Disclaimer: If you recognise anything or anybody, the chances are that CBS owns it, and I don't. If you don't recognise it, it's likely that I do own it. Any mistakes are mine (duh… who else's would they be?), and I apologise for them. Please make me aware of them so I correct them. Thanks!
Apollo City Chapter 7
On Sunday, Jennifer got up early for their anniversary. She put on her best dress and spent a long time in the bathroom perfecting her hair (silky, dark brown, shoulder-length) and her elaborate make-up. She polished her shiny black heels and grabbed her posh hang-bag before stepping out of her front door. She made it all the way to Apollo City Station before she had a change of heart and hurried all the way back to her apartment.
She rummaged through her overflowing cupboard and pulled out some black skinny jeans with combat-style pockets with little studs. She found her old doc-martins and a dark red v-neck t-shirt, which she wore under a smart-ish suit jacket. She wiped away her enormous smoky, over-the-top eyes and replaced it with some simple mascara and nude lipstick.
She brushed her choppy red hair into a wig-cap, which she had brought from a costume shop. Wig-caps are worn under wigs and over the real hair rather like a swimming hat. The real hair is shrunk down under the wig-cap and becomes almost invisible, making the wig seem more real. Then, she placed the wig over her seemingly bald head where it fastened onto the wig-cap so it wouldn't slide around.
She tipped the contents of her expensive hand-bag onto the kitchen table and scurried around her little apartment to find a cheaper, less girly looking one. She found what she was looking for, stuffed what she needed into the new bag (along with her present to him - which she'd forgotten the first time) and ran out of her apartment.
When the train pulled into the station twenty minutes later, and before it opened its doors, she caught a glimpse of her reflection. With her feminine, yet not girly and frilly, and smart clothes, her long eyelashes and dark hair, she resembled someone. And that someone was Emily.
At London Street Station, she started to get nervous. She had no idea how to do this. Would she ring on the intercom and say hi? Or should she sneak into the building and leave the present outside his door. The latter was the better idea. She would say that she was a friend of his, but that he wasn't answering his cell, because it was a Sunday morning and he was probably still asleep. And the intercom wasn't working in his apartment because his dog Clooney had chewed through the cord yesterday evening. And the reason she was here so early (it was still not past eight am) was because she had confused the time zones, because she had travelled all the way from… London, England. She would have to put on an accent, but that could be easily accomplished. And by the time she had thought all of this out, she was at 235 London Street.
She stopped and took a deep breath, taking care to look inconspicuous. The street was incredibly quiet. She could see no-one around. The sun was starting to heat up the road, and it smelt fresh and warm, like all summer mornings should.
She walked around the block a couple of times and sat on the bench outside for a few minutes before she noticed a small door on the side of the building. It was the trash can room for his building. Holding her nose and breathing shallowly through her mouth, she stepped into the dark room and felt along the wall for a light switch. The harsh lights flickered on, and she spotted a notice on the back of the door: "Please lock the door when you leave." Well, someone had kindly forgotten to do that, and now she was into his building. She could see the door at the back of the room leading to the apartments, and she tiptoed up to it. She placed her hands on the cold metal handle and tugged. But it wouldn't open. It was one of those doors that you couldn't open from one side, for security precautions. Well that sucked.
She left the trash room and walked back around to the front of the building. She was walking on the same side of the road as the door to his building. She was to the right of the door. Someone, a woman in her late sixties by the looks of it, was leaving 235 London Street. Jennifer was six paces away. The woman opened the door and breathed in the sweet-smelling air, her hand still on the door-handle. Jennifer was three paces away. She glanced in her direction, smiled, and said:
"Morning."
"Morning," Jennifer replied too quickly, now one pace away. She had forgotten the British accent. Oh well.
The woman looked in the opposite direction, let go of the handle and walked down the road away from Jennifer. The door was swinging shut. Quickly, she dived for the handle and grabbed it just before clicked into place, trying not to make a sound so the woman wouldn't notice.
Celebrating silently, she opened the door and stepped inside. It was a spacious reception, slightly dark, with the windows closed and locked. It was cool inside, and Jennifer appreciated the gentle whirring of the ceiling fan which masked her footsteps. She searched for a sigh, and found a mirror plated plaque which told her which floor Derek was on. Floor 3. Instead of risking the elevator, she climbed up the stairs, aware of her agonisingly loud footsteps.
She made it to the third floor, panting slightly because of her heavy bag. She glanced left and right to check that no-one was there, then tiptoed to her right, following the signs. She passed number thirteen, then fourteen, then stopped. She heard a key turning in a lock. She whipped around the corner and stood with her back against the wall. To her right was a dead end, with Derek's apartment, number fifteen, glaring at her. To her left was a blank wall, which was next to apartment fourteen. The edge of the door to number fourteen was in line with the edge of the wall she was leaning against. And she watched in horror as the door to number fourteen opened.
"Back in a few, honey," a man was saying as the door swung open. He walked off, wallet in hand. The door closed.
Jennifer felt sick with relief. She snuck up to Derek's door and dropped the gift there. It made a startlingly loud thump. She hurried away before anyone noticed, tiptoeing down the stairs and running out of the building back to the station.
On the train, she looked at her watch. 8:23 am. Jennifer felt she already needed a good night's sleep, but if it was a usual Sunday, she wouldn't even be awake yet. She was back in bed by 9:15 am, watching her small television and eating dark chocolate.
In the advert break, she wondered if Derek had found her gift. And if he liked it. It was a large tray of chocolates and homemade card which she had spent hours perfecting, which pictures of him. It was like a shrine of him. He would appreciate it, she hoped.
Exhausted from the stress of the morning and with nothing else to do, she fell asleep. Hunger woke her, and she found that it was five in the evening. She ordered a take-away and wolfed it down before giving in to the nagging urge she'd had for ages. She tided herself up a little, then took the train to London Street, and sat outside his building until nightfall.
Later: his street is very quiet on Sunday's. A couple of people with dogs walked past, and delivery man came to the building with a couple of packages, and left with a cardboard box wrapped in a lot of black tape. He hasn't left his apartment for hours, although I swear I saw his handsome face peeping out from behind some thick curtains on the third floor. I guess it could be my imagination. It's cold now, and dark and I'm getting lonely looking at all these happy families from outside their lit up windows. I'm going home and back to bed. Tomorrow, I'm going to get someone with more tech skills than me to do some digging around.
