One Way or Another(81)

But, here I am, hidden away again, though at least now I have a proper room, a proper bed though just a narrow cot, and a proper bathroom with a tub and a walk-in shower, all done out in beige marble like in a hotel. Could this be a hotel they had taken me to? I feel like Alice in Wonderland: I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and discovered a whole new world. If I pull the chair over to the round window and climb on top of it, I can even glimpse a circle of wet-looking parkland with scrubby trees along a gravel drive and other, new trees in wooden crates. There are people working out there, real people, men in shirt sleeves spading the new trees into a series of holes dug all the way along that drive. After they’ve done this, a whole other crew comes in behind, stringing up tiny fairy lights, as though for a party.

That was it! Of course, Ahmet was throwing a party to celebrate the “opening” of his new house. The “home” he had always wanted.

There was a noise outside my door, that clack-clacking I knew meant Mehitabel. She entered without knocking, just to catch me off guard I suppose, though what I might have been doing, imprisoned as I was without any means of escape, I don’t know.

She flung open the door and stood there, looking at me. Over her arm she carried a plastic garment bag.

She walked into the room, threw the garment bag onto the chair, came over to me at the window, and stood with her face in mine, inspecting me.

“You look terrible, Angie,” she said, finally.

Did I need her to tell me that? And why was she bothering anyway?

She went back out the door, reappeared moments later rolling a small suitcase.

I eyed her warily; I knew she was up to something.

“In the garment bag you will find the dress you are to wear tonight.”

My eyes almost bugged out of my head. “Tonight?”

“Yes, Cinderella, you will go to the ball.”

She laughed as she said it. I’d never heard Mehitabel laugh before, never so much as seen her smile, but there it was, a little tinkling laugh like a proper lady taking tea with friends, instead of confronting the woman she obviously considered her enemy and who anyhow was socially beneath her, the barmaid, hostess, club girl.

I had a quick flashback of that life, that normal, ordinary, functional kind of life lived by many young women. In a way it’s women like myself who make the world go round, offering our drinks, our chat, our temporary companionship, attracting customers into our bars and sending them out again, a little happier, a little more attention paid to them, a smile on their faces. Nothing much maybe, but it still counts for something, to give another human being a small pleasure, that of being acknowledged, accepted, admired even. It was my talent, and I was proud of it. Now, though, I was nothing and I knew it.

Yet, here was Mehitabel, unzipping the garment bag, taking out the hanger with a beautiful dress, velvet, black as the dark side of the moon, long narrow sleeves, low V-neck, tightly corseted waist, spilling into a swirl of a skirt, the folds of which were cut so as to make a woman look slender yet feminine and which I knew would swish sexily around my knees as I walked. If I ever wore this dress, of course.

I made no comment, watching as Mehitabel took a pair of simple black suede heels from a box. I could see the number 8 on the side. My size. She upturned another bag, Victoria’s Secret, spilling out a slew of lacy underwear, all in black.

Two bags were still unopened. She turned to look at me, slender as a knife blade in her gray silk shift, belted at the waist with a chain of gunmetal and silver. Sleeveless, it left her arms, with their long muscles, bare, skimming just above her knees, fitting her body like it had been made for her. Which, remembering having my short black work skirts tailored to fit closer, I guessed it had, and by a master couturier, I’d bet. There was nothing cheap about Mehitabel, except her brain perhaps. And probably her background. I was suddenly curious about that, I wanted to know who my jailer was, why she was.

“Mehitabel?” I suddenly found my voice and she glanced up, surprised.

“I was wondering,” I said, managing a smile, which felt so alien I almost did not know what my face was doing, “I was wondering, Mehitabel, if you would at least talk to me.”

She stood, arms folded across her chest, feet slightly apart, so totally in charge it scared me all over again. She looked capable of anything, but then what did I care? I had nowhere to go, only down.

“What I wanted to know, before … well, before anything else takes place, is actually who you are. Where you come from. Who your family is. I remember my mom so clearly, it’s as though she’s with me, even now. I wondered about your mother. I mean, she must have cared for you, raised you, picked you up from school, cooked pancakes for Sunday breakfast, told you bedtime stories.…”

Her face was inscrutable and I hesitated. “Oh, Mehitabel, we are just two women alone here, in this mess together. I don’t know how or why I ended up here but you had a choice. You still have a choice. You can get out of this, Ahmet doesn’t own you, he doesn’t own me. Surely you know that?”

To my surprise, she lifted her chin higher, gave me a long, assessing look, almost a smile, just a hint of a change in her mouth, in her eyes. Then she said, “I know everything, Angie. Never forget that. And I will take care of it, in my own time. Remember that too. Meanwhile, you are to have your hair back, or a replica of it anyway.”

She took a wig from the plastic bag, long, softly curling red hair that was so like my own used to be.