Run To You Read online

  Run to You

  Charlotte Stein

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  More from Mischief

  About Mischief

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Sometimes I’m sure Lucy hasn’t really gone on holiday. Something else has happened to her, something terrible, like the little scene at the start of a gritty crime drama. The police are going to find her tomorrow, floating in the Thames. In fact, I can almost see it when I close my eyes: that pretty under-slip of hers drifting around her pale, still body, like transparent water weeds. Her red hair so bright against those murky depths.

  She isn’t somewhere exotic, living the life of Riley. She wouldn’t leave with only a note for a goodbye. And yet, when I search for some other answer, there’s nothing to be found. Her apartment is as clean and featureless as ever: an open book. There’s no clue stuck on her refrigerator, in the form of a shopping list she suspiciously never went out for. I can’t find clothes she didn’t take, or arrangements she didn’t make.

  ‘I’m moving to my Mediterranean heaven – rent’s paid for the next three months,’ she said, which should be explanation enough, really. It’s only because I’m left with an absence, and a sense that I meant far less to her than I thought I did. I was just a blip to her, in a life filled with jagged edges and full Technicolor. I am a speck, a stripe of grey.

  But that’s OK, because I like it that way. It’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. I have a sensible job at a sensible company, and every night I eat sensible meals in my sensible flat, before retiring at a sensible hour. My pleasures are few and simple, but they are pleasures.

  And even better: they can never hurt me. I don’t have to flee to some far-off place because I did something very wicked – though I don’t know if this wickedness of Lucy’s is just my imagination. It certainly seems like it might be when I flick through the little date diary she’s left in the upper right-hand drawer of her desk.

  ‘Dentist at three,’ it says, in that looping, dangerous-looking scrawl of hers. ‘Floor waxing at nine.’ Dull appointments like that almost look disingenuous, dressed in those slashing black ‘T’s and her big, all-consuming ‘S’s. The latter letter seems to devour entire pages, and puts my own handwriting to shame. My words creep across the bottom of pages, narrow and cramped and completely unobtrusive. I can’t bring myself to turn my ‘C’s into great, gaping mouths. And I certainly don’t know how to write in red.

  But she does. She has. Every third Friday, there it is – the one appointment that doesn’t seem quite as dull as the rest. ‘Assignation’, it says, in bold, bloody crimson. And then as though to emphasise how incongruous that one word looks and sounds, she’s circled it three times. She’s circled all of them three times – these sibilant, secretive marks of the thing she must have been doing.

  She was meeting someone. Someone she didn’t tell me about, someone dark and deadly. Or maybe it’s worse than that: an affair, an embroilment in the underworld … anything. It could be anything, which probably explains why I then pick up the telephone, and call the place she’s listed under every instance of that word.

  ‘The Harrington’, her diary says, and I immediately picture a great, grand dinosaur of a place. It will be one of those hotels that’s been caught between the wealth it once commanded and the seediness it’s disappearing into, and when a woman answers the phone she does nothing to dispel this impression.

  ‘How can we be of service?’ she says, in a tone designed to put the casual patron off. It’s both haughty and bored, like a person who’s just stepped out of the nineteenth century. She could kill with a voice like that, but my answer spills out of me anyway. I stretch my neck out, and put it on the chopping block.

  ‘My name is Lucy Talbert,’ I say. ‘I believe I have a reservation with you for Friday.’

  And the woman says, ‘Yes. Yes, Lucy, you do.’

  * * *

  The place is even more intimidating than I had initially imagined – mainly because that seediness simply isn’t present. There are no holes in the velvet curtains, or cracks in the yellowing plaster. Everything gleams like the inside of a wine glass, and for a moment I stand transfixed in the doorway. I’m afraid to walk on the glossy marble floor, in case my cheap heels crack it.

  Or maybe I’ll slip. Yes, slipping seems likely. It’s practically an ice rink in front of me, and I’ve never been known for my poise. Whereas the woman descending the elegantly curved stairs in front of me … well. She has poise in abundance. She’s wearing a skirt so slim and tight I’m surprised she can walk, and her heels are daggers.

  But she doesn’t falter on that smooth floor. She doesn’t even seem aware of it. She glides to reception with all the grace of a swan, murmurs something to the equally elegant lady behind the mahogany desk and waltzes on.

  It doesn’t surprise me that I hold my breath when she swings past me. If I inhale her perfume I might die of wealth. Her sheer classiness is on the verge of swamping me – or at the very least it’s about to mark me out as the impostor I am.

  Suddenly, the difference between me and Lucy is immense. It’s a chasm. She came here, and she came here often. There are a lot of assignations in her little book, and if she attended them all she must have known how to operate in this environment. You couldn’t come here as a misfit, in ill-fitting clothes.

  Though somehow that’s what I have done. I shamble up to the reception desk like an old washerwoman, skirt riding up my thighs, jacket gaping open. These heels are crippling me, and they aren’t half the height of that other woman’s. It’s really no wonder the receptionist looks at me with clear disdain, though I suspect that’s her default expression. Her eyes are the cool, clear blue of an arctic ocean, each framed with the kind of artistic sweep of eyeliner that I can never hope to achieve. And her hair …

  I’ve never seen such neat, complicated coils. She’s wearing a snake on her head, only the snake is beautiful and blonde and so much better than me. I’m embarrassed to be in my own body, right at this moment.

  ‘Yes?’ she asks, and for a long second I can’t think what to say. I’ve forgotten how to speak, in a presence as imperious as hers. She isn’t even trying to be imperious, either. It just comes naturally to her, in the middle of casual conversation.

  ‘I’m Lucy Talbert,’ I say, but this time the lie stings. She’s quite clearly going to know that I’m not telling the truth, because she’s not just some receptionist. A person like her won’t mistake one guest for another, or fail to pay any attention at all.

  I bet she knows everyone who’s ever walked through those doors. I bet she knows the random visitor who only stayed once last June, all the way up to the pretty red-headed girl who used to come once a month. And she knows … she absolutely knows that I am not that girl. My hair isn’t red, for a start.

  It’s a dull, dense black.

  And I’m biting my lip, where I imagine Lucy didn’t. In this, she was definitely different from me. She must have used that flicker of iron I saw in her sometimes – that confidence that I lacked. She was the one who said to some guy in a bar, ‘Buy us a drink.’ I was simply the one who reaped the benefits.
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  I can’t pass for her.

  And the pressure of trying to is too much for me. Before the woman has said another word I turn to leave, defeat like ashes in my mouth. My head is down; my eyes are on the floor. That flame of sudden jolting curiosity will never be extinguished.

  Instead, I make an even greater fool of myself.

  There’s a man behind me, and of course I stumble into him as I go to leave. Of course I do. He’s a suited wall, grey and heavy and ominous, and the moment I glance at him I rush to back away. It’s bad enough that I’m surrounded by all of this opulence. I don’t want to smear my poverty and inelegance all over it.

  But that’s what I do. I skid on the ice rink, and rather than avoiding him I blunder in closer. My heels shove forward; my body arches back. It’s only his quick reflexes that stop me landing on my ass. He shoots out a hand, so quick I hardly see it coming – and I certainly don’t have time to graciously pass it up.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I imagine myself saying, in this imaginary world where I didn’t actually need his help. In the real one, he grabs my elbow and jerks me back up – but that isn’t the humiliating part. No, no. The humiliating part is how indifferently he does it, as though saving girls from embarrassment is on a level with swatting away a fly. There’s no concern to the gesture, or acknowledgement of me as a person.

  He sets me right and then simply keeps on moving towards the desk, oblivious.

  Whereas I’m left with the opposite feeling. I’m on the other end of the spectrum from oblivious, whatever that’s called. Extreme noticing, perhaps? Severe and chronic attention-paying? At the very least, my eyes are refusing to move away from this man – this guy who’s barely registering my existence.

  I can’t blame my eyes, however. He looks as though he’s just stepped out of a Hugo Boss advert, if Hugo Boss adverts usually featured much burlier, intense-looking men. Instead of the flat, moody look of a model trying too hard, he has an aura of focus, of effortless masculinity. His suit has settled on his body like a second skin, and beneath it you can clearly see all the things you usually wouldn’t.

  How broad his chest is, how immense his shoulders are. I’m sure I can make out the heavy slab of one shoulder blade, in a way that should mark him out as a wrestler, or a boxer. It should make his suit seem ill-fitting.

  But of course it doesn’t. He’s so at ease he could probably wear a coat of armour and seem comfortable and proper. He just looks at the receptionist, and she goes to retrieve whatever it is he came here for – while I remain, gawping.

  I can’t help it. His face, oh, Lord, his face. I haven’t even gotten to that part yet. I’m still stuck on his grey woollen suit and his massive hands – the ones he’s currently easing into leather gloves. I’m almost afraid to analyse anything else, in case it proves too much for me.

  And I was right on that score. His face is far, far too much.

  Of course he’s handsome, in that Hugo Boss way, but he’s also handsome in a way that’s not. As though he maybe models for some obscure Eastern European equivalent of that scent – Hurgo Bsosch, maybe. It’s there in the heavy-lidded look in his eyes, and the softness of his mouth. He doesn’t have a grim slash, of the kind that seems so popular these days.

  He has a sensuous mouth, a decadent mouth, a mouth you want to plunge into and swim around in. If his mouth was sculpted out of chocolate, I’d cram it down my throat like a starving person – hell, it’s possible I’d do that anyway, chocolate or not. He’s just so rich-seeming, and not just in the monetary way.

  In the solid, fleshy, real-seeming way. In the big, masculine way.

  And yet when he speaks, his voice is so gentle. So unassuming. He has a slight accent, just as I suspected, but I’m not close enough to make out what it is. He doesn’t speak loudly enough for me to make out what it is. He just murmurs a few words as the receptionist hands him his long overcoat, and all I’m left with is a hint of musicality.

  It seems quite incongruous to hear such an imposing man speaking in such an unimposing manner. Shouldn’t he be more commanding? How on earth does he pay for suits like that, and go to work at the Hungarian branch of Hugo Boss, if he barely speaks above a whisper?

  And then I realise what I’m doing, in a rush of humiliation. I’m actually leaning forward, to hear him better. In fact, I’m practically on tiptoe. And I’ve held my breath again, as though breathing is just some irritating habit, getting in the way of my ability to listen.

  He doesn’t have to speak in a commanding way, I realise.

  He’s already got your complete and undivided attention, just by being.

  I watch the way he writes on a little notecard she gives to him – with a jewel-like fountain pen, naturally. I don’t think he needs it to make his script so neat and fluid, however. I think that’s just the way he is: both precise and effortless.

  He has precisely and effortlessly brought me to a standstill. I can’t even move when he turns, abruptly, though I know he’s going to see me. He’ll take in my wide eyes and my gaping mouth, and then he’ll sneer, I know it. He’ll be disgusted.

  But somehow it’s worse when he doesn’t seem that way at all. The look he gives me is a punch to the gut, mainly because I can finally see those twelve-past-midnight eyes of his but also because of the weight behind his gaze. He considers me gravely, as though I’m somehow as important as the glossy girls he usually sees. I’m as important as his latest business meeting; I rival the world for his attention, in that one moment.

  And then something like a smile hovers around his lips, a second before he moves past me and glides back out of the main doors. Strange, really, that so slight a thing leaves a burn mark in my brain. I can’t shake that barely-there smile, long after he’s gone – and I know this because the woman behind the desk has to get my attention.

  ‘I assume you wanted your room key, Ms Talbert,’ she says.

  It isn’t a question. She brooks no refusal. I’m in this for real, now.

  The trouble, I suppose, is that I don’t know what this is. ‘Assignation’ implies a meeting of some type, but it has other connotations too. Nerve-wracking, impossible, problematic sorts of connotations that I don’t quite know how to deal with.

  So I don’t. I put them out of my mind as I climb the winding staircase, still marvelling at the air of utter luxury. I’m almost afraid to trail my hand over the banister, in case I get my sticky, plebeian fingerprints all over it. And at the top is a hall lined with doors, each one glossier than the next. The wood is so dense and dark I’m certain it must have a smell, but when I lean in close there’s nothing.

  There’s just the odour of sheer, intense class – more class than Lucy could have possibly afforded. She earned the same as me, which puts this place out of reach. But then I think over that confidence she had, again, and my mind goes back and forth on the matter.

  True, she didn’t have the money for a place like this.

  But she had the chutzpah.

  And that thought pushes a sudden pang of loss through me. She’ll probably never tell me some shocking story again. She’ll never persuade me to do daring things. If I want anything above a simple life of simple pleasures again, I’ll have to persuade myself.

  Which seems unlikely, until I get to the door on my room key: One-One-One. And then despite my pounding heart, and that impulse in me to always turn back at the point of no return, I’m somehow putting the key in the lock. I’m compelled to, by the look of the thing. It isn’t one of those modern card-type affairs with a light that turns green when you’re allowed in. It’s a proper brass key with an ornate and shadowy hole to slide it into, and, when I turn it, it creates such a solid sound.

  Just to make everything that little bit more final. I’ve come to a hotel with a name that isn’t mine for an assignation I didn’t arrange, and now I’m in a room I didn’t pay for. A room that hasn’t been paid for, if I know Lucy. She was probably going to meet someone here and then finagle them into footing the bil
l, but of course I don’t know how to do that.

  I’m not even sure how to stand in a room like this. The luxury downstairs was bad enough, but in such a closed space it’s almost oppressive. I feel as though I’m being mugged by expensive furniture and artwork, and there’s nothing I can do to get away. The three-foot-deep carpet has me mired, like quicksand.

  And then I see what awaits me on the bed, and the effect gets worse. I’m smothered in shock and anxiety, to the point where I can’t breathe, for a long moment – though I do understand how silly that is. I’m sure this is all perfectly normal and ordinary to someone who isn’t as dull as me.

  People are probably using handcuffs on each other all the time, in all the places I’m not. It’s not even a big deal to have kinky sex any more. It’s old news, it’s beyond boring, it’s passé. Those glittering gunmetal loops on the bed are simply a sign of how out of date I am.

  As is the leather strap next to it, and the puddle of red silk like spilt blood, and the thin silver cane that makes me think of the kind of school I never went to. This is the dusty place of my Enid Blyton imagination, filled with answers you can’t give to questions that don’t make sense and professors in tweed with icy eyes.

  Professors who might be very angry to find me trespassing where I don’t belong. I’ve somehow slipped into Bluebeard’s cupboard without knowing it, and now I’m dancing amidst the dead girls. I’m seeing things I shouldn’t and feeling things I’m not prepared for, and it’s at this moment of supreme confusion that the door handle starts to turn.

  I hear it before I see it. I hear old metal grind against old metal, and then I move without thinking. I don’t even stop to consider how insane this is. I simply step backwards into the double-door closet behind me, and pull the doors closed with every bit of grace I didn’t think I possessed. I’m almost proud of myself for the sound they make: soft as a sigh. And for the stillness I sink into, the second I’m cocooned in sultry darkness. Usually I trip, I stumble, I knock something over. I’ve never been known for my stealth.