Authors: Helen Douglas
The orchestra began playing and men and women in ballgowns and suits of every shade of the spectrum moved towards the wooden dance floor that had been constructed in front of the lake. Clarence took my hand and led me to it. I remembered that he was a good dancer from the night I danced with him at the Watering Hole.
‘I don’t know any of the dances,’ I reminded him.
‘It’s a simple four-step,’ he said.
I watched his feet. It was a straightforward back and forth, left and right shuffle. I looked at the floor and copied his moves.
‘You’re doing great,’ he whispered after a while. ‘Now look at me and let your feet follow their instincts.’
I met his eyes, held on to him and tried to ignore the moves my feet were making. To my surprise, the combination of music, the atmosphere and Clarence’s lead all conspired to make the whole experience a thoughtless, effortless event.
We were being watched and photographed, not only by the official photographers, but by many of the other partygoers as well. I closed my eyes to block them out and held on tight to Clarence, letting him guide me through the moves.
‘You OK?’ Clarence asked me.
‘Just trying to pretend that people aren’t watching us.’
‘People are bound to be interested,’ Clarence said. ‘I’m the eldest son of one of the richest men on the planet. You’re the first person to travel through time before time travel was invented.’
‘When you put it like that,’ I said, ‘I almost understand their interest in us.’
The song ended and Clarence led me to a drinks table.
‘Another beer?’ he asked.
‘Great.’
He unplugged another bottle and filled two glasses.
‘Cheers,’ I said.
Clarence leant across the table and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lingered on the side of my face. Cameras clicked and lights flashed.
I shut my eyes and tried to hide my revulsion. ‘Clarence,’ I said.
‘You’re not just any old time traveller from pre-time travel,’ he said, taking his hand back. ‘You happen to be stunningly beautiful. Your face is selling millions of extra copies of magazines and newspapers. Do you have any idea how many women are getting their hair dyed red since you arrived?’
I shrugged, embarrassed.
‘Not that I read the fashion pages,’ said Clarence, ‘but I flicked through my mother’s port-com yesterday. And apparently early twenty-first century fashion is going to be the next big thing. All because of you.’
I laughed. ‘I was probably the least fashion-conscious person I knew back in the twenty-first century. I practically lived in T-shirts and jeans.’
‘That’s what they were talking about,’ said Clarence. ‘Jeans.’
‘I hope they do come back in fashion. I’m not wild about twenty-second century styles.’
‘You’d look good in anything.’ He was looking at me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.
The band started playing a jaunty tune.
‘Another dance?’ I asked.
‘You can’t get enough of my smooth moves, huh?’
‘This sounds like very danceable music. I’m determined to learn at least one dance.’
For the next two hours we danced. When we stopped for a rest – or for Clarence to top up his drink once again – he pointed out the rich, famous and infamous. He introduced me to his friends and only danced with other girls after ensuring I had a dance partner myself.
As Earth gently dipped away from the sun, the lights and candles grew brighter, the orchestra played louder, the guests laughed harder. Clarence had dispensed with his beer glass some time ago and was now swigging directly from the bottle, one arm around my shoulder, the other swinging the bottle by his side, his breath warm and beery as we danced.
‘You having a good time?’ he asked.
‘I’m having a great time,’ I said. ‘But my feet are starting to hurt from all the dancing. How about you give me a tour of the Institute?’
He crinkled his forehead. ‘Seriously?’
‘You have a residence here, don’t you? How about giving me the grand tour?’
His eyes twinkled. ‘You want to see my apartment? Absolutely.’
I slipped off my heels and walked barefoot across the cool lawn, glad to feel the soft, yielding earth beneath my sore feet. Clarence grabbed another large magnum of beer – his sixth or seventh now by my count – and led me around the side of the east wing.
‘If you want to see something really impressive, you should come up to Quebec and see our mansion up there,’ he was saying as we approached the side entrance.
A doorman smiled at Clarence and held the door and just like that we were inside. When I’d visited the Westlands in their apartment, I’d assumed the lack of security measures was because I was with Admiral Westland. But even with Clarence, there was no security protocol, no X-rays or body scanners or handbag search. Clarence pressed a button for the lift and we travelled up to the top floor.
‘They just let you in?’ I asked. ‘Why isn’t there any security?’
‘Don’t worry – you’re safe,’ he said, his voice slurring a little. ‘The doorman knows me. And you can’t access the administration block from here so no one really cares.’
‘Does this entrance only go to the apartments then?’
‘Yep. It’s completely self-contained.’
It suddenly dawned on me that I was going to be alone in an apartment with a very drunk boy I hardly knew. The lift door opened and we walked into a wide hallway.
‘Welcome to the penthouse,’ said Clarence. ‘One of them, anyway.’
He gave me the tour. There was a formal sitting room and a dining room with shiny walnut floors and a chandelier the size of a small car. His father’s office, which was adjacent to a large library, opened on to a roof terrace with views over the lawn and lake below. Clarence pushed open the glass doors and we wandered on to the terrace. The orchestra was still playing and the dancers were still dancing, and from this height – away from the spilled beer, the smell of flesh sweating in the warm evening air – the lawn looked like it was inhabited by hundreds of little flowers swaying and tumbling across the lawn.
Clarence lit a cigarette and leant out over the edge of the balcony. ‘All the world’s beautiful people gathered in one place,’ he said. ‘You can be a part of this set, Eden. You’re unique. Everyone wants to know you.’ He sucked hard on his cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. ‘You could come to Quebec with me for Christmas. It’s the best place for parties. And then skiing in Alaska in February. Cruising the Arctic ocean in June – midnight sun and all that. It’s not a bad life.’
‘It sounds amazing,’ I said. ‘How do you fit in your studying?’
He laughed. ‘I work hard and I play hard. It’s what my father taught me. You want something, you have to work hard for it.’
‘And what do you want?’
He flicked the butt of his cigarette over the balcony on to the lawn below and turned to me. ‘You.’
I took a step backwards.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I want you to fall in love with me.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because you’re one of a kind. No one else can be you. Money can’t buy what you are. Surgery or fashion or connections mean nothing. You are the first person to travel through time.’
‘So you want me because I’m a novelty?’
‘Girls throw themselves at me all the time, Eden. They want to date me because I’m rich – obscenely so – and I know anyone who’s anyone. You’re different.’
‘Well, I’m very flattered,’ I said, backing into the library.
‘Eden, wait.’
I hesitated.
‘I probably shouldn’t say this and I wouldn’t be saying it if I wasn’t very, very drunk. But I am sorry about Orion, you know,’ he said. ‘He’s a good guy. I wish my father had let him go.’
‘Me too.’
‘He must have cared a lot about you.’
I said nothing.
‘You must have cared a lot about him.’
‘I still do.’
‘Of course you do. I wasn’t meaning to suggest . . . look, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t expect you to be ready to move on yet. But when you are, I’ll be waiting for you.’
I was speechless.
‘In the meantime, I’d like to be your friend. I can introduce you to a lot of people.’
‘I have friends.’
‘Look, Eden, you’re new to the twenty-second century and Lakeborough. But Pegasus Ryder is a nobody. He’s a nice guy and all that, but he doesn’t have two cents to rub together. Lyra Thornhill is a bitch, pure and simple. The Cohen twins are sweet, if you like bland and nerdy. You could have so much more than that.’
I said nothing.
‘You’re very quiet.’
‘It’s a lot to take in. This new world.’
He smiled and staggered across the terrace towards me. ‘How about just one kiss?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Aww, come on, Eden. Just a quick peck on the cheek. Then we’ll go back downstairs and join the party.’
He hiccupped.
‘Back in 2012 we don’t allow boys to kiss us on the first date,’ I said.
‘So this is a date?’ He smiled and lurched forward and the next thing I knew, vomit was spurting out of his mouth and all down the front of his shirt.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, raising a hand and leaning over to heave.
I turned away from the sour smell of stomach acid and went back into the office. Quickly, I cast my eyes around. Surely there had to be something useful I could discover during my tour of his apartment. The desk was neat and tidy, just a translucent computer screen and a wireless headset. No folders or files I could take a quick flick through. I tried the top drawer of the desk. Locked. That had to mean there was something important inside. I looked around for an obvious hiding place for a key. Nothing.
I heard the lumbering foot shuffle that meant Clarence was heading inside. I moved away from the desk and pretended to be absorbed with a map of the world on the office wall.
‘I am so sorry,’ said Clarence, staggering, his words still clumsy in his mouth. ‘There must have been something wrong with the shrimp tempura. Seafood never agrees with me.’
‘It could happen to anyone,’ I said.
‘I’m just gonna brush my teeth.’
‘Clarence, where’s the kitchen? I’d like to get myself a glass of water.’
‘We don’t have a kitchen,’ he said as he swayed towards the door. ‘All our food is prepared in the Institute kitchens and delivered by the dumb waiter.’
‘Oh, really?’ I said, following him into the hall. ‘Where is that?’
He pointed towards the dining room. ‘Down there. A little alcove next to the dining room. Press the intercom and tell them what you want. I’ll just be a minute.’
My bare feet slapped on the cold, marble floor as I made my way to the alcove. The dumb waiter was set into the wall, a touch screen intercom next to it. I pressed the open button. There was a quiet whirr and a click and then the door slid open revealing an empty box about the size of a storage trunk. Before I had time to think, I gathered up my dress and squeezed myself into the empty space. I pressed the button that said
Kitchen
, the door slid shut and then I felt the sensation of falling.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, somehow believing that if I couldn’t see how dark and enclosed the space was, I wouldn’t panic. My blood thrummed through my ears, a roar that drowned out my thoughts. And then I stopped falling, the door opened smoothly and I began to breathe.
Clambering out, I discovered I was in an alcove off the kitchen. I could hear the clanging and banging of pots and pans, orders being barked by one of the staff, the sizzle and spit of food cooking. I straightened my dress and peeked round the corner. Sure enough, the kitchen was a hive of activity.
I slipped out of the door and found myself in a corridor that led to a stairwell and a bank of lifts. This was the service level. Hallways led in all directions. I tiptoed further into the corridor.
I heard a hum and a ding and the lift door opened. A young woman dressed in a maid’s uniform came out carrying a silver tray with a covered dinner plate on it. She jumped when she saw me.
‘Madam! You shouldn’t be here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I took the wrong door. I was trying to find my way back to the ballroom but I think I found the wrong stairs.’
‘This is for staff only,’ she said. ‘But now you’re here, the quickest way to the ballroom is to go up one flight of stairs and follow the corridor to the end.’
I thanked her and waited for her to leave. I had a hunch that if I was to find a way to get to the South Wing, where the offices and the Time Court – and presumably Ryan’s cell – were located, it would be via the service level. Wishing I was wearing a uniform instead of my billowy gown, I headed quietly along the corridor.
I passed a suite of laundry rooms which smelt of sweet, fresh powder and hot ironing presses. Next up was a door simply labelled
Stores
. And then I saw something that made my heart beat faster: an old-fashioned analogue clock on the wall. The clock I had noticed on my way out of my cell, en route to the debrief with Admiral Wolfe two weeks earlier. I was close to the cells.