Twenty-Four Little Hours
Part Seven
The looming façade of Worthington Industries' New York office climbs high into the sky before us, its spire lost in the bright sunshine. Rebecca takes in its entire profile, and then glances at me quizzically. "Are we going to do what I think we're going to do?"
"Why not?" I say, an impish expression crossing my doubtlessly-tired features. "It's been too long since I've seen your father at work, after all, and I expect he'll be glad to see us, too." I stretch out my hand and brush a stray lock of my daughter's golden-blonde hair out of her face, tucking it behind one of her small ears so as to keep her scarlet eyes free of obstructions. I'm almost tempted to lick my finger and wipe away a smudge of apricot pastry at the corner of Rebecca's mouth, as well, but I have learned from experience that Rebecca will only complain, so I leave it there for her to notice herself. It's far safer for all concerned, since although Rebecca likes a certain amount of pampering, as all children do, she draws the line at being babied (although the moment when I overstep the mark is something that only she can define, naturally). I suspect that the mirrors situated all around the lounge entrance to my husband's offices will help avoid that, and keep us all happy in the process. Walking as quickly as I can towards the automatic doors, I pause just out of their sensor range and turn back towards my daughter, who it seems is still a little reluctant to bother her father at work. Some prodding is in order, it would seem… "Come on, Rebecca," I say encouragingly. "You'll never learn to misbehave if you don't follow my lead."
Rebecca raises her eyebrows and shifts her feet in place. "That's what I'm afraid of," she replies, her arms folded. "Following your lead has only ever got me into trouble." Then, seeing I'm not going to change my mind, she rolls her eyes and follows me towards the doors, walking past me so that they hiss gently open almost inaudibly. Then, she bends at the waist and ushers me inside, like a chambermaid or a pageboy would do. "After you," she says, a faint smile crossing her lips. As I walk slowly through the doors, trying to keep as dignified a posture as I can, I can see her examining her face in the glass for a moment or two in order to clear the smudge of pastry away, and it makes me smile surreptitiously to myself that I got her reaction so correct. It's nice to know that I've become able to predict her reactions even without the benefit of my telepathy – it makes me feel that I'm a success as Rebecca's mother, and as her friend. I think it bodes well for both of my children in the long term.
Walking up to the receptionist's desk, I tap my fingers gently on its lacquered surface until the girl behind it has finished her phone call (which she took great pains to do as quickly as possible, since I don't think it was for purely business purposes. I know I've never called anybody "pookie" in pursuit of purely pecuniary gains, after all; well, not unless I absolutely had to as part of my STRIKE work, anyway…). "Can I help you, ma'am?" she says, her cheeks a little flushed. There is a nervous undertone in her words that seems to plead with me not to tell her supervisor – not that I was going to anyway, but it's nice to know she feels guilty about wasting time that could be better spent organising appointments or filing papers.
"Yes," I say, at the same time trying to subtly stimulate the production of endorphins in her brain so that her frantically-pounding heart will slow down to a healthier pace. "Will you tell Mr Worthington that his wife is here to see him? Tell him that Betsy thought it would be a nice surprise to bring the children to work – he'll know what I'm talking about."
"Yes, ma'am," the girl replies – the effects of my telepathic ministrations showing almost immediately, since she sounds a good deal calmer than before. She presses a small button on her desk and says "Mr Worthington, sir? I have a woman here who says she's your wife. She said to tell you that she wanted to bring the children to work – is that all right?"
"Yes, Victoria, that's all right. Send her right up." My husband's voice flows through the miniature speaker placed next to the intercom microphone, and the girl, Victoria, quickly puts on a resolute face and gets up out of her chair to direct me towards the foyer's lifts, which are secreted towards the back of the room and have glamorous art deco dials above them to indicate where they are, and are flanked by oriental plants with large, opulent blooms. Victoria smiles briefly at Rebecca and myself, and then she retreats back to her desk and leaves the two of us to make the journey upwards to Warren's top-floor offices. Rebecca is closer to the wooden panel that controls the lift's movement, so she strokes the metal-edged button and sets the lift in motion with a slight shudder. It hums gently as it nears my husband's floor, and then comes to an almost impossibly soft stop as it ends its journey, its doors sighing open and showing us the expensively decorated floor that Warren has designated to himself alone. Opposite the lift is a life-size painting of me, done before I was returned to my original body. I am clad in a red silk kimono and am holding a large Oriental fan which is splattered liberally with Japanese script. A long katana blade, light glittering off its flawless surface, has been leant against the wall before which I am stood, my pose regal and undisturbed. The picture was painted a little while before I was given the mark of the Crimson Dawn, so the scarlet slash of a tattoo that bisected my face for far too long is thankfully absent from my likeness.
Beside it is another life-size painting – this time of me in my real body. In this picture, I am contained within an elegant evening dress, my long blonde hair flowing around me and framing my blue-eyed face, which is split into a happy, almost delirious smile (at the time it was done, I was so happy to be back the way I was that I couldn't do anything but smile). Warren says he keeps them side by side to remind him of the two phases of our relationship – the confused early time, when we were beset by changes, and the more stable later period, when we beat those changes and became stronger for it.
Down the hall are two similar paintings: this time of Warren himself, with both his feathered and techno-organic wings, and both his Caucasian and blue skin colours. Both times he posed in a sharp cream-coloured Armani suit and a white shirt with a black tie, on which was displayed the crest of the Xavier Institute. And finally, just before we reach the doors of Warren's private offices, there is a life-size painting of Rebecca. She looks coy yet confident in her black trouser suit and similarly-coloured high heels, her scarlet eyes almost as piercing on the two-dimensional canvas as they are in the three dimensions of reality. As she sees herself, Rebecca almost faints, before she throws up a hand and jabs a finger at her likeness.
"He said he wouldn't put it here!" she cries indignantly, in an almost childlike fashion (which I can forgive her for, I suppose). "He promised!" Smiling gently, I reach around Rebecca's shoulder and give her a little squeeze, kissing her on the temple – from which she hastily retreats, as if she's afraid I will do her further embarrassment even though there's nobody around to see us.
"Oh, sweetheart, he's only put it here because he's proud of you," I say, laughter spilling from my throat like rich wine. "We both are."
Rebecca's face twists into a sulky pout, and she nods towards the painting with a sullen determination. "Yeah, but… I look like a dork posing like that." She thrusts an almost accusing finger at the painting's blindly-smiling visage. "Don't I?"
"No, darling, you look beautiful. And I'm sure anybody else who visits your father's offices thinks the same." Then something occurs to me, and I feel I have to voice it. "Don't you think this proves how highly your father feels about you? I think he wouldn't have put this painting here if he didn't think you were one of the most important things in his life, do you?"
Rolling her eyes as if to discount the complete and utter obviousness of what I've just said, Rebecca presses on towards the door of Warren's office, tapping the intercom button set into one side of the doorframe and announcing that we have arrived. After she has done that, she says "You aren't going to let this go until you've proved your point, are you, Mum?" The deadpan tone in her voice indicates that she no illusions about what I'm going to say.
"What can I say?" I exclaim brightly, shrugging my shoulders with a schoolgirl's innocence. "I have a gift for subtlety."
Just then, Warren comes to the door of his office, and greets the two of us warmly. "Hey, princess," he says to Rebecca, kissing her affectionately on the forehead. "Good to see you." Then he turns his attention to me, and takes me into his arms before kissing me gently on the lips. "Hi," he murmurs, a pleased little smile exposing his pure-white teeth. "So what'd I do to deserve this?"
"You didn't do anything, husband dearest," I say, tapping my husband on the nose reproachfully. "Rebecca and I were in the neighbourhood, and we decided to pay you a visit. Didn't we, darling?" I turn in Warren's arms so that I can look at Rebecca, who has flushed crimson and is shifting from foot to foot as if she has been caught doing something very, very bad indeed.
"This is so unfair," she mutters flatly, giving me a searing, slit-eyed glare. Then, to her father, she says, slightly more loudly, "Mum and I were just getting some coffee in the city, and I said… I said that I was jealous of Tom. So she said we ought to come here and talk about that with you."
Warren's face becomes about five shades more serious in an instant, and he opens the door behind, gesturing for Rebecca and me to walk past him into his plushly-decorated workspace. "You'd better come in," he says. Leading Rebecca over to a sofa covered with pristine white leather, he sits down opposite her, after finding me a comfortable chair of my own, and gently takes her hands in his. "You know you don't have to feel jealous of your brother, don't you? Just because your mother and I are having a baby of our own, doesn't mean for one instant that we'll love you any less than we do."
"Yeah, that's pretty much what Mum said, too," Rebecca replies, a weak smile hovering around her lips. "Don't worry about me, Dad. I think those paintings out there kind of showed me the way you really feel about Mum and me."
"You saw those, huh?" Warren's face cracks into a relieved smile then, and he throws an arm around Rebecca's slender shoulders in a chummy kind of way, rubbing her furthermost arm with his hand. "You know, I've had so many people ask me who the attractive young lady in the picture outside my door is, I've lost count. I always remember the way their faces look when I tell them she's my daughter, though – and you know what they look like?" He waits for Rebecca to shake her head, as if she's humouring him, and then pauses for another moment or two, for a little more dramatic effect. "They look jealous."
"Oh, they do not," Rebecca retorts, blushing a fierce shade of crimson. "You're just saying that, aren't you?"
"Not at all," Warren says. "I had some Texan guy in here just last week who wanted to know which plastic surgeon I went to, so he could stay looking as young as I do."
Rebecca sticks her tongue out at him, before grabbing a cushion and hitting him playfully around the head with it. "Don't push it, Dad," she laughs. "Trying to be funny isn't one of your strong points."
"Is that right?" Warren says, cocking a curious eyebrow – after wrestling the cushion away from her so that he can be sure she won't hit him again, naturally. "Your mother never complained about my sense of humour. Did you, Betsy?"
"Only because I was being polite, darling," I tell him, diplomatically, giving him a little wink. "I didn't want to make you feel bad."
"You know, Betts, I think I feel my self-esteem crashing and burning," Warren says, sweeping his hand down into the glass table as if it's a stricken aircraft, in order to demonstrate his point. "I'll send you the therapy bills, shall I?" He nods towards me, leaning in close to Rebecca's left ear, and then whispers in a conspiratorial tone, "You know, your mother still owes me about five thousand bucks, Rebecca. You want to help me make her pay up?"
"You wish," Rebecca snorts, in faux-contempt. "The way I see it, you owe her for making her carry your son all this time… so it all balances out, doesn't it?" She grins at Warren's exasperated expression and hops lightly to her feet, before skipping over to me like a schoolgirl and sitting on the arm of my chair with an inscrutable cat-like expression on her face. She folds her arms and then says "I think you ought to milk him for everything he's got, Mum." Then a flower of mischievous intent opens on the surface of her mind, and she says "Try and get him to give me his new Ferrari for the weekend."
Warren folds his arms and raises an eyebrow slowly, leaning back into his seat for a moment or two. "Nice try, Rebecca, but your mother and I agreed not to let you drive that car until you proved that you could be trusted with it. Didn't we, Betsy?" Something in his face tells me that he is hoping I will follow through with his rather obvious bluff, so it's lucky for him I happen to agree with his viewpoint.
"Yes, we did," I say, trying to look as serious as possible. "Until you show us that you won't misuse your father's new car, I'm afraid you'll have to wait. However… I think it's all right for you to take any of the other cars we have at the Xavier Institute. Wouldn't you agree, Warren?" I can already see Warren's vindicated expression turn to one of barely-veiled horror in the corner of my eye, even as I see Rebecca's disappointment blossom into something altogether less sour.
"Well, I, uh…" Warren begins, before he senses that he's on a losing wicket here, and holds his hands up in defeat. "Okay, okay – I know when I'm beaten, guys. But you have to tell me or your mother whenever you want to go driving, Rebecca, or you don't get to go at all." Something in his tone tells both Rebecca and me that he's secretly enjoying being an authoritative father, so Rebecca simply nods demurely, giving me a surreptitious knowing look even before she has finished doing so. I return it in an equally covert fashion, as if she and I are both members of a secret society of some kind (I think Warren would say that we both are anyway, simply by virtue of having two X chromosomes). However, secret society or not, I have to agree with my husband; I hardly want my eldest child disappearing without my consent. I had that happen to me once before, and I didn't like it one iota…
"Your father's right, Rebecca; don't expect to be able to take any car you like, at any time you like. We've been using a kind of booking system for a while now – there's a sheet of paper and a pen in the garage, and all you have to do is write down which car you're borrowing, so that the owner knows where it is. It's not hard to get the hang of, trust me." Rebecca mulls that notion over for a moment or two, rolling her tongue across her upper front teeth thoughtfully, and tapping her fingers on her uppermost kneecap.
"I think I can live with that," she says, "as long as I get to drive that Ferrari sometimes. That car kicks ass." She chuckles lightly. "Still can't believe you're actually going to let me drive it, though. I'd have thought you'd make me drive Logan's Jeep until the day I die… at least I couldn't smash that up any worse than it already is."
"Good point," Warren says, as if what Rebecca has just said is the greatest idea he's ever heard. "What do you say, Betsy? Shall we ask Logan to give Rebecca his Jeep?"
"Oh, I think that's a wonderful idea. I think Logan's Jeep would be perfect for you, button," I reply, winking at Rebecca slyly. Rebecca stays silent for a few moments, fuming, before she rolls her eyes and glances at the ceiling in mock-irritation.
"You're not funny, Mum," she says, her gaze still focused on the ceiling. "The day I drive that piece of junk is the day I grow sideburns, lose about six inches of height, and start calling everybody 'bub' just because I think it sounds cool."
"Now there's an image," Warren replies thoughtfully. "All right, Rebecca; I'll try and get the ice-cube to lend you his Mustang. At least he's had some time to break that car in." Rebecca's face lights up, all traces of dismay at my (apparently quite poor) sense of humour dissolving almost instantly.
"You're kidding me. You'd do that?" There is a palpable sense of wonder in her voice, which doesn't surprise me one bit; the way that Rebecca has looked at Bobby's Mustang in the past has suggested nothing but a deep longing to drive it.
"If you're a good girl, sure," Warren says, winking. "As long as you say your prayers, take your vitamins, and agree to help us with your little brother if we ask you to, I'll see if I can convince Bobby to let you take that car out for a few hours. He does owe me a couple of big favours, after all, so he shouldn't be able to say no – not unless he's trying to impress Emma, that is. What do you say?"
Rebecca folds her arms and purses her lips. "You know, that could be taken as emotional blackmail… but I guess I can live with that, too. You guys are the best." She smiles. "No matter how many times I say you aren't."
*
"So what else did you do today?" Warren asks me as he helps me into our bed, one hand draped around my waist and the other cupping my right palm. "Anything interesting?"
"Oh, nothing much," I say, whimsically, before taking a sip from the glass of fresh water on my bedside table. "We went to Times Square and had some toasted bagels, and then we went clothes-shopping for a while before we walked back to the car." I rub my spine as the memory of the strain comes back to me, with my puffy, swollen ankles simultaneously growling in protest. It feels like my whole body is issuing me with a stern warning never to move again. "Remind me never to walk that much again until after I give birth, will you?"
"I'll have to fly you everywhere, I guess," Warren says, moving nimbly around to his side of the bed and flipping the silk sheets back so that he can climb in beside me and wrap an arm around my shoulders affectionately. "What do you say?"
"That's a great idea, sweetheart," I say, a thoughtful expression crossing my face briefly. "I'll hold you to that." I stretch briefly, feeling tense knots of muscle wring themselves out for a moment or two, like wet dishcloths being squeezed. "Peel me a few grapes, too, would you? I don't think I'll have the strength…" To emphasise my point, I collapse back into my pillows and cushions like a fainting damsel in distress, one hand plaintively at my forehead so as to complete the picture of a helpless maiden I have just painted.
In response to my theatrical display, Warren rolls his eyes and claps ironically. "You should be on Broadway," he remarks, his voice flat, but still tinged with edges of acidic humour. "Me and my big mouth…" He looks at the floor for a moment or so, before he says "How's Rebecca?"
"You saw her today, Warren," I reply, knocking on his forehead with my knuckles to try and shock his brain back to life. "She's fine. But in case you're worrying, she told me that seeing you and talking about what she was going through really helped her feel a lot better about this whole situation. She loves you so much, you know; it flows off her whenever you're around. She needed some reassurance that we love her just as much as we love the baby – from somebody other than me, I mean – and I think you gave it to her." I laugh to myself, a half-smile pulling one corner of my lips up in a faint curve. "She didn't stop talking about you for half an hour. I'd say you impressed her."
Warren blinks, a little taken aback. "Half an hour? Really?"
"Really," I say, echoing him softly. "She even said she forgives you for hanging that painting of her outside your office – but that was only because I pushed her into it. She was running out of good things to say at that point, and I couldn't think of anything else to add." I wink at my husband, and kiss him with as much good humour as I can muster through my exhaustion. "So I bought her an ice cream and bribed her instead."
"And it was all going so well, too," Warren murmurs. "Remind me to brush up on my bribery skills…"