When I Ran Away, Ilona Bannister [read 50 shades of grey TXT] 📗

“What?”

My dad says, “You know, the lady detective, your mother likes Angela Lansbury. Talk to ya’ later.”

“OK, Dad.” I hang up. I turn off the Housewives. Thanks, ladies, you were good company today. I crack the window to have another cigarette. Something’s glinting on the window ledge. A metal ashtray. It would be bad if that fell on someone’s head below. Overcome with an urge to be a good citizen, I reach out and just barely grasp it with two fingertips. It slips out of my hand onto the carpet, scattering soggy cigarette butts. Pink lipstick still stains most of them. Some other woman in here before me. In the low lighting of the hotel room the writing on the back of the ashtray glints up at me. PRODUCT OF GREAT BRITAIN STAINLESS STEEL.

I put out my cigarette, slide into my flip-flops, grab my wallet and keys, leave the pack of smokes for whoever has to clean this place. Probably a woman with kids. I pick up all the cigarette butts. I take out my ten pound note for emergency taxis and leave it under the ashtray. I hope she gets it. I walk to the door and look at the fire escape plan again. An X marks Room 506. I open the door.

In the hallway I walk slowly, running my hand along the peeling textured wallpaper, feeling its grit under my fingers. Downstairs there’s a new bored Slavic girl at reception. Blue eye shadow and false lashes. “I’m checking out,” I say.

“You have room tonight and one more night and day,” she says, taking my credit card suspiciously.

“I know, but I need to go home.”

She slides my credit card into the reader. “No discount for not stay tonight,” she grumbles.

“I’m not asking for one. I just need to go home.”

Outside, the sky is purple and the air is misty. It’s not rain and not drizzle, just water making its presence felt. The not-rain beads up on the fleece sleeves of my robe. The walk home is chilled and damp. August in London.

—

I open the front door, afraid that everything will look different. “Hello?” I say quietly, as though talking to spirits in a haunted house. As though I’m unfamiliar with what lies behind each doorway.

“Meesus Gigi?” Stefka appears and startles me. “Meesus Gigi! I am so happy! So worry. Come, come.” She leads me by the arm into the living room like an invalid, scanning my outfit with concern.

“Where’s Harry?” I ask, confused, uncomfortable that Stefka has been in my house in my absence, taking my place, although I know that’s ridiculous.

“Meester Harry call me about five, he says he’s going to look for you, I stay wis boys.” As an afterthought she adds, “Boys is fine,” because I haven’t asked. “I call him now. Say you home?”

I say, “No, it’s alright. My friends told him where I was. I’ll call him. You don’t have to stay, let me give you some money for a cab.” I’m glad he called her. What an angel she is. I feel grateful but also vulnerable and overexposed.

“No, I stay? Keep you company? Is no problem.”

Rocky’s cries blast through the monitor and Stefka turns to go to him but I stand up from the sofa with noticeable effort, hold her wrist and say, “Thank you, sweetheart, for today. I’ll be OK. You go home. See you next week.” I smile, hoping that I convinced her.

Stefka grabs both my arms. “Meesus Gigi, mother is like soldier in war. She train, she fight and kill. And then—she die.”

“Wow, Stefka, that’s, uh…thank you.” She hugs me tight. “Is OK, is OK,” she says. And it is. Or it will be.

She leaves and I hurry upstairs to Rocky. His tears are wild with anger and relief when he sees me. He clings to me tightly, buries his head under my neck. My phone rings. Harry. I answer, in a whisper, “I’m home.”

A long pause. “I was at the hotel. I was trying to find…it doesn’t matter, I’ll be there soon,” Harry says.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“So am I.”

I pace the living room floor to lull Rocky back to sleep and through a narrow space between the curtains I see Stefka sitting outside on the front steps. Making sure I’ll be OK until Harry gets here. She doesn’t know I used to do that for Ma. Or maybe, somehow, she does.

I put Rocky back in his cot and check on Johnny, fast asleep. Harry’s key finally turns in the lock. I meet him in the kitchen and he holds me tighter than he has in a long, long time. We say a lot without words. We did this easily, once. It’s more work now. There’s more to say, more to hold.

When we finally pull away he says, “I called Sharon, she sent me to the hotel, they were worried when you hung up, I told her—”

I interrupt him. “I broke that window.” I look at him. The past few months have made him older.

“I know,” he says. He’s looking at me too but I don’t know what he thinks of what he sees.

“I drink wine out of tiny bottles during the day when I’m alone. I don’t get drunk. It’s to stay calm. But I need to stop,” I say to the floor.

“OK.” He strokes my hair.

Confessions fly out of me like angry crows beating their wings against my chest to get free. “I miss home. I’m lonely. I fucked up at work and I dropped the baby in the office in front of everyone. I don’t know if I can go back. Not because of that, just because I’m…Everything’s so…”

“OK. We’ll deal with it. One by one. Let’s take the boys to New York, see your friends. Let’s talk about work tomorrow. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. I’m just glad you’re home.” Harry rests his chin on the top of my head and I can feel him