New York City, USA
March 2011
Bad news on the doorstep
"Miss Blythe? You can't enter your apartment right now."
Puzzled, I stare at the strange man in front of me, who is currently blocking the entrance to my Shoebox.
"And… may I ask why that is?" In my bafflement, I realise too late that he probably doesn't deserve politeness. I mean, who does he even think he is?
"We are installing several upgrades," comes the impatient answer.
"Upgrades," I repeat slowly.
The man nods curtly. "Security measures."
So this is what this is about.
"And you happen to be…?" I leave the question unfinished.
"I'm part of His Royal Highness's security detail," answers the man, doing nothing to veil his impatience at having to talk to me at all.
After a quick glance over my shoulder to check that none of my neighbours are nearby, I peer at him a little more closely. He does look vaguely familiar. I've only ever gotten glimpses at Ken's MATH (martial arts-trained hitmen, that is), but I think I've seen this one before. If only I could…
"Sexy Eeyore!" I exclaim.
If possible, the man's expression darkens even more.
"You were dressed as Eeyore back on Halloween. I saw you through the windshield of the car," I clarify.
The man glares, but doesn't say anything. Which is really the clearest confirmation he could give.
"We will be finished tomorrow. We can book you a hotel room for the night," he informs me instead.
That's certainly enough to make me splutter with indignation, my delight at having recognised him immediately forgotten. "You… you can't just come and take over my flat like that! How did you even get in?"
"We drilled the lock," he answers as if that was quite obvious. He's not even looking at me!
I blink, rendered speechless for a moment. "That's… surely that counts as burglary?"
"Only if we were to take away your possessions," he answers in a way that is clearly condescending. "Which we won't."
Eh. Mighty glad.
I take several deep breaths. "Look, Mr… whatever you're called. I understand you mean well, but you can't just –"
"Of course we can," he interrupts me. "We have to guarantee the safety of His Royal Highness. We are merely undertaking measures to that effect. This week was deemed a suitable time for these works to take place on account of His Royal Highness's stay in the United Kingdom."
Not trusting my voice, I ball my left hand into a fist instead, burrowing my nails into the skin.
The man's eyes flicker down towards my fist for a moment. "His security has been much complicated by his many stays in this apartment. Since these look to continue for the foreseeable future, we need to take appropriate steps to ensure his safety."
Breathe, Rilla. Stay calm.
"I understand that. I am merely wondering whether it wouldn't have been possible to talk to me beforehand instead of breaking into my flat?" I can't keep a certain sarcasm from creeping into my words, but all in all, I'm quite proud of how reasonable I sound.
"Your permission is not deemed necessary when His Royal Highness's safety is in question," the man informs me dismissively.
And just like that, all attempts at being reasonable are out of the window.
"Not necessary?" I splutter. "I live here. This… this is my home. You… you… I…" But the ability to form a coherent sentence has left me, in the light of such… impertinence.
The man purses his lips, obviously little impressed by my outburst.
I close my eyes for a long second. "Does Ken know about this?" I ask when I open them again.
"His Royal Highness," he begins, putting obvious emphasises on the title, "is not routinely burdened with the details of the security measures surrounding him."
So that's a No then. Which is something, I suppose.
"These… 'security measures', what do they look like?" I ask, clamouring for calm.
"I am not authorised to provide you with details," the man lectures. "It could compromise the safety of His Royal Highness if you were given too much information."
Compromise the safety of…?
Does this man even realise that I spend roughly every second night in the same bed as Ken, with a drawer full of kitchen knives no more than a few steps away? I mean, not that I want him dead, but if I did, he'd be a goner for sure, not matter what Sexy Eeyore and friends do to my flat.
Which makes me wonder…
"No cameras. No listening devices either," I state, making my voice sound firm.
The man casts an impatient side-glance my way. "Your opinion in this matter is negligible. We are not reliant on your cooperation."
God, I so want to hit him.
"You so sure about that?" I ask, raising a challenging eyebrow. "For one, I have a phone right here. Shall we call His Royal Highness and ask him how he likes the idea of the lot of you watching videos of his girlfriend showering?"
Eeyore makes an attempt to speak, but I cut right across him. "And besides, you do rely on my cooperation. Specifically, on my cooperation to keep living here. I could move out tomorrow, rendering all your work absolutely useless. How about I find myself a place to live in a college dorm? What would that mean for your beloved security measures?"
He actually, physically, shudders at the thought.
"Yes," I state, more calmly now. "That's what I thought."
For a long moment, he considers me, obviously mulling over his options and my power on the matter. Then, making the sourest face I've ever seen a person make, he gives a curt nod. "I will walk you through it."
See? That wasn't so hard, was it?
But I bite my tongue in the interest of compromise and instead follow him into my home. Finally.
Once inside, the initial shock of what I see renders me momentarily speechless. My belongings have been pushed into the middle of the room, with at least half a dozen people mulling about the place, wielding tools of any kind and… are they installing new windows?
"These windows are blast and bullet resistant," Eeyore informs me. "So is the new door. Door and windows will have vastly superior locks as well."
I swallow heavily.
"Additionally, we are installing strategically placed panic buttons in several spaces around the apartment and –," but he does not get any further.
"Excuse me, Mr…" 'Mr Eeyore', I was going to say, but manage to contain the word in the nick of time. "Just… excuse me. All this… what you are doing here. These new windows and everything. Can it be removed again? Without, you know, it being too obvious that it was here in the first place?"
The question seems to confuse him, for he takes a moment or two to answer. "Why would anyone want to remove it again?"
"See, it's like this," I begin, "my landlord is pretty strict about alterations. If he finds out about this, he'll certainly withhold my deposit when I move out again."
Now, he looks utterly puzzled. "But it is an improvement of the apartment. These are state of the art security instalments. Anyone would consider themselves lucky to have them."
How to make it plain to this man that normal people have no need for blast resistant doors and panic buttons in the shower?
"I don't doubt that. But my landlord warned me not even to drill a hole into the wall if I ever want to see my deposit again. This… this is a bit more than just drilling a hole into a wall," I explain patiently, wincing slightly when one of the workers actually does start to drill a hole into the wall in that very moment.
"We are ensuring that the apartment does not look any different from before," Eeyore assures and I suppose that's all I'm going to get.
"And no cameras?" I ask, feeling suddenly very, very tired.
He shakes his head. "No cameras or listening devices. His Royal Highness has shown himself to be… not very receptive to the instalment of those."
Aha! So they already tried that, did they?
"Good." I take a deep breath. "Good."
Eeyore, however, speaks up again. "Naturally, you must refrain from keeping any of the windows open from now on."
I blink. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
"I'm afraid you have to," he counters.
Seriously, at this point, the only thing that keeps me from causing him physical pain is the knowledge that he could very probably kill me with his bare hands and make it look like an accident.
"But my cat –," I protest.
He cuts me off. "Your cat will learn to live indoors. Having the cat run around outside is a security risk anyway."
George? A security risk?
What is this guy smoking?
"Look, Mr… whatever. I accepted you breaking into my apartment, I accepted you handling my possessions, I accepted you basically rebuilding my home. I did and I promise to be good about it. But what I will not accept is anything that harms my cat. Being shut in this tiny space all day will harm him. It is, therefore, not an option." I am, it turns out, not so calm anymore.
He, meanwhile, looks very sourly once more. "There is no way to –"
"I don't care," I interrupt him. "Find one. Otherwise, remember what I said about dorm living?"
(I don't think this man realises that it would actually be not at all easy for me to suddenly get NYU to assign me a dorm room. But I'm not likely to set him straight.)
Judging from his expression, killing me with his bare hands and making it look like an accident would be his preferred way of dealing with this. He just about manages to control himself though and gives the stiffest of nods.
"Lovely," I reply, the fight going out of me with a breath. "I will sleep at a friend's place tonight and will be back tomorrow at three to collect my new keys. When I do, I expect my home to look just like it did before and I expect all of these people to be gone. And if I never have to see you again, I wouldn't mind that either."
Without waiting for a reply, I turn and stride through the door. (I think I hear him mutter, "The feeling is mutual, Miss." But I'm not sure and anyway, don't want to dwell on it either.)
Leaving Mr Eeyore standing there, I almost run down the stairs, with my heart beating too quickly in my chest, in a desperate attempt to just get away from it all. I don't stop until I'm forced to, when I stumble into someone on the second-floor landing.
"Whoa, slowly there!" comes a voice.
It's only after I regained my footing and planted a firm hand on the banister that I look up to recognise my neighbour Everett, who's obviously coming up from downstairs. He lives two floors below me with his wife and two daughters, who look quite angelic, even though I'm suspecting the older one of being on the cusp of teenagerhood.
"Are you alright?" asks Everett with a smile.
I nod, force a smile of my own, even though there's still a strange buzzing in my ears. (Not poor Everett's fault though.) "Yes. Sorry for barrelling into you like that."
He shakes his head. "No matter." Then, eyeing me with polite curiosity, "Quite a bit going on up there on your floor. They've been working since this morning."
Ah, drat. I hadn't considered that renovations works like these wouldn't go unnoticed by the neighbours.
"Oh," I wave my free hand to buy time. "It's just… you know… a… a burst pipe. It's just a burst pipe." My hand on the barrister moves to cross two fingers.
Everett nods understandingly. "Ah, yes. It was probably put under too much strain back in January when the heating broke. Pipes don't like the cold. Then something must have happened recently that proved too much and it burst."
"Ehm, yes. It was probably something like that," I agree vaguely. "Now, I don't want to be rude, but I've kind of got to run."
"Sure, of course. Wouldn't want to keep you. Have a nice day!" Everett gives me a friendly smile, which I answer with a half-smile on my own as I quickly move past him to tackle the last sets of stairs.
Once on the ground floor, I carefully slip past Mrs Weisz's flat, slink out of the front door and, once on the street, turn to the left immediately, away from her window. I hate nothing more than having to hide from Mrs Weisz, but while Everett might have bought my improvised story, Mrs Weisz is too clever to believe that a burst pipe necessitates the instalment of a whole set of new windows.
I'm going to have to think of what to tell her. But that's a problem for another day.
For now, I walk with brisk steps until I'm out of sight of the house, before pausing and reaching for my phone. Quickly, my fingers select Nia's number and press 'call'.
She takes a couple of rings, but after the fifth or sixth, mercifully picks up.
"Rilla! How's my best traitor friend doing?"
I grimace slightly. "Yeah. I know. Sorry."
Nia laughs. "At least you are sorry."
She has no idea how sorry.
"Listen," I change tracks. "Can I crash at your place tonight?"
"Like old times?" she asks. "Sure, sounds like fun. I'll let Seraphina know to get the air mattress out."
There's a hot feeling in my stomach as gratefulness mixes with guilt. I haven't made as much time for my friends as I ought to have in the past months, yet here Nia is, offering me a place to stay, no questions asked.
"Thanks, that's… I really appreciate it." The lump in my throat makes it a little hard to speak.
Nia seems to pick up on it. "Anything happen?" she queries, sounding suddenly concerned.
I take a deep breath. "No. Just a burst pipe. Nothing major. It's just…"
"An awful pain anyway," Nia finishes understandingly.
"Yes," I breathe. "Yes it is."
Nia makes a thoughtful sound. "Ask me if I'm free this afternoon."
"Are you free this afternoon?"
"No. I have classes," she replies. Then, "Ask me if I'm up for some window shopping anyway."
"Are you up for some window shopping anyway?"
"You bet I am!" she exclaims cheerfully. "Meet you on Madison Avenue in an hour?"
The hot coil in my stomach disappears, to be replaces by a cool, calming feeling that I recognise as relief. "In front of Barneys?"
"Sounds good," agrees Nia. A beat, before she drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and adds, "Don't tell Seraphina though. Window shopping is no fun with someone who can actually buy all that stuff."
"Kind of beats the purpose," I agree with a smile.
"Preach it!" laughs Nia. "Got to go. See you in an hour!"
"Yes. Bye." But by the time I get the words out, she has already hung up.
Feeling much uplifted by the phone call, I make my way to the Subway station to catch a train that'll take me to Manhattan. (I like living on Brooklyn. It feels more real, somehow, than Manhattan does. But I will admit that there are days when the commute can be a bit of a bother.)
I'm still standing on the platform, waiting for my train, when I feel my phone vibrate. Hoping for a message from Ken, I quickly fish it out of my bag. (He's been better about keeping in touch during his current stay in England, but his last message came yesterday morning and the last time we talked was the day before that.) It's just Seraphina though and my heart thuds in disappointment when I see her name pop up. Still, I open the message.
Nia said you're staying at our place tonight. You wanna go out dancing or watch a movie?
For a moment, I blink at my phone, trying to decide what I do want to do, until I realise that the decision is already dictated by circumstances.
Can't go out. Don't really have anything to wear with me.
It takes less than fifteen seconds for her answer to ping back.
We can lend you something.
True. It's not like we didn't swap clothes often enough when I still lived in the dorm.
Still… it's been ages since I went dancing with my friends and while it does sound like fun, I'm just not sure…
I'm pretty knackered. Maybe just make it a movie night?
Ten seconds.
Sure. I'll get a movie. Pizza, too?
The train takes just that moment to rattle into the station, so I rush to type a reply.
Pizza's great. See you tonight.
Boarding the train and finding myself a seat, I reflect that it's one of the great things about New York's Subway that you never have to wait long for a train to come along. Even more happily, New Yorkers abhor nothing more than having to make contact with a stranger while on the Subway, so everyone is very much left to their own devices. So while the ride to 5th Avenue Station isn't a short one, it's at least quiet. I don't even have to change trains, which is always welcome.
Finally coming up for air where Grand Army Plaza borders Central Park, I am immediately engulfed in the hustle and bustle that is forever Manhattan. Across the square, The Plaza Hotel is still an iconic sight, much as more modern buildings dwarf it these days, while a few steps in front of me, a no less iconic yellow taxi almost runs into one of the carriages offering tourist rides through Central Park and to my right, those self-same tourists form a line in front of a street vendor selling hot dogs. In short, just your average Manhattan day.
Crossing 5th Avenue, I walk between the buildings that turn 60th Street into something akin to a ravine until I reach the next intersection and turn left on Madison Avenue. After some more steps, I am in front the elegantly understated entrance of Barneys, but Nia is nowhere in sight yet. Given that I'm a good deal early, that's not too surprising though.
Deciding not to start on the window shopping without her (she'd notice), I walk past Calvin Klein with my head turned away, where I see another street vendor at the next corner. This one sells drinks and sweets and newspapers rather than hotdogs, and to while away some time, I idly peruse the headlines of the magazines on display.
People has Charlie Sheen in a hideous hat, holding some kids – probably his own –, while on the title page of Cosmo, Leah Michelle gives quite some insight into her cleavage, right next to a topical announcement to 'The Sex Quiz' and the call to 'Get Naked!'. Vogue features Lady Gaga in a pink wig that can only be a very cruel joke and Glamour promises '700 Instant Outfits & Ideas', though if that shirt they put on poor Diane Kruger is anything to go by, I'm not sure their advice can be trusted. On the other hand, W dressed up Mila Kunis all dark and feathery in a way that is very Black Swan of them and Hello! has –
Hello! has my very own boyfriend on the cover. Together with a very striking brunette.
In some detached part of my mind, it registers that it's a great picture. They're both in eveningwear, him in one of those maddening tuxedos and her in a shimmering gold dress that pools around her body like water. He's leaned down to speak into her ear and she beams up at him, the light illuminating them just so.
With shaking fingers, I reach forward and gingerly pick up a copy. 'Finally… A Fair Lady for the Prince?' screams the headline and while I don't know about her being a lady, they look undeniably striking together. Cosy, too. Familiar.
Dimly, I'm aware of a part of my brain (the one responsible for self-preservation, probably) shouting at me to put the magazine down and run far away, but my fingers seem to have taken on a life of their own. They flip through the magazine until, once more, a large picture of Ken and the mystery brunette, both laughing this time, stops me in my tracks.
She is, it turns out, a lady. Or, Lady, I should say. Capital L. Lady Henrietta de Duras, daughter of the Earl of Feversham (whoever that is.)
My heart beating in my throat, I skim over the article, registering maybe every second word. As always with magazines like these, every second word turns out to be more than enough. Apparently, they attended the opening of an art gallery together, which is where the photographs got taken. A spectator confirms that they looked very close all evening, while an unnamed source reports that they go way back and hints strongly that Lady Henrietta would make a very fine Princess of Wales indeed. Her mother seems to be a friend of the Queen and she and her siblings grew up –
"Hey, you! Either buy it or put it down!"
It's the vendor, and when I raise my eyes from the page that shows both Ken and Lady Henrietta with flutes of champagne in their hands, I can see him glaring at me.
Mumbling an apology, I drop the magazine as if burned and retreat backwards, turning after a couple of steps and blindly walking along the street, only narrowly avoiding a delivery boy on a scooter who shouts an obscenity at me before roaring off.
I must have walked for three or four minutes before finally coming to a halt next to a little nook created by two buildings that may not offer privacy, but at least provides a place to stand without being barrelled over by busy people needing to be somewhere.
Stepping into the corner nook, my shaking fingers gather my phone from my back. It slips from my grasp two times, before I finally get a firm hold on it. Looking up, I consider whether someone might hear me talk, but people just rush by, not even looking at me.
Bless New Yorkers and their utter contempt for other people's business.
Taking a deep breath, I dial Ken's number and raise the phone to my ear.
The call goes straight to voicemail.
"Hey, it's me," I begin in a hushed voice, then pause for a second to gather my thoughts. "I know you're probably busy and I don't want to bother you, but would you much mind calling me back when you have a moment?"
Ideally, I should leave it at that and cut the call and wait for him to call back. I should. I know that. But despite my mind being very much aware of it, my mouth is still talking.
"Because, well, the thing is that one of your PPOs kind of took over my apartment today. Without asking, mind. Apparently, I'm getting blast proof windows installed and panic buttons, too. I was being informed that it's a great improvement, but… yeah, a heads-up would have been nice."
This, too, would be a good place to hang up. And I try to. Hang up, I mean. But my eyes flit over to where I can see the back of a street vendor's stall (another one, as if it makes a difference) and my lips keep moving of their own accord.
"Also, I've just seen some pretty cosy pictures of you and a Lady Henrietta. I don't remember you ever mentioning her before, but Hello! has the pair of you halfway down the aisle already. Which, if it's true, I guess congratulations are in order. It's just that it would have been great to know this before your PPO took my place apart. What I'm saying is, you might like to give him some intel, even if it's all news to me."
There's a lump in my throat that makes speaking difficult and only now do I realise that my eyes are burning. Furiously, I blink away a tear threatening to fall.
"Look, I changed my mind. Maybe don't call. I… I'm not so sure it's such a great idea anymore. It's… I… I just don't know. I don't know."
Only now do I finally cut the call. I don't trust my voice to continue speaking without giving too much away.
For a minute or two, I just stand there in my little corner, phone still in hand, busy people passing me by, as I try and fail to bring order into my jumbled thoughts. But it's no use. It's all just raw.
Swallowing heavily, I look down at my phone. My knuckles are white from gripping it so tightly. And then, without consciously deciding to do it, I raise my other hand and type out a message to Seraphina.
I've changed my mind. Dancing sounds great!
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'American Pie' (written by Don McLean, released by him in 1971).
To AnneShirley:
Well, I'm not a benevolent writer-God, so I figured it was time to allow the world to start intruding on that little parallel reality Rilla and Ken have created for themselves. Rilla is very much living two lives right now and they don't mix very well. She's doing a lot to accommodate their relationship (even against better judgement), but in a way that's not sustainable for very much longer. It's definitely time for Ken to start pulling his weight beyond offering sweet words and take-outs!
I'm totally Chelseas as well, by the way. Maybe a bossier version of her. I certainly wasn't as understanding of members of my study group disappearing for greener pastures half-way through ;).
Brian's mainly awkward. He thinks that doing a project on a drug-fuelled possible murderer makes him 'cool' and he definitely reads to much into Rilla's vague semi-politeness. I'd say he's probably even more inept than poor Roy was, and that's saying something!
Ah, Mrs Lynde's Quilt of Chastity! I kind of imagine it coming off the moment that bed is used for anything more than movie watching and snuggling. I also think Rilla does this deliberately. Having the quilt on the bed during less innocent moments would make her feel suitably awkward ;).
Tracy, like so many people in a similar situation, can only help herself. Ken can offer advice, Aunt Mary can help out with phone numbers (remotely) and Rilla can make sure that it all reaches Tracy, but at a certain point, outside support can only get you so far. The person has to make the first step (which is supremely frustrating for someone like Rilla, who isn't altogether very patient). And while I wasn't totally sure what to do with Tracy when she first appeared in this story, I have a small plot planned for her that won't always be an easy one, I think.
As for hating Ken... how did this chapter do? ;)
To wow:
I don't know whether you've read this far already, but if you do continue reading, you should ultimately see this, so I'm writing it anyway ;).
First of all, I'm glad you found my story and decided to read it, and also very grateful for your kind words. I have some experience writing AU stories, but a modern setting is actually quite far out of my comfort zone. It's been a long time since I wrote a story not set firmly in the past. This one was a bit of an experiment to me, but it's been fun to write and I'm really happy that readers seem to be enjoying it as well.
I'm actually having a lot of fun with the family, transferring them into the 21st century and shaking things up a bit. Writing Joy has long been a goal of mine and with most of the other tweaks, like making Shirley the youngest child and having Gilbert brought up by Marilla and having Anne not be an orphan, I thought it would be interesting to change it up a little. Not too much so, but enough that it offers me new opportunities to play with. Mrs Weisz, meanwhile, just crept in there all on her own.
Actually, yes, Rilla did follow Joy to New York. Joy was going there because of Dan's work and Rilla, having no other college she preferred, went along. (And I'm sure she didn't mind the thought of living in New York either.) As for her finances, you're certainly right to ask this. She's spending an awful lot of money by studying there! But I promise we'll get to the money aspect of this. It's actually a future plot point.
Wrapping this up, I hope you will continue to read and enjoy the story and, if you'd like to, look forward to hearing from you again :).
