Chapter 5 – Penny

I’m so far in over my head it’s not even funny. Charlie Thorne is toying with me like a cat with a ball of string – and I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it.

He’s hot; then he’s cold. He’s yes; then he’s no. He’s turned my life into a freaking Katy Perry song, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The worst bit is; I’m falling for it.

There’s an attraction between us. I don’t know whether Charlie would admit it if I asked him, but it’s undeniable. The way he pressed my body against the glass last night, the way he kissed my cheek, and stroked my hip…

If he’d undressed me right then and there, I wouldn’t have whispered a word of complaint.

This morning, he held the door to a black limousine open for me, like a gentleman. It’s like he really is my husband, and I really am his wife. He closed the door after me. I turned my head, so I was ready to thank him when he entered from the other side, but…

The limousine’s engine growled into life instead. It pulled away from the sidewalk smoothly. I looked through the back window, and saw my fake husband stepping into an identical black limousine, ten yards back.

Push and pull.

Yes and no.

Now we’re back at the office. We ride the elevator all the way up, without exchanging a word. Miss Casey’s waiting at the top, folders held in the crook of her arm. She’s dressed exactly the same as she was yesterday – as if she’s been teleported straight out of the 1950s.

“Mr. Thorne –” She starts.

Then she stops dead, opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish. It doesn’t take more than a second before she regains control of her body. When she does, I know how much trouble I’m in.

“Penny,” the secretary says with a sour scowl. “Please wait here. I need to have a few words with Mr. Thorne.”

“No, Ella,” Charlie grunts. Or my boss, or whatever I’m supposed to call him.

Push and pull.

“Things have… changed since yesterday. I need to see you in my office: both of you.”

Ms. Casey presses her lips tight. I can tell she’s fighting hard to prevent an acidic comment escaping her lips. She is too professional for that, but I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

We follow Charlie into his office like a paddling of baby ducklings. Ms. Casey behind him and me bringing up the rear.

The huge frosted glass doors whisper closed behind us. Except, today, they aren’t frosted. I turn my head as I try to figure out how that’s happened. Does Thorne Enterprises have a maintenance team on staff for the sole purpose of making sure Charlie’s office is just the way he wants it every day?

Maybe.

“Sit,” Charlie says. He points at two identical red wing back armchairs in front of his desk. He stabs a button next to the intercom. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the office doors resume their frosted state.

At least that’s one mystery solved.

“Mr. Thorne,” Ms. Casey says. Her hands are on her lap, her legs pressed together, but not crossed. She leans forward in her eagerness to speak. I hurriedly sit down.

Ms. Casey waits for her response. Charlie lets the silence linger. As the quiet builds, I let my mind drifts back to yesterday evening. To what happened after Charlie left me there, pressed up against the glass. To what happened when my bedroom door swung closed.

I’m not proud of it.

My fingers inch downward. I press my eyelids shut, and paint a scene on the back of them. I imagine the perfect, ripped body that I know must exist beneath Charlie’s perfectly pressed suits. I unbutton my blouse, but dream of Charlie’s fingers doing it.

I scrape my fingernails down my flat stomach, but picture his.

“Penny.”

My eyes spring open. I look up. My cheeks burn, putting my guilty conscience on display as if they were an entry at the World Show.

“Yes Mr. Thorne,” I say, “Boss.”

I’m all in a panic. I don’t know what to call him. I don’t know if boss is just something for the bedroom, or –

“I think we need to explain what’s going on,” Charlie says. “Ella has been with me from the beginning. She deserves to know.”

Charlie’s secretary casts me a suspicious look out of the corner of her eyes. “Know what, precisely?” She asks. Her voice is cold, and cutting. She reminds me of Professor McGonagall from the Harry Potter books; just my luck.

Charlie sinks back into his office chair. The hydraulic mechanism beneath sinks a little, hissing as it takes his weight.

“Ella Casey,” he says. “Meet Penny. Penny Thorne.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” she says.

“I’m not sure any of us do, Ella,” Charlie says. “My new PA, here,” he says – gesturing at me, “decided to aim a little higher yesterday. Shot for the stars, in fact.”

“Precisely what did you do?” Miss Casey asks me acidly.

The anger in her eyes burns a hole in my forehead. I know exactly what kind of woman she is: one who takes absolute pride in the impeccable quality of her work. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s married to her job, and no-one else.

“It’s not her fault, Ella,” Charlie says. His voice is surprisingly relaxed. “She told Miss Winters from CPS, that we were married.”

Not for the first time today, Miss Casey’s jaw drops open.

“You –” She stands up. “Penny, come with me: now. We’ll pack your things, and –”

“No, Ella,” Charlie says, raising his voice. He stops his secretary in her tracks. “I’m afraid not.”

“Mr. Thorne,” Professor McGonagall – I mean, Miss Casey says. “Could we have a couple of minutes in private?”

Charlie leans forward, resting his elbows on the leather-lined mahogany desk. He looks older up there: a decade past his twenty-nine years.

The glass doors at the other end of the office hiss open. Charlie stands up and smiles a tired smile. “Harper,” he says. “I’m glad you could join us.”

I turn, looking around the red armchair, to see Charlie’s lawyer striding toward us. Just like yesterday, she’s wearing Italian heels, and a suit that probably costs more than my month’s rent. No – definitely costs more.

“It takes all sorts, I suppose,” Harper grins back. “I’ve got the papers you asked me to prepare.”

Miss Casey begins to speak. The words come out slow and stifled. She’s beginning to understand what’s happening. “What’s going on here?”

Charlie grins. “I’m glad you asked, Ella. You’ve known me longer than anyone, haven’t you?”

Miss Casey nods.

“I thought you might like to witness my wedding.”

***

The ring weighs ten pounds. At least it feels that way as I sit here, in Brookdale Hospital. This place feels a world away from Charlie’s smart office. I twist it, circling and circling until I wonder if the polished gold band will dig a furrow into my skin.

The nurse doesn’t give me a second glance. She’s harried – crow’s feet spinning webs from the corners of her eyes, her hair tied in messy pigtails. They’re coming loose. I’ve been sitting here for half an hour, watching the busy hospital pass me by.

She hasn’t had a moment to stop and fix herself in all this time. She barely has time to check up on her patients. The last thing she’s worried about is a young girl minding her own business in the waiting room.

“Hey, doll – you smoke?”

The voice startles me. It’s hoarse and rasping. Its owner’s fingers are stained yellow from decades of nicotine consumption.

I shake my head. My red hair dances left and right at the corner of my vision. I just want to be left alone.

“I’m fine,” I say. The acrid taste of disinfectant pollutes my tongue.

The man stands up. He’s wearing denim on denim. It doesn’t look like he’s washed this month. I wonder if I should speak to someone about him. All the disinfectant in the world won’t save the patients in this ward from whatever he’s carrying around with him.

But then I think better of it. I’ve been where he is – homeless. I should know better than to judge.

“You don’t smoke,” he asks. “Or you don’t want to smoke with me?”

He takes a step towards me, dragging and infirm-like behind. I’m not scared. Most other girls would be, in my position. But not me. I’ve lived on the streets. I’ve dealt with men like him before. He’s no threat, not really. Just lonely, I bet – and not all there upstairs.

“I don’t smoke,” I say, meeting his rheumy eyes.

The homeless man sits down next to me. He barely controls his fall, and the plastic seat groans underneath his weight. He removes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a frayed breast pocket that long ago lost its popper.

“Me neither,” he says. He taps a crumpled cigarette out onto his palm. “You sure?”

I nod. We fall silent. The bum smells, but not in an unbearable way. I can tell he does his best to manage his hygiene – showering in whatever shelter he can. It’s just that sometimes that’s not possible.

“I don’t really smoke ‘em,” he admits. “Not anymore: gave the sparkies up years ago.”

“So why do you keep carrying them around?” I ask. This strange little interaction feels safer than confronting the reason I’m really here.

“A reminder,” he says. “It’s a nasty habit, you know; wouldn’t want to end up in a place like this.”

I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t.”

The man beside me falls silent again. I wonder if he realizes that he’s made his way onto unsafe ground.

“I come here every Wednesday,” he says. I guess not.

He turns to face me. The cigarette dances between his knuckles, tiny shards of tobacco flying out at every turn. “Have done every day this month.”

“Why’s that?” I ask – even though I have a feeling I already know.

“Security’s light,” he admits with a grin. “And the nurses don’t bother me much. Long as I keep to myself, they don’t seem to care. And it’s warm,” he adds, as if that reason was an afterthought, rather than the main event.

“It’s a tired place, all right,” I say. I glance up, looking around the tired, yellowed walls of Brookdale Hospital’s Palliative Care Unit, like I’ve done so many times.

He shrugs. “Running out of money,” he says. “State should shut it down, but long as they don’t, it works for me. So what do they call you, then?” He asks without skipping a beat.

I don’t know why, but I feel more comfortable talking to him than I do even Robbie. I guess it’s easy enough to open up to someone when you know you’ll never see them again. It’s like talking to a therapist, except without the diploma on the wall, or the two hundred dollar bill for half an hour’s work.

“Penny,” I reply. I don’t give my surname, mainly because I don’t know which one to give.

“Nice to meet you, Penny,” he says. He doesn’t stretch out his hand. The cigarette spins, marking the jitters of his addiction. “I’m Joseph. Like from the Bible.”

I smile. “Hi Joseph, like from the Bible; nice to meet you.”

“You mind me asking what you’re doing here.” Joseph asks. “Pretty little thing like you don’t need to hang around in hospital waiting rooms for warmth. Sure a girl like you got a nice warm body to cuddle up next to.”

I bite my lip. Whether by accident or design, Joseph has cut right to the heart of the matter.

“You don’t need to pay Joseph here no mind,” he adds. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m here to visit someone.”

The cigarette stops spinning.

“Are you my social worker?” Joseph asks.

My eyes narrow. I wonder if I was wrong. Maybe he really is crazy. “No. Why do you say that?”

Joseph jerks his head at the empty waiting room, and at the big red display that marks the nonexistent waiting time. This is the kind of hospital where the state dumps people who haven’t got a family to kick up a fuss.

“Seems to me,” he says. “That a girl like you got more important things to do than hang around in shitty hospital waiting rooms chatting up homeless guys…”

“I’m not –”

“I’m just messing with you, girl,” Joseph grins. He holds up his hand. An old wedding band stands out on his dirty fingers. “My woman’s been gone five years this Christmas, but she’s still the only one for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for, and nor do I. Those were the best years of my life.”

“And now?”

Joseph looks around the dirty waiting room. He winks at me. “Oh, things ain’t so bad. Say, Penny – you gonna answer my question, or are you just going to leave me hanging?”

“Question?”

“What are you doing here, Missy? Because you sure didn’t come here to keep me company.”

I offer up a weak smile. “Maybe I like you, Joe. You mind if I call you that?”

Joe doesn’t take the bait. He wags his finger at me. “Nah, you ain’t getting off that easy.”

“I’m here to see someone.”

“Figured as much. So why you sitting here?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” I mutter.

Joe winks at me again. “I’m curious. They call me curious Joe.”

“Who’re they?”

“You say you’re here every Wednesday, Joe?”

He nods. His milky eyes are now bright with interest. “Every week, come rain, come shine. Until they hire more security – and that ain’t looking likely.”

I smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe you will.”

I walk through the dilapidated ward.

I twist the ring on my finger. Behind me, the door quietly hisses shut.

“Hey, dad.”