Chapter 37
New world
I examine my face in the bathroom mirror while I brush my teeth. My eyes are a little puffy in the pale dawn light, but not too bad considering how little sleep I got. I spent most of last night making calls, packing my bags, and arguing with my parents.
They told me my plans were rash, that I was gambling a sure future on a risky venture, chasing a girl’s romantic dream. Mom begged me not to go, Dad suggested that I was mentally unstable, but — short of locking me up — there was nothing they could do. Being eighteen still counts for something in the world. It’s time to stand on my own two feet, to make my own decisions, to choose my own world.
I do a final check on my packed belongings, zip my stuffed bags closed with difficulty, take a last long look around my room, and then head downstairs.
“Mom, Dad!” I call, eager to be gone now.
They insist on being the ones to drop me off — though Zeb volunteered when I called to tell him my decision. He was more supportive than my folks.
“We always regret the things we never did more than the things we did,” he’d said. Wise boy.
On our way, driving through the mostly empty Sunday-morning streets of Cape Town, Dad asks, “Is there anything we can say to change your mind, Rosemary?”
“No.”
“Maybe it won’t be such a bad thing, after all,” Mom says. “Fun, adventure, a whole new world.”
“You’ve been listening to my mother, Sally,” Dad says sourly.
After that we drive in silence until we get to the Cape Majesty hotel. Dad pulls into a bay for taxis right by the front door to drop me off.
“Are you sure about this dear?” my mother asks for what must be the hundredth time.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Do you want me to come in with you?” my father asks.
“Dad, no.”
“Good luck, Romy!” Mom calls after my departing back.
“It’s not too late to change your mind!” Dad adds.
The hotel lobby is almost deserted except for a cleaner steering a polishing machine over the marble floor. I pause for a moment, checking that I’m still sure I want to do this.
I am. And I’m not. But mostly I am.
I head for the reception desk, hold up my large, padded envelope, and tell the clerk behind the counter, “I’d like to leave a package for Logan Rush, please.”
“We have no guests by that name staying here,” he replies automatically.
I suspected this might happen, that’s why I haven’t yet sealed the package. I fish out my identity card and hand it over for the clerk to check. “I’m his personal assistant. Please ensure he gets this directly.”
When he nods, I replace the ID card in the padded envelope, peel off the sticky-strip protector, and seal the flap tight over the contents: the key card to Logan’s penthouse; a letter of resignation to Cilla Swytch; the beautiful necklace and charm bracelet Logan gave me; and a letter from me to him apologising for the ugly things I said, and trying to explain my feelings and my decisions.
The receptionist takes the package and I turn to leave. My heart scrunches painfully inside me. Was it really only six weeks ago that I brought Logan here after fishing him out of the ocean? I’m way older than the girl I was then.
I walk across the lobby where yesterday I gave the reporter a piece of my mind.
“So you want me to tell you what I know, do you? Sure. With pleasure!” I’d said. “I know you’re an oily, scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, life-destroying excuse for a hack. And I know I have nothing more to say to you. Now get out of my way before I kick you down and walk right over your miserable body. Mood I’m in, I could do it!”
I’d marched straight into the ladies’ restroom, torn the Peabody prison letter and the news article printouts into the tiniest pieces of paper possible, then flushed them down a toilet. I’d kept flushing until the last speck of evidence was gone, and most of my anger along with it.
Now, as I exit the hotel I feel mostly a heavy aching sadness. But there’s a glimmer of hope, too. I’ll feel bad for a while. Scratch that. I’ll feel wretched — heartbroken and miserable — for a long time. But as Nana would likely say if she were here, you don’t die from heartache.
Dad starts the car as soon as I climb back inside.
“Right, next stop — the Red Cross,” I tell him.
“The Red Cross?”
“They’ve got a big bin outside, where you can deposit clothing donations. And I’ve got some shoes that no longer fit, and that I surely won’t be needing.”
When we get to the donation drop-off spot, I chuck the shoes, pair by pair, down the chute into the clothing depositary — the dagger heels I wore on my first day on the job, the black stilettos I wore to Britney’s birthday party on the night I lost my voice completely, the strappy sandals I’d worn just yesterday for my date with Logan. I smile grimly down at the sturdy, waterproof running shoes now on my feet. Not elegant, not fashionable, but comfortable and fit for purpose.
On impulse, I spin around and karate-kick the chute closed with a bang that startles a foraging flock of seagulls into flight, screeching their protest to the skies.
“Right,” I say firmly as I get back into the car. “Next stop, the docks. And floor it Dad, I’ve got a boat to catch!”