The Perfect Location (36 page)

‘He has stalked me for years, although I never knew it was him and the police have never been able to track him down. He was canny and smart enough to not get caught. I even hired private detectives. He became obsessed, obviously with me, and the baby, which he found out about after he left the hospital or rehab or wherever he was. I wanted the baby, I did, even stopped heroin when I found out I was pregnant, but after I had the termination I fell back into it. He sent me a coffin with a baby doll inside it covered in blood the day I got home from hospital.’

As Alex tried to cover his shock and disgust, Sapphira continued, unburdening herself of the secrets she had hidden for years. ‘My father died of a heroin overdose, I found him dead when I was twelve. We were never close, but when I shot up, I saw his face again. It brought me closer to him in some fucked up way.’ She shook her head at her own screwed-up logic. ‘Last night when Ethan was going to inject me again, I realized how much I still wanted heroin. I was happy in some crazy way that I could have it again, even under those circumstances. I’ve a long way to go to be healed, I guess, and I need to do whatever it takes to not fall back into that life again. Heroin took me away from reality. Now I need to create my own reality, one without the pain and trauma of the last few years and one that actually means something.’

Alex was silent. Finally he spoke. ‘It’s a hell of a movie of the week, huh?’

‘A horror movie,’ laughed Sapphira, actually apprehending the craziness of her story.

‘Maybe, but at least this one has ended. Now you need to write your sequel.’

‘I want to thank you a thousand times for coming to the roof. How did you know? Ethan said he had spiked your drink.’ She shuddered at the memory of last night.

‘I didn’t drink it. It smelt odd. I thought the Scotch had gone off, so I left out the bottle to speak to the housekeeper and went to bed. I was sleeping when I heard screaming. I went to check on you and saw your room was empty, the light bulbs removed and the bedside table knocked over. I searched the house for you then went up to the roof. That’s when I saw him.’

The knowledge that he had heard her brought Sapphira to tears again. ‘You could have died. Fuck, you could have died.’

‘So could have you,’ he said wryly. ‘The world is filled with crazy people. You got the craziest though, I must admit. Makes my stalkers look like girl guides.’

‘I’ve had enough for a while. I need to get away from here but I can’t go back to LA yet. It’s too much,’ she pondered as she put out the cigarette.

‘What about the charity you wanted to start? Why not head to that country that was in the documentary you mentioned to me?’

Sapphira considered his idea. Heading to somewhere remote seemed like the best idea she had heard in a long time. ‘Do you think I could?’ she asked, doubting herself.

‘Sure, you can do anything you want. You wanted to give back, why not this? Doesn’t have to be forever, but it may give you the chance to think about other people’s problems for a while. Perspective is a powerful healer,’ he said, standing to take their cups to the sink. ‘Giulia will be here in a few hours, it’s nearly 7.00 am. We can talk to her then.’

Sapphira stood up. ‘Okay, I will think about it.’

‘All right, off to bed to try and sleep for a while,’ he insisted.

‘I don’t think I can sleep.’

‘You’d be surprised at what your body needs.’

They stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Can you lie with me?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Of course, come on.’ He led her to his bedroom. Putting her under the covers, he slipped in next to her. She curled into his arms and he kissed her hair. ‘Time to start again,’ he whispered and she felt herself fall asleep in his arms.

Ethan’s body was found floating in the canal the next morning, with a syringe sticking out of his neck. Just another junkie, the Italian police said. His body lay unclaimed in the morgue till he was buried in an unmarked grave a month later on Isola di San Michele – Venice’s Island of the Dead.

New York was Rose’s new love affair. Having spent time in the city on and off over the years, she was once terrified of its energy and frenetic pace. Now the city had mellowed since 9/11 and Rose’s energy had been kick-started by her experience with Sophie, the wonderful French stylist. Changing her cell phone number, she decided to forget about the medium and live her life right now, instead of yearning for a future that insisted on evading her. After finishing the film, she stayed on at the Four Seasons. Catching up with friends, attending Broadway classics and off-Broadway small shows, Rose was inspired again by the art of the stage.

Leaving the theatre one night, she rang Randy, her agent, knowing he would still be in the office with the three hours’ time difference between LA and New York.

‘Hello, lovely Randy,’ she enthused down the phone.

‘Hello, Miss Rose. How is the fair city treating you?’ he asked.

‘Oh Randy, I feel alive again. I really do. I want to do something in the theatre. Can you have a snoop around and tell me if there’s anything exciting I might be suitable for?’ she asked as she got into her town car and was driven back to the hotel. ‘I’m going to spend some more time here and look for a place to stay for a while.’

‘Really? Well, Broadway would be happy to have you. I’m not sure what’s happening but I will ask Karen, who does the stage in our office, to look into it for you. Musicals? Classics? New plays? Any ideas?’

‘Not musicals, you’ve not heard me sing. You might fire me,’ she laughed. ‘But I’m up for anything else.’

‘Okay, leave it with me. Where are you looking to stay?’ he asked.

‘I have no idea, I suppose I’ll get Lauren to call a few realtors for me.’

‘How is she?’ asked Randy who knew the barest details of the Jerry Hyman case.

‘She’s great, doing well actually. She’s working again three days week for me, which is a blessing.’

‘Good for her. Jerry’s going to go to jail for a long time, I think.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Rose as her car pulled up at the front of the Four Seasons.

‘Listen,’ said Randy. ‘I’ve got a client who’s moving to LA for a while, a TV series, might be a year or more. They have an apartment in New York they may want to rent out. Fully furnished, I would imagine. Want me to speak to his assistant?’

‘That would be fantastic, Randy. Thanks,’ she said as she walked through the lobby.

Cutting a glamorous figure in skinny black pants, a thin black silk turtleneck, white cashmere short coat with three quarter caped sleeves, and high suede black boots, Rose was the epitome of chic and she felt fabulous. Moving to New York was the best idea she had had in years. Going back to the theatre, getting over Max, it was all coming together.

‘Before you go, I’ve had a phone call from an agent in London.’

‘Yes,’ said Rose cautiously.

‘Your co-star in Italy, Max Craydon, is trying to get in touch with you.’

Rose took the phone away from her ear and thought. Max wanted to speak to her, but she didn’t want to speak to him. She was creating a new life for herself and she was over the drama he created in her life. He was damaged and so was she. Never a good combination, she decided.

‘Rose? Rose, are you still there?’ she heard Randy’s voice down the phone.

‘Tell them to send through any requests to you and Lauren. I’ve too much to do here,’ she said finally.

‘Okay, then. Done,’ said Randy, and Rose hung up.

She was adamant about her decision, she thought. Max had led her to her own family again and made her realize she wanted more to her life than just shooting films. She wanted to engage in something and work at it night after night till she perfected it. She wanted to go out with men again and start to live a fuller life.

Undressing, she stood under the hot jets in the shower and thought about her future. She was excited for the first time in years. Life is filled with possibilities, she thought as she hopped into bed and rang her mother.

Randy’s client who was moving to LA to film his new series was only too happy to let his apartment to Rose. He called her direct, getting the number from Randy.

‘Hey, it’s a great spot, Third Avenue, you can walk anywhere and you will love the terrace I have. Gorgeous when the sun is out. I also have a screening room which always goes well at parties.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be having any parties,’ laughed Rose.

‘It’s fine if you do. Enjoy it, my wife and I are very happy here,’ he said. ‘I will get the keys and alarm code sent over to your hotel. I’d stay to meet you but I’ve got to get to LA. My wife is looking at schools. She’s English, that stuff is important to her. I have to fly out tonight.’

‘That’s fine. I promise to look after it. Thank you,’ said Rose, hanging up and then laughing at his comment about Englishwomen and education.

Rose spent the afternoon trying to pack up her things in the hotel. The clothes she had bought with Sophie did not fit into her bags she had brought with her to New York. She rang the concierge. ‘I’m having trouble getting my things packed,’ she said, embarrassed.

The concierge was not fazed, used to the problems of the rich and famous. ‘Please leave your things, Ms Nightingale. Our butler service can pack and send your things to wherever you would like.’

‘Thanks, that’s terrific,’ Rose said, leaving him with the address of her new apartment. ‘Also, a package has just arrived for you, I will send it up straightaway,’ the concierge added.

Rose clapped her hands. The keys to her apartment, well, the TV star’s apartment, but now hers for a year! Answering the door with her coat and bag in hand, she took the lift down to the lobby and asked for her driver to take her straight to her new home. Opening the envelope in the back of the car, she read the instructions and held the keys in her hand. On the key ring hung a little silver angel. She held it and smiled. Perhaps Alice was sending a message that New York was where she was meant to be. Perhaps this was where she was supposed to be all along, she thought as the car pulled up to the apartment.

The owner had undersold it to her. It was a stunning residence, not just any apartment. An old limestone house, she thought, as she touched the wall and climbed the ten steps to the ornate iron security door. Opening the door with the key, she pulled out the paper and punched in the alarm code.

It was exactly as Rose had hoped. Warm yet elegant. It was painted a soft cream throughout. On the walls hung prints of horses and dogs, botanical drawings. The foyer was old marble, worn from over the years. As she stood looking at the wear of two hundred years, Rose was so happy the owners had not repolished it. Walking into the living room, she saw the pale cream carpet had a faint
fleur de lys
pattern through it, giving the large room warmth. In it stood an old dark wood grand piano with a Tiffany lamp on top. The couches were grey with bright cushions in pale greens and whites, and there were plants and flowers in the vase on the mantelpiece with a huge modern silver mirror hanging over it. There was a large lacquer antique coffee table, filled high with books and magazines, some of them more trashier titles, thought Rose happily. And in the middle of the table was a wooden carved bowl filled with sea glass and shells.

It was the home of a family, thought Rose, touching the keys of the piano as she passed it.

Walking upstairs to the bedrooms, she found the master suite with a cleared out dressing room for Rose’s clothes. The king-sized bed was covered in white linen, with a blue and white toile padded headboard. The carpet was white and there was an open fireplace and an old chaise longue at the foot of the bed. It was entirely to Rose’s taste, she thought, thanking the gods or angels that had sent her this sanctuary in New York.

Exploring the rest of the house, she found a room belonging to a little girl, Clara, and a room belonging to a boy, Spencer. She closed the doors, smiling at the things they had left behind. The terrace looked lovely, she thought, staring at the snow as it fell on the plants growing outside, the table and chairs set up in case there was a spontaneous barbeque.

Rose’s favorite room though, was the bathroom in the master suite. A huge, free-standing clawed foot bath stood in the centre; the floors were polished dark hardwood boards. The vanity was an old Victorian chest that had a marble sink in the centre of it, with an old framed mahogany mirror placed above the sink. On the other wall, there was a large Victorian dresser with a small chair, covered in eggshell blue silk. The marble mantel on the facing wall held a small series of silver figurines of women bathing.

Rose walked around the house; she felt like she was in another country, part England, part New York. She looked in the kitchen and found a folder filled with takeaway menus. Why did they have a kitchen if they never cooked, she thought to herself.

Calling the Four Seasons, she requested her things be sent over as soon as possible and settled her bill over the phone. Walking back into the living room, she sat down at the piano. She’d had lessons as a child and the keys felt familiar as she touched them. Starting to play what little she could remember, she found she was rustier than she had thought. Standing up, she lifted the piano stool lid. Just as she had thought, it was filled with music, from beginners’ to experienced levels. The mother must play and the children are getting lessons, she thought as she pulled out
Piano for Beginners
. That’s what she would do while she was here: start playing the piano again. She had forgotten how much she loved it. She had forgotten a lot of things she had loved once, before her marriage to Paul. Working her way through the piano book, Rose stopped and stretched her arms and fingers. They were sore from the workout but it had felt so good not to think about anything but the music in front of her, almost like a meditation, she thought.

Hearing the doorbell ring, Rose jumped up and ran to the door; her things had arrived from the hotel. She instructed the Four Seasons driver to take them up to her room and then tipped him $200 dollars.