Before the Fall(102)

“Now it’s a party,” Carver said as the Frankfurt crew rolled in.

Hugs and handshakes were exchanged. There was a bottle of Chopin vodka on the kitchen counter and a crate of fresh-squeezed orange juice. From the living room windows you could see the treetops of Hyde Park. The song on the stereo was a drum and bass loop, sultry and infectious.

Carver took Emma’s hand and she let herself be twirled. Chelsea kicked off her heels and jutted a hip, her hands lifted toward the ceiling. For a moment they danced, letting the energy of the music and the thrum of their libidos rule them. The groove had a pocket you felt in your loins. How amazing to be young and alive in a modern European city.

Emma took the first shower, standing under scalding water with her eyes closed. As always there was that feeling in her bones that she was still moving, still hurtling through space at four hundred miles per hour. Without realizing, she began to hum in the steamy glass stall.

People of the Earth can you hear me?

Came a voice from the sky on that magical night.

She towel-dried, her toiletry kit hanging from a hook by the sink. It was a testament to MAC’s efficiency, organized by region—hair, teeth, skin, nails. Standing naked, she brushed her hair with long, even strokes, then put on deodorant. She moisturized, first her feet, then her legs and arms. It was a way to ground herself, to remind herself she was real, not just an object hovering in midair.

There was a quick knock at the door, and Chelsea slipped into the bathroom with glass tumbler in hand.

“Bitch,” she said to Emma, “I hate that you’re so thin.”

She handed the glass to Emma and used both hands to squeeze the imaginary fat around her own middle. The glass was half full of vodka over ice with a floating slice of lime. Emma took one sip, then another. She felt the vodka moving through her, warming her from the inside.

Chelsea pulled a glassine envelope from her skirt pocket and cut a line of coke on the marble countertop, working with professional efficiency.

“Ladies first,” she said, handing Emma a rolled dollar bill.

Emma wasn’t a huge fan of cocaine—she preferred pills—but if she was going to make it out the door tonight she needed the pick-me-up. She bent and put the roll to her nose.

“Not all of it, you saucy cunt,” said Chelsea, slapping Emma’s naked ass.

Emma straightened, wiping at her nose. As always, there was a physical click in her head as the drug hit her bloodstream, the sensation of something in her brain being turned on.

Chelsea racked the line and rubbed the remaining powder into her gums. She took Emma’s brush and started in on her hair.

“It’s gonna get wild tonight,” she said. “Trust me.”

Emma wrapped herself in a towel, feeling every thread on her skin.

“I can’t promise I’ll stay out too late,” she said.

“Go home early and I’ll smother you in your sleep,” said Chelsea. “Or worse.”

Emma zipped her toiletry kit. She knocked back what was left of the vodka. She pictured her father in a dirty white tee, frozen forever at twenty-six. He walked toward her in slow motion. Behind him a bigger man fell to the ground.

“Just try it, bitch,” she told Chelsea. “I sleep with a blade.”

Chelsea smiled.

“That’s my girl,” she said. “Now let’s go out there and get proper f*cked.”

Coming out of the bathroom Emma heard a man’s voice. Later she would remember the way her stomach lurched and time seemed to slow down.

“I took the knife away from him,” said the man. “What did you think I’d do. Broke his arm in three places, too. Fucking Jamaica.”

Panicking, Emma turned to duck back into the bathroom, but Chelsea was behind her. They knocked heads.

“Ow, shit,” said Chelsea, loudly.

In the living room everyone looked up. They saw Chelsea and Emma (in a white towel) doing a strange dance, as Emma made one last attempt to disappear. And then Charlie Busch was on his feet, coming toward her, his arms wide.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “Surprise.”

Cornered, Emma turned. The coke had turned on her, making the world jittery and uneven.

“Charlie, Charlie,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.

He gave her a kiss on both cheeks, his hands holding her by the shoulders.

“Put on a few, huh?” he said. “Too many desserts.”

Her stomach lurched. He grinned.

“Just kidding,” he said. “You look fantastic. Doesn’t she look great?”

“She’s in a towel,” said Carver, sensing Emma’s discomfort. “Of course she looks great.”

“What do you say, babe?” said Charlie. “Wanna run on in and put on something sexy? I hear we got big plans tonight. Big plans.”

Emma forced a smile and stumbled to her room. The vodka made her legs feel like they were made out of paper. She closed the door and put her back to it, standing for a long moment with her heart pounding in her chest.

Fuck, she thought. Fuck, f*ck, f*ck.

It was six months since she had last seen Charlie. Six months of phone calls and texts. He was like a bloodhound after a scent. Emma had changed her phone number, had blocked his emails and unfriended him on Facebook. She ignored the texts, ignored the gossip from co-workers, how he was talking trash about her behind her back, how he called other girls by her name in bed. Her friends had told her to file a complaint with the company, but Emma was afraid. Charlie was somebody’s nephew, she seemed to remember. Besides, she knew it was the squeaky wheel that got let go.