The Third Angel (20 page)

Frieda could feel the echo of her pulse in her ears. She felt as if anything could happen. She slowly opened the door. She thought she saw a man in a black suit standing there. A young, handsome man standing right in front of the door to 707. She thought perhaps he was crying.

“Michael Macklin?” she said, but the figure or whatever it was didn't hear her. He was there but he was also somehow far away. Frieda stood in the doorway and watched until the figure disappeared. A hand and a foot. A suit jacket and the back of his head. It happened so fast; she blinked and he was gone and all that was left was a tiny globe of light, like the floaters that appeared behind a person's eyes when they were developing cataracts; a white orb hanging in the air for a moment before it disappeared. Everything was gone. Frieda went back to her room and slept in her clothes. In the morning, she packed up her belongings.

“You're not leaving me alone in this craphole, are you?” Lennie asked.

Frieda hugged her. “I'm not going to be here to tell you what to do,” she said. “You're on your own.”

“Good, because I never listened anyway.”

They laughed then. It had been a perfect friendship that could only exist in that bubble of time. Had Frieda stayed any longer, things would have disintegrated between the two; the differences between them would have made it impossible for either to understand or even appreciate the other. But for now, they were sniffling.

Before she left, Frieda stopped at the desk and asked Meg for one last favor. She asked for the forwarding address Jamie had left when he checked out.

“It would be my job if I got caught,” Meg said primly.

“But you don't mind doing other things that are against the law and you don't mind putting Lennie in danger. Isn't what you do called pimping? Or is it just sisterly guidance?”

“Why don't you shut up? You grew up privileged; you know nothing about having to fend for yourself.”

“Give me the address, Meg, and then you can do whatever the hell you like.”

Meg wrote down an address in Kensington. “Don't say you got it off me.”

Frieda went there straightaway. Her suitcase wasn't very heavy. She didn't own much. She had left most of her belongings in Reading. The road where Stella lived was lovely, shaded with trees, very exclusive. The sisters lived in a beautiful Edwardian town house that looked like a wedding cake. White limestone, five stories, across from a private park where two little black dogs were chasing sparrows. Frieda sat down on a bench in front of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the park. The fence was so old yellow moss had formed over it and was as hard as brick. There was a small pond inside the park and some children were playing. Their voices were sweet. The light had changed. It wasn't the blue of summer, or the deep indigo of September. Frieda's father had told her that people in the grip of a mortal disease tended to hang on through fine weather and that more deaths occurred during heat waves and snowstorms than anyone might imagine. Even more deaths took place right after a holiday or a major life event; the birth of a grandchild, for instance, or a wedding.

People have amazing strength, the doctor had said. They hang on beyond the bonds of what anyone would think is humanly possible.

A dark green Mercedes pulled up and the driver got out and leaned against his car to smoke a cigarette. He was young and wore a brown suit. Frieda decided to watch him, biding her time.

The driver waited a good half hour, then the front door of the town house opened and Stella and Marianne came out, all in a rush, laughing. They were wearing short silk dresses, one lilac, the other blue; clothes too skimpy for the season. They were laughing, their arms around each other. The driver hurried to open the car door for them; they ignored him completely and slipped inside. The driver caught sight of Frieda and as he went around the back of the car he waved to her, as if he knew her. Frieda waved back—they both needed some assurance that they were also human beings, worth something in the grand scheme of things.

When the car took off, Frieda crossed the street and went up the granite steps. She realized she was holding her breath. A stupid thing to do, it caused hyperventilation. She rang the bell, then knocked on the door for good measure. She'd never been shy. You never knew what you might receive if you didn't ask.

A woman came to the door, a pale blonde in her fifties who looked very much like Stella would someday if Stella didn't kill herself with drugs first. Very stylish, very attractive, and very busy. She clearly wasn't pleased to have been disturbed.

“Sorry to bother you,” Frieda began.

“Well then don't,” Stella's mother, Mrs. Ridge, said. “I just got back from a long trip and all the help has quit in my absence. Everything is a total disaster. The house is a mess and my life is falling apart. So tell me what it is quickly.”

“I'm here to see Jamie,” Frieda said.

Daisy Ridge stopped going over a sheet of paper in her hand. It was her to-do list. She looked at Frieda quite closely. “Are you?”

“For a minute,” Frieda said. “I won't be long.”

“If this is a delivery of some sort, just go around to the back door. The only remaining housekeeper is there doing God knows what. Planning on quitting, I presume.”

“It's not a delivery.”

Frieda was wearing black eyeliner and her black dress underneath her raincoat. She looked very competent, someone who knew what she was doing. She had her suitcase balanced on the step. Mrs. Ridge gazed at the suitcase. It was an old one that had been torn and neatly repaired with packing tape.

“Well you're welcome to take him home with you if that's what you're here for. He's all yours, really, if that's what you want.” She often wished she had told her sister that when they'd argued over the same man.

Frieda looked past Mrs. Ridge. The entranceway floor was black-and-white marble. The walls of the sitting room beyond were painted red, then glazed to a shiny patina.

“Could you tell him I'm here? I'm Frieda.”

Mrs. Ridge opened the door wider. “Tell him yourself. He's up on the third floor. Second door on the left. In bed, where I gather he spends most of his time.”

“Thank you.” Frieda stored her suitcase in the corner where there was an ornate mirror and umbrella stand. The stand was gilded with the head of a swan on each corner. “I'll just leave this here.”

“He didn't wrong you in any way, did he?” Stella's mother asked. “Because I'll have the police here in an instant if he did. Frankly, I'd be happy to do so. I could help you out, you know. I could have him arrested.”

“You needn't bother.” Frieda wasn't the sort to confide in people, and she certainly wasn't about to tell this woman anything. Not that Mrs. Ridge was so easily dissuaded. Clearly, she wanted to be rid of her new son-in-law, no matter the means.

“Did he leave you pregnant?”

“No, but even if he had, that's not a crime, is it?”

“I'm sure if we look carefully we'll be able to find several crimes associated with Jamie.”

“Does your husband hate him as well?” Frieda asked.

“My husband hates everyone equally. He's not very discerning.”

“Well, I won't be long,” Frieda said.

She'd heard enough. She went up the stairs. The carpet was gold with a pattern of silver leaves. Frieda kept her eyes down until she reached the third floor. Everything inside the town house looked like a wedding cake. The cornices, the molding, the doors. Frieda knocked on the second door. It was painted cream and gold. It looked heavy enough to withstand the police, should they ever be called in. There was no answer, but it was quite possible that the door also stopped sound. Frieda thought it probably took three or four maids to keep a house like this in order.

She opened the bedroom door. Nearly everything was blue inside: the walls, the canopy over the bed. It was like a gorgeous birdcage. The rug was Persian and very thick; the furniture was mahogany decorated with some sort of gilding. Jamie was indeed in bed. Frieda looked at him for a moment. He looked beautiful to her, and very far away.

Frieda sat in a chair by the window. The chair was blue-and-gold silk damask. The room smelled like jasmine and citrus; she assumed it must be the scent Stella used. It was possible to see the park down below, the gold trees, the blue sky. From up here the world looked like a different place, very far away, very small.

After a while, Frieda went over to the wardrobe and opened it. It was a walk-in wardrobe with huge built-in shelves; there were scores of dresses and pairs of shoes. There were tiny Mary Quant outfits, dresses from Biba in shades of white and cream and yellow, and a row of sheer Victorian blouses with pearl buttons. There were three leather jackets, one black, one pink, one white-and-tan stripes. There were gypsy dresses and Chanel suits. There was the python coat Frieda had seen Stella wearing at the Egyptian Club, hanging carelessly on a hook, and several furs, one of them dyed a pale apricot. There were two pairs of white Courreges boots and dozens of ballet flats in every color. At the rear of the closet were the fawn-colored suede boots with the buttons Frieda had admired. Frieda took off her short black boots and pulled on Stella's. They fitted her perfectly. She went back to the bed and sat on the side, her legs over the edge. It was a very tall bed with down coverlets. Jamie opened his eyes and smiled when he saw her.

“Where am I?” he said.

“I think you're in your marriage bed.”

Jamie sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He was fairly sober, but he wouldn't be for long. He had a massive headache and his leg was killing him. “Did you get a job here?” he asked Frieda.

She laughed out loud at that. “I quit being a maid,” she said.

“That's probably good,” Jamie said. “It's a nowhere job.” He paused. “I don't know what happened. Things just moved on. I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Well now you can,” Frieda said.

She noticed a used needle on the marble night-table top. There was an ashtray filled with butts and a small hashish pipe.

“Or we could still see each other,” Jamie suggested. He brushed back his hair, which was almost to his shoulders. He had decided he would never cut it. He didn't have to sacrifice himself. To hell with that. “I mean we only have one life in this world, so we have to follow our desires.”

Jamie kissed her for a while, then Frieda pulled away. He felt cold in a funny way, as though he'd just stepped out of the rain. She remembered him as being different. He'd been hotter; he'd made her burn.

“I'm fucking freezing,” Jamie said.

“How did the recording go?” Frieda asked.

Jamie took a cigarette from a pack on the night table and gave her one as well. He grabbed the matches and lit both.

“Great,” he said. “Unfortunately, the guys at the label said ‘The Third Angel' is the B side. I still need the hit song. It's never enough for them.”

“Do you love her?” Frieda asked. “I mean, I hope you don't mind me asking, but I'd like to know.”

Jamie looked at her and smiled. “Well, it's not always about that, Frieda.”

“Isn't it?”

“Not for people like us,” he said. “People who've ridden shotgun with the Angel of Death.” He turned on his side and studied her face. “Stella would never have to know about us. Or even if she did know, it wouldn't really affect us. It wouldn't have anything to do with the thing that we have between us. That's something rare.”

Frieda wished she'd known him before he'd been ill, when he was a little boy who hadn't yet seen any angels or made a vow to follow his desires, no matter the cost. He'd been different then, she was sure of it; a boy who had everything in front of him, a future worth living.

“Did you miss a great deal of school when you were growing up?” Frieda asked.

Jamie laughed. “You came here to talk to me in my marriage bed and that's your question?” Frieda laughed, too. “I missed three years,” he told her. “I could never make it up.”

It may have seemed a funny question, but Frieda knew precisely why she'd asked; she'd asked so she wouldn't hate him.

She went back to the chair by the window while Jamie got up to go to the bathroom. He rooted around in the night-table drawer for his works. He took a waxy packet from a black-and-white wooden and ivory box.

“I'll be right back,” he said.

He reached for a bathrobe.

“I've seen you naked,” Frieda reminded him. “You don't have to be shy.”

“Right.” Jamie grinned and went off to the bathroom.

Frieda watched the leaves, then went to investigate the dressing table. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, painted white, very old and inlaid with mother of pearl and abalone. There were three mirrors. Frieda was surprised to find that her reflection was different from what she might have expected. She was nearly beautiful. She took one of the lipsticks on the table and put it on. A pale shimmer. She looked at herself, then wiped off the lipstick with a tissue. Not her color. She used Stella's tortoiseshell brush. The next time Stella brushed her hair she would see dark hair among her own pale strands left between the bristles. She'd wonder, for a moment or two at least, who had been there. Who had climbed up into a world where she didn't belong.

After about twenty minutes, Frieda went to the bathroom and opened the door. Jamie was on the bathroom floor. It was black-and-white marble, like the front hallway. Frieda went to kneel beside him. She took his wrist and measured his pulse. It was slow and even. He was alive.

“Jamie,” she said.

He murmured something. His head was leaning against the side of the tub. She could see his ribs, his arms; she knew all of his body, but it had changed. He was much thinner. There was a blue mark, like a plum, on his forehead.

“Are you all right?” Frieda asked.

“Yep.” He nodded. Or tried to. “Just give me a minute,” he said.

Frieda went back to the bedroom and got her purse. She opened it and took out the first song she had written. She hadn't wanted to give him everything all at once; she'd been hoarding it, waiting to see if he was worthy of it, perhaps, or maybe just waiting to see what would happen next. Now she knew.