Ottawa, Canada
April 2016
Here comes your ghost again
"You never told me how the two of you met," I remark and look from Walter to Katya.
Katya is really called Ekaterina, was born in St Petersburg and looks like a Russian prima ballerina. She's all slender and lithe, with skin so pale it's almost translucent and hair so light it's more silver than blond. Looks-wise, she's the moon to Faith's sun and at least as beautiful. When I consider the precedence they set, I can't help wondering what kind of super model Shirley will end up with.
"He stalked me," Katya answers matter-of-factly.
Walter almost chokes on his wine. "I didn't stalk you!" he protests, coughing.
Katya pats his back. "You checked my financial records, my tax records and my police record. You knew where I worked and lived in the past ten years. You knew where I went to school and university and how well I did there. You talked to my family and friends and when all this was done, you sat me in a windowless room and talked to me," she recounts, ticking off the different points on her finger.
"You know it wasn't – like that," mumbles Walter between coughs, his cheeks colouring.
"It does sound like stalking," I point out drily.
Katya smiles at me, still lightly patting his back.
"I always knew that Walter was a dark horse, but he's more likely to write sad poetry about a woman than check her police record," I observe. "So, I'm just going to assume it was something professional."
"So he says," replies Katya and winks.
Walter gestures to show his indignation while his coughs slowly subside. "It was professional!"
"It's not the type of work you usually do though, is it?" I want to know.
He shakes his head. "No, not anymore. But it needed to be done quickly and when my planned mission fell through last year, I had the spare capacity to do it in the required time frame."
"And in the process of doing her background check, you fell in love with her? What did it, the tax records or her high school grades?" I tease.
Walter blushes harder. "It wasn't like that!"
Katya smiles at him indulgently. "I like to think it was the glowing reports given by my landlord of three years ago."
"Being a good tenant is always an important aspect to look for in a prospective partner," I acknowledge, feigning seriousness.
"I'm a model tenant," insists Katya. "I lived there for four months, but that was enough time for me to fix the stove that kept blowing a fuse and the boiler that thought 10 degrees was a perfectly adequate temperature for a shower."
I shiver involuntarily at the thought. I've always hated cold showers.
"Just for the record, it wasn't the report of the landlord from three years ago," Walter makes clear, sounding a little helpless.
"And yet, didn't my skills come in handy when your dishwasher broke last month?" Katya asks, raising both eyebrows in my direction. I hide a smile.
"Uh… um, yes," Walter stutters, clearly at a loss how to best answer that question. "That was very nice of you and very… skilful. But it's not the reason why I… why I, uh…"
Laughing softly, Katya puts an arm around him and kisses his cheek. "It's okay. I know."
It's quite sweet to watch them, really. Walter has never been the most suave guy out there, but I've never seen him so awkward and bumbling with any other woman either. It's apparent that he's absolutely besotted with this one.
"So we all agree that Walter is a professional stalker, which makes it alright," I observe, ignoring the indignant look he gives me. "The question remains why the stalking was necessary in the first place."
"I was set to begin the job at Lockheed and needed security clearance," Katya explains. "Walter was brought in because they thought I might spy for Russia, being from there originally. I came here as a child with my parents and have since acquired Canadian citizenship, but that alone wasn't enough for the type of work done by Lockheed."
I scrunch up my nose in thought. "They build fighter planes at Lockheed, don't they?"
"Among other things, some of which I can't tell you about," answers Katya cryptically, then shrugs. "Security clearance."
"Right." I nod and mull over what I just learned.
"Of course, the background check didn't turn up anything," Walter assures me, somewhat belatedly. "She got the job at Lockheed."
"Not a spy then, are you?" I ask Katya, meaning it to be a joke.
She just smiles calmly and looks at me for a long moment, before raising a bottle of red wine. "More wine?" Her voice is pure innocence.
Walter laughs. I shake my head, grinning.
I like Katya. She looks exactly like you'd expect a girlfriend of Walter to look, all beautiful and ethereal, but she's got substance beneath her porcelain doll looks. When I first came here two weeks ago, I must admit that I might have judged her by the cover, especially as she was initially a little reserved and cool with me. But since then, we've not only warmed considerably to each other, she's also shown that she's no more a prima ballerina than I am. (And God knows I'm not!) Not only is she an engineer with Lockheed and fixes household appliances like it's no trouble, her great love – besides my brother, I assume – is a turquoise 1960s Corvette that she likes to tinker with in her free time.
It's in the garage with this same Corvette that she and I find ourselves the next Saturday, after Walter spontaneously got called in for work. Katya is lying beneath the car and doing things to it that escape my understanding, while I hand her the required tools according to her description of them, seeing as I'm mostly ignorant about their correct terminology.
"Can you give me the hex key?" comes her muffled voice from under the car.
I stare at the toolbox, frowning. None of these look like a key and while they're all baffling, they don't appear to be hexed either.
"A steel rod," Katya elaborates, sensing my hesitation. "It's shaped like an L."
I gingerly pick my way through the toolbox. There are several thingamabobs that fit her description, all in different sizes, so I gather all of them up and put them in the hand Katya holds out from under the car. She pulls it back, apparently considering her bounty. Moments later, the hand is back, minus two of the smaller thingamabobs, so I take the rest and put them back in the toolbox.
While Katya works, I sit back on my heels and idly listen to the radio playing in the background. The new Rihanna song is on and I hum along it her singing about work and dirt and hurt, none of which truly rhyme, as Walter would surely agree. After the song winds to a close, a report about this year's NHL playoffs come on, though the presenter sounds curiously lacklustre, considering it's hockey.
"It's only the second time ever that there's no Canadian team in the playoffs," Katya remarks and I guess that explains the rather lacklustre reporting.
"When was the last time a Canadian team won?" I ask, despite being only semi-interested in the general subject. I really only follow sports every four years during the Olympics and even then with little expertise.
"Montreal, in 1993," answers Katya. "There were some finalists afterwards, but none since Vancouver in 2011."
"1993 was a long time ago," I observe, somewhat surprised. I thought we were better than that at hockey.
"Last time there were two Canadian teams in the final was in 1989," adds Katya, emerging from under the car.
I raise both eyebrows. "That was the year I was born! I didn't know it's been so long since Canada was good at hockey."
"Canada is good at hockey," insists Katya, getting up from the floor and giving her car a pat on the bonnet. "The national team won the last two Olympics and last year's World Championship. It's just that a lot of Canadian players play for US teams nowadays because that's where the money is. Not that it does them any good internationally, of course."
"Why not?" I want to know. (I suppose as a Canadian, I ought to be more knowledgeable about hockey, but… meh.)
"The US teams are good because of the foreign players they draw," Katya explains, as she walks over to inspect the toolbox. "Internationally, they never live up to the hype though. The last time they won anything was in 1980."
She hands me a curiously shaped tool to hold. I turn it in my hand, but even looking at it closely, I have no idea what it does.
"Who wins the big games when Canada doesn't?" I ask.
"Russia." Katya smiles, clearly pleased. "Sometimes, a European team gets a look in, but more often than not, it's between Canada and Russia."
I laugh. "Pays being you, doesn't it?"
"For a hockey fan, it doesn't get any better," she confirms.
"And you are a fan?" I enquire. My interest is piqued not because of the sport but because it's something that's important to her and when I look at her and Walter together, I don't think she's going anywhere, so I want to get to know as much as possible about her.
"I'm almost required to be," she answers with a shrug, handing me yet another tool. "Not that it's enough to convert Walter to the cause though."
Automatically, I imagine Walter at a hockey game and can't help laughing. "No, I wouldn't think so."
"I took him once and he wrote a poem," Katya tells me, looking a little pained. "About a hockey game! I mean, it was a good poem, don't get me wrong, but…"
"Not what most people would do while watching hockey?" I suggest with a smile.
Katya shakes her head. "It was about the glittering ice shavings being disturbed by the hard steel of the blades and fluttering under the bright stadium lights. Or something. It was very existential."
Yes, that sounds like Walter alright.
For a moment, as I watch Katya pick her way through the toolbox, I think about my brother writing his poetry and smile to myself. They're a poster couple for opposites attract, but something about them is clearly working out.
"The two of you are really pretty different," I muse casually, my gaze drifting over to the Corvette.
Katya plucks the tools from my hand again and puts them back into the box. "What do I see in him, you mean?"
I turn my head sharply, fearing I have offended her, but find her looking openly at me. Relaxing again, I smile back and raise an eyebrow. "Well?"
"His does write lovely poetry," Katya acknowledges, taping what I think is a screwdriver against the side of the toolbox. "Just because I enjoy a good hockey game doesn't mean I can't appreciate beauty. A beautiful poem or a beautiful piece of music can touch you like nothing else does. We have that in common, Walter and I, and it's definitely one of the things that drew me to him. Plus," she pauses briefly, "he's good in bed."
I splutter, nearly chocking on my spit.
It's safe to say that that wasn't the answer I was expecting.
"He's very creative," she adds thoughtfully. "And surprisingly assertive."
Coughing, I wave a hand in the air. "It's okay. That's enough. Forget I asked!"
"Di said you're a bit squeamish," Katya informs me with a fine little smile.
"I'm not –" I begin to protest, then stop myself and shake my head. "Okay, maybe I am a little squeamish."
Katya nods to acknowledge my answer and looks briefly from me to her car and back, before sitting on the floor next to me and nudging the toolbox aside with her left food.
"So, what did you see in him?" she asks, her expression curious.
I blink, surprised as much by the sudden change in subject as by the question itself. If Di and Nia made very sure I didn't bottle up my breakup, Walter and Katya have steered clear of the subject so far. And even back when Ken and I were still together, it wasn't a question I got often – or at all.
"You know," I begin slowly, "I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before. It's curious, because I think many people must have wondered why I stayed with him despite… well, everything, but no-one's ever asked."
"It's an impertinent question," Katya explains practically. "Normally, I wouldn't have asked it either, but you asked first, so I took the opportunity that presented itself."
Well, I can't argue with that logic, I guess.
I sit back, letting my gaze drift as I consider the question. Impertinent it might be, but it's true that Katya answered it first – if somewhat in jest – so now it's my turn.
When I have brought enough order into my thoughts, I answer slowly, "Most of all, I just enjoyed being with him. He's funnier than people give him credit for and he can also be quite romantic. I mean, he never made his declarations in iambic parameter like Walter does, but he did say some very pretty things in prose."
"Walter is into free verse right now," Katya interjects, making me smile.
"I also liked his confidence and his… his presence," I add, not being deterred. "He walks into a room and no-one could possibly miss it. Sure, part of that is because of his position, but a lot has to do with his personality. He's got… charm, charisma, that sort of thing."
"Yes." Katya nods. "That's the vibe you get from him."
Of course, I've also seen his vulnerable side. I know about his concerns and his fears and his pain, but that isn't for me to tell, so I don't.
Instead, I continue by admitting, "I also loved how he made me feel. He had a way of making me feel like I was… the only person who really mattered… the only person he wanted to be with. When we were together, I never thought I had to be anything else than I was. It's weird, because I doubted myself so often when we were apart, but when I was with him, he made me feel like I was… enough. With him, I could just be me, just the way I am."
I look at Katya and smile wryly. "Is that a stupid reason for wanting to be with someone?"
She holds my gaze for a moment, seemingly considering my words, before smiling. "It certainly beats 'He's creative in bed.'"
"I guess it does," I concede, laughing.
Katya claps my shoulder and gets up from the floor, thus precluding what could have been an awkward moment. "Come on, let's go inside," she suggests. "Walter should be home soon and we decided to take you to Dows Lake today to do some canoeing."
"Canoeing?" I repeat, not a little horrified. "I can't canoe! I'll drown!"
Stopping on her way to the garage door, Katya turns to give me a long look. "If Walter doesn't drown, you won't either."
That is…
There's a lot of truth to that statement. I can't deny that.
"Well then," I reply with a lop-sided smile. "Canoeing it is."
And canoeing is indeed what we spend our afternoon doing. It's surprisingly fun, too, and we manage without any casualties. Walter does fall out of his canoe one time – to the great amusement of a class of primary school kids paddling by – but without any dire consequences. It does mean we have to forgo dinner at the pavilion so we can get him home before he catches pneumonia in his wet clothes, but hey, at least no-one drowned! (I definitely wouldn't have wanted to have been the one having to explain that one to Mum.)
With our plans to dine out scuppered by my brother's clumsiness, we instead settle in for a quiet evening at home. Since none of us is very good at cooking fancy meals, Walter instead calls a small French restaurant down the road to deliver us our dinner, including three extra large portions of the absolutely scrumptious crème brulee that they do. (If there's one advantage to no longer being a royal girlfriend and no longer having the press judge my every move, it's that I can now eat what I want, calories be damned!)
I take the safe route with a simple quiche lorraine. While I eat it, I watch with equal parts horror and fascination as Katya expertly handles her escargots de Bourgogne, skilfully operating the meat (is it called meat when it's so slimy?) from the shells.
"Those are real snails, aren't they?" I ask, staring on her plate.
Katya sucks in another piece of snail meat and smacks her lips slightly. "I should hope so."
I blink at her and shudder slightly. They're just so… slimy! Like mussels, really, and everyone knows those are not actually edible! At least they shouldn't be.
Quickly turning away from Katya and her snails, I instead inspect Walter's plate more closely. "What did you order?"
He shrugs and takes another forkful of whatever is on his plate. "I don't know. I decided to be adventurous and just pick something from the menu. It's called pieds paquets."
Another shudder runs through me.
Walter doesn't miss it and looks at me quizzically. "Something wrong?"
I hesitate. "Not as such…" I begin slowly. "It's just… I think this is the moment when you'll start regretting that you were so hell-bent on learning Russian that you never bothered with French at school."
"Why is that?" Katya wants to know, looking up from the snail she's currently operating on with her fork.
"We-ell…" I draw out the word. "I've never heard of the dish Walter ordered, but I can tell you that pieds are feet, so…"
As my words sink in, Walter turns an interesting shade of green. Katya immediately drops her snail and whips out her phone instead, her fingers flying over the touchscreen. "Pieds paquets," she reads aloud, "consists of sheep's feet and stuffed sheep's tripe." Looking up at me, she asks, mildly curious, "Tripe is stomach lining, isn't it?"
"I fear it is," I confirm, biting back a smile.
Walter pushes his half-cleared plate to the middle of the table, his expression utterly horrified. "I'll never do anything adventurous again," he groans.
And really, who can blame him?
Since not even Katya wants to brave the sheep parts (which really should not be edible either, if you ask me), we dispose of them in the trash as quickly as we can. Afterwards, I convince Walter to accept some of my quiche, but the thought of what he ate mostly seems to have put him off food for the evening. It's really only when we take our helpings of crème brulee to the living room that he perks up somewhat.
Eating our dessert, we watch a mildly amusing American sit-com and chat about our plans for tomorrow. After the sit-com, a news segment sees a very serious presenter telling us about the US deploying bombers to the Middle East, North Korea completing missile tests, several people dying in a bus accident in Peru and considerable protests in London over the prime minister's financial affairs as revealed by the so-called Panama Papers.
"I think I need a drink to stomach this," I announce and get up from the couch. "Anyone else want some wine?"
Both Walter and Katya nod confirmation and I just want to turn for the kitchen when –
When suddenly, the news presenter sits up straighter and presses a hand to his ear, presumably to listen to his earpiece. As he does, a look of shock travels over his face. "We interrupt our program for some… we interrupt out program for some breaking news. This, uh," he stammers, "this is just in from – from London. It appears that… His Majesty The King has suffered a stroke. I repeat, The King had a stroke."
I stagger backwards.
It feels like someone punched me in the stomach. I gasp for air, but can't breathe. The edges of my vision become blurry.
"Rilla?" That's Walter and his voice sounds very alarmed. "Rilla, are you okay?"
I don't think my legs want to carry me much longer, so I reach around blindly for something to hold on to. Moments later, I feel a chair behind me and someone – Walter – press me down on it.
"She's hyperventilating," announces another voice. Katya. "She needs to calm down."
"Rilla?" Walter's concerned face appears before mine as he kneels down in front me. "You need to breathe slowly. In and out. In and out. Come one, breathe with me. In… and out. And in… and out. This is good! Nice and slow. In… and out… and in… and out…"
As I focus on Walter's face and try to match my own breathing to his, I feel myself growing a little calmer. There's air in my lungs and I no longer have to futilely gasp for breath. I still don't trust myself to stand, but breathing slowly and deeply makes me feel calmer and clearer.
"Do you want some water?" asks Walter, watching me with concerned eyes.
When I nod, Katya hands me a glass with a clear liquid. I take a long gulp and the liquid burns down my throat like fire, making me cough. This clearly isn't water, but it's just what I need to make me regain focus.
My eyes flit over to the TV. The news presenter is still talking, but I can't hear what he's saying. It needs a moment until I realise that someone muted the TV.
"Is he…?" I force myself to speak, but find that I'm unable to finish the question. Instead, I point in the general direction of the TV and hope they understand.
"He's in hospital," replies Katya, who apparently had the presence of mind to listen past the initial announcement. "They say his condition is serious but stable."
"Whatever that really means," I murmur.
"For now, that means he's alive," Katya points out matter-of-factly.
I nod slowly. I guess for now, that's what it means. And I guess for now, that's better than nothing.
Abruptly, I get to my feet, nearly knocking over my kneeling brother as I do so.
"Rilla?" His face is a mixture of worry and puzzlement. "What are you doing?"
I make a vague motion with my right hand. "I need to… I need to…"
"Of course you do," agrees Katya briskly and puts a steadying hand on my upper arm as I sway a little.
I look back at the TV where they now have a news ticker crawling over the screen beneath the still mutely talking presenter. I read it eagerly, but it doesn't tell me anything Katya didn't. Knowing the palace and how jealously they guard information, it's probably all anyone knows right now.
Walter scrambles to his feet, his gaze moving from Katya to me and back, before he addresses his question to her, "What does she need to do?"
But Katya doesn't even pay him any attention. "I will help you pack," she assures me instead. "And Walter will buy you a ticket."
"A ticket?" repeats Walter, by now utterly confused.
Katya looks at him briefly over her shoulder. "A plane ticket," she elaborates.
Walter frowns. "A plane ticket to where?"
"A plane ticket to London," she answers, quite as if this was a very foolish question to ask. (And perhaps it is. Where else would I fly?)
For a moment, Walter stares at his girlfriend, before he pulls himself together and nods. "A plane ticket to London. Right. I'll book her one right away," he confirms.
"Good." Katya nods, clearly satisfied that her orders are being follows. "Rilla and I will be in her room to pack her stuff."
A hand still on my arm, she directs me towards the door. I follow willingly enough, grateful that someone is taking charge and telling me what to do – but then I suddenly stop and dig my heels in, refusing to leave the room.
"My phone?" I ask, looking around wildly. "Where is my phone?"
"On the window sill," replies Walter and points me in the direction.
Slipping out from under Katya's arm, I rush towards the window and pick up my phone. As I do, I can't quite say what I expect to see on the screen, but when I do see it, I realise I've known all along.
The number is achingly familiar and the message as short as it could possibly be, yet it says everything there is to say.
Come?
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Diamond and Rust' (written by Joan Baez, released by her in 1975).
To Guest:
Ah, I'd love to do nothing but to write many more chapters all the time and update every day, but I checked with my bosses and they said I'm required to be at work sometimes, so until someone finally gets me that time turner, I'm afraid needs must. Pesky real life obligations! I'm very glad to hear that you're enjoying the story and reading along though (despite the 7 day wait between chapters) and I sincerely hope you will like what I have planned next. There's an exciting and important part of the story coming up, if I may say so myself =).
