunk. She could smell the foul stench on his breath as he approached, deranged, maddened, seeking vengeance and consolation. The only one who could offer him such comfort had left him inescapably.
"For pity's sake, I'm just a kid! I'm thirteen!" He froze. A horribly wretched indescribable pain took him, engulfed him. His face contorted, devastated, angry, confused – his reason and his distorted misplaced desire battling for dominance within him.
Sarah bolted to the door, felt a surge of cleansing relief as she felt the handle turn and made to pelt down the stairs. Then she heard him, heard the pathetic whisper as he sat folded into the chair she had ran from "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I never meant..." she slowly turned, still cautious, her hand still on the door. She was ready to run if she needed to.
It was pitiful, in truth. The sight of this man, so strong, so powerful and utterly intimidating, seated on her chair. His head clutched in his hands, his nails digging into the scalp in the force of his turmoil, as if coming to realization, gaining the clarity that had so broken Sarah's precious little illusions.
He took a glance up as she now stood in front of him. She felt like crying for the poor, disturbed shell who sat before her. She knew who he was now – he was no brave knight in shining armor. He was little but a play actor, with a life more tragic in its bitter realism than any of Shakespeare's noble Nordic lords. "You're... you're still here? Why ? Why do you stay? Why you, when... when you were so scared, when all flee from me?"
"Cos...cos...I don't think...don't think you ever really meant to hurt me. You were just angry, weren't you?" He nodded slowly, as if stunned, shocked by her mindless display of bravery and her desire to understand. "You were angry with Mom?" He nodded once more, his handsome bleary eyed face looking up at her in the earnestness of any child to it's mother.
"I know how you feel. I was angry at first, so angry. I hated her, more than you can imagine, for a time. Even though I didn't even really know what she'd done. But I don't any more – because I think I can understand why..." she looked around the room, still awed by it, still lured and tempted by it, the splendor and the glamour of the gilt statues and the fine dust ridden paintings adorning the walls. She remained despite the man before her. Despite how he had just been, despite how he had nearly became a monster before her. Sarah forgot all in her perfectly simulated dream, one fantasy substituting another.
"Sarah, you must understand something, before I send you from here. You cannot stay here Sarah. This is too dangerous a place for a child, Sarah. You do not belong here – and you never should. Look. Look at all you see before your eyes," he waved his hand expansively. As she followed it, her eyes drank in the beautifully executed hues of the oils, the opulent flowers, the gorgeous paneling each capturing her curious, inquiring face in their finery.
She had another perception now. Not of her mother reclining stylishly on a chaise lounge. No, her mother had left now, truly played the fool by abandoning her glory for no life at all. She could see herself, her own frame sat on the chaise, smiling in utter indulgent bliss. The image only held for a flash and she felt wicked for imagining such a thing. She reluctantly returned to the reality of what lay before her.
"It's beautiful."
"That it may be. Maybe that's what drew your mother to theatre, drew her to me. She saw the beauty, the bright shining lights and the glamour. The reality - a life of isolation, a life that is not your own – escaped her. When she had everything, she found out she had nothing at all, because she always knew in the depth of her thoughts that her everything was you – her daughter." Sarah stayed silent, slowly listening, but not being sure if she understood. She nodded, slowly as if in blind consideration, agreeing to appease him, to please him, as he continued.
"She never really wanted me, that's the sadness in it. Though I wanted her, wanted and desired her more than anything else, because I loved her. Draw comfort from that, I truly loved her, and tried to make her happy, tried so very hard. But nothing, nothing I could do held an effect or influence for her towards the end. Her beauty remained, her outward projection remained as beautiful as ever, but her spirit changed. All ambition left her – everything left her." He paused to look at her as if gaining a clearer perception of purpose – as Sarah lost any sense at all. He knew what he needed to do.
"Sarah, if I send you away now, with money, for if you are anything like your mother you would not of thought of your return, will you promise me to return home? Immediately, without stopping, no glances back, and promise me you will never come back. If you want this; the beauty, the luxury, feel free to return, but if you have the remotest glimmer of sense, leave and do not let me lay eyes on you again. I do this from kindness Sarah, know that."
Sarah fiercely loathed being ordered. It reminded her of her parents, and she saw this man as anything but a parent. She saw him as her fantasies manifest, had seen him as the knight set to rescue her from her mindless drudgery. But he scared her still, in the vaguest most thrilling of senses and it was her fear that made her obey.
He spoke to her as he reached for his wallet, picking out a selection of crisp notes, ridiculously too much. He hardly seemed to care for the amount. He just focused on his words, telling her to leave her fantasies – to accept reality for that was where she would be happy. She would find nothing but pain if she were to blindly follow the path of her mother.
As he steered her towards the door, he did what he knew he must before he could allow the past to leave him. He placed a large, well read scrapbook with curling dirtied edges in her hands. Insured she had enough money, and gave her one last lingering look. He knew he would never see her again. It was a look she could not read, could not tell if it was a glance of guilt, apprehension, or longing, but it was the face of sadness. That she could tell without the slightest flicker of doubt.
She left, the door slamming tightly shut as he moved to his bedroom. He took the photo of him embracing and lavishing smiles on a beaming Linda on their wedding day. He remembered how she'd flicked endlessly through the pages of the coveted catalogues on their bed for uncountable hours, legs striking lazily through the air, choosing the most beautiful gown of all. Not that she needed such aid. He recollected her smiling face with a smile of his own.
He threw it from the window, watching as it was lost from sight. She left him then.
Sarah felt bitterness, as much as a thirteen year old can, towards him then. For abandoning her, for rejecting her, as everyone did. He had failed her.
It was only when she made it onto the train, the sky darkened for the day had long since passed, that she found herself crying for so very many reasons she couldn't truly say why.
But, not for a moment did Linda leave Sarah. In so many ways, it was the tragic, anguished figure of her mother that she would emulate in her play acting – which Sarah only saw as her attempts to better herself to succeed – to find happiness and pleasure in her fantasies as her mother had never been capable. For Sarah wished to live life for her mother now, to make the right choices, take the path that her mother had lost all sight of.
For Sarah not only wanted to match her mother's adored success and glamour as she flicked lovingly through the pages of the carefully set album, she wished to supersede her. Take final power over the woman who steered and drove her towards life as the selfish, spoilt, somewhat tragic little girl who stood nobly in the park. Ribbons in the hair she had spent hours pinning in place wretchedly before her mirror, robed in a dress two sizes too big for her with the sleeves hitched up with two tatty old strands of hair ribbon.
Saying her right words – the words that would that would lead to Sarah understanding what had always evaded her in the past.
For in the Labyrinth, Sarah was to learn just how dangerous your fantasies can be.
Wow, now this has been through so many changes, edits, readthroughs corrctions – it's insane! But thanks to the help of my absoutely invaluable beta, yodeladyhoo, who very kindly came in at the last minute and helped me make this a far, far better concluding chapter than what it had been before. The help with the Manhattan locations and general American terms, was absoultely invaluable to giving this some sense of realsim!
I hope you all like it, it's very, very dramatic and very wordy (this has became incredibly long), but that is one of the main reasons I write to improve over all and put into pratice some of the technqiues I learn in English lessons. I would love it if anyone reading could let me know what you think, as I've said I hope you enjoy it!
UPDATE: This is a finalised version of the chapter, as the last had a few small typos etc. I am sorry about the extra long drawn out hiatus, but the next chapter of Simplicity's diary is getting written, I hope to gte it finished by tonight. Thursday's Child only needs editing, and then that should be up too. The continuation of Simplciity's diary should be up in the next few days.
Here is the title and summary of Thursday's Child to look ourt for, which should be remaining unchanged:
Thursday's Child
I'm Sarah, Sarah Williams, and this? This is my life...
Untill then!
