Single white female

35

HEDRA hadn't said good-bye to Lawrence. Well, he hadn't known they were parting, so what did it matter? She'd given him some coke that was like none he'd ever snorted or smoked. The ultimate and final high. He lay curled in a corner of the bathroom while she'd methodically removed every trace of herself from his life.

Before leaving she'd looked in on him, and he hadn't moved. He'd probably never move again under his own power. "Lucky Lawrence," she'd said softly before walking out. "You got what you wanted."

Hedra moved into the Cody Arms and began buying furniture. She'd taken the largest bedroom; it had a better view and more closet space.

Her first night back in the apartment she'd sat on the bare floor where the sofa used to be, sipping hot chocolate, watching a mixture of sleet and rain smear the dark window and cause her reflection to waver. She was wearing her dark slacks and favorite yellow blouse, her brown sandals that were slightly too large for her but comfortable. She studied her other self in the flat and undulating window pane and she and her Other exchanged smiles.

Sitting in the dim warmth of the apartment, listening to the splatter of rain dripping from the gutters onto the gargoyle stonework, she felt a contentment she hadn't known since rare moments as a child. She was in a secret place, a place to hide, and in a way she could carry it with her wherever she went and it gave her an unshakable peace and confidence. It was her most precious possession.

The next morning she took a cab to a beauty salon on lower Broadway and had her hair dyed blond and trimmed in the old Allie fashion. It was also the first day of her diet.

No one in the Cody Arms seemed to pay much attention to her. If the pleasantly plump woman who'd just moved in on the third floor looked remotely familiar, it wasn't mentioned. At least not to Hedra's knowledge. And if it was noticed, the fact that she was rumored to be the previous tenant's sister accounted for any resemblance of clothing or gesture. Hedra and the other tenants played the New York game of studiously avoiding eye contact and stayed out of each other's lives. Random collisions of fate could cause problems.

When Hedra went out at night, she seldom drifted in the direction of the Village. In a city the size of New York there were countless places to go, countless men cruising for companionship. Looking for someone like Hedra.

Always she introduced herself as Allie Jones. The name had long ago faded from the news and caused no flicker of recognition and required no explanation. Allie Jones, one of the many on the make and available to be made.

At Apple of My Eye, a lounge on East 21st Street, she was picked up by a handsome young stockbroker. The Manhattan single girl's dream. He'd peered at her through the haze of tobacco smoke and the flashing, multicolored strobe lights and, talking loud to be heard above the music, said his name was Andy. She told him she was Allison but he should call her Allie. First names only. That was the protocol for places like this. They'd stay on a first-name basis while they explored each other and decided how far the relationship might travel.

Andy was tall and angular, with sharp and sensitive features and thick black hair that was parted with geometric precision and seemed never to get mussed. He dressed well, though a little too trendy; shoulders a shade too padded, pleated pants too tight at the cuffs. Narrow black shoes with built-up heels, made more for dancing than walking, added half an inch to his height, though he didn't need it. He must have bought the shoes for style. Or maybe he was some kind of dance buff. There were plenty of them around. Young Fred As-taires.

That first night at Apple he'd asked Hedra to dance, then guided her through a complex series of steps she didn't know. But she had no difficulty following his strong lead. She knew he was making them both look good. Fred and Ginger. The man could damn well move. "You dance great," he'd told her. "Hah! Anyway, I enjoy the challenge."

He raised his left hand, nudged her beneath the shoulder, and guided her into an underarm turn. Ballroom stuff, as if to demonstrate that he had class. That he thought she had class. When she came out of the turn, he was right there to pick up the beat. Maneuvered her toward the edge of the wide dance floor and began a lazy, circling step so they could talk.

He said, "It's tell-me-about-yourself time, Allie. You from New York?"

"Not originally. From Illinois. But I haven't been back there in years. Don't wanna go back ever." "Why not?"

"Oh, no solid reason. Just a collection of slightly unpleasant memories, all connected with the Midwest." She felt a thrust of fury at the base of her mind. "They don't understand there that the different apple in the barrel isn't necessarily the rotten one."

"Hey, I know what you mean. You live in the Village, I'll bet." "Nope. Upper West Side. You?"

"I'm from New Jersey. Teaneck. Too expensive to live in Manhattan for some of us." He led her through a neat turn to avoid a couple who'd danced too close, then resumed his rhythmic, hypnotic circling step. "How long you lived in your apartment?" "'Bout three years. Did I say I lived in an apartment?"

"I dunno." He smiled. "Doesn't everyone in New York live in an apartment?" "No, sometimes a condo or co-op."

"Same thing. You go in a door and down a hall before you get to your door." "Yeah, I suppose so."

"Bet you have a nice place. Maybe I could see it sometime." A quick hint of a smile. "Definitely. Sometime." "Where'd you live before Manhattan?"

She moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder. A tingle of alarm played up the nape of her neck, like the very tip of a soft feather drawn over flesh. What was going on here? "How 'bout you? Where'd you live before New Jersey?"

He told her, but she barely listened. Someplace in Connecticut. Not that it mattered. No way to know if it was the truth. A thousand voices in Hedra were screaming for her to be careful. She'd heard those warnings before and ignored them, and regretted it later. Alcoholics and gamblers must hear those same unheeded voices.

She and Andy danced until closing time and agreed to meet there the next evening. He kissed her lightly on the forehead as they parted. Nothing pushy, but a promise. Subtle foreplay.

And the next evening she went. She couldn't stay away.

She waited until almost midnight and he didn't show up.

After turning down her tenth offer of a drink or a dance, she decided to leave. She threaded her way across the crowded dance floor and past a line of people waiting to get into the main room. A short man with a gray beard and a gold-flecked silk jacket turned away from the woman on his arm and winked at Hedra. She said, "Nice coat, but that's about it, asshole," and walked past him and out the door.

Zinging the bearded man had given her a great deal of pleasure, but she wasn't sure why. Maybe she'd made him a substitute for Andy. He was the same sex; that was close enough.

Midnight was too late for a woman alone to ride safely on the subway. Alone. Not what she'd planned.

It wasn't unusual to be stood up, she assured herself, as she hailed a cab to take her back to the Cody Arms. That was how it went in the singles scene in Manhattan, a cruel and devious game, each partner playing with the softest part of the other. Hadn't she always known it?

Still, she'd liked Andy a lot. She'd wanted desperately for the voices to be wrong, for him to be who he said he was. But was anybody who they said they were? Really?

During the cab ride through the dark and rain-slick streets, snow began to fall.

At the Cody Arms, she paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi, feeling a few cold flakes on the back of her neck as she bent down and slammed the rear door. The cab pulled away and left a swirling turmoil of blue-gray exhaust that held the glow from the street light, then drifted low and disappeared in darkness.

She turned up the collar of her new blue raincoat and hurried across West 74th Street, listening to the clack! clack! clack! of her high heels spiking the pavement. She wanted to be warm. Safe. Home. Soon as possible.

There was no one in the lobby or the elevator. She rode up to the third floor, waited patiently for the elevator to go through its yo-yo act to minimize the step up. As the sliding doors hissed open, she strode out into the hall, already fishing in her purse for her key.

As soon as she closed the apartment door behind her, she felt much better. Calmer. And she realized she was very tired. Being stood up was a strain. The hell with you, Andy, you inconsiderate bastard. She'd have a cup of hot chocolate and then read herself to sleep.

She didn't notice them at first. Not until she'd hung her coat in the closet by the door and taken three steps into the living room.

Then her breath became a cold vacuum and she stopped and stood still. Mother of God!

What was going on here? Were they real, sitting so calmly and unmoving on her sofa? Staring at her? Not real, she decided. Not possibly real. An illusion.

She dug her fingers into her palms and laughed nervously, startling herself with the high-pitched rasp that exploded from her constricted throat. When she inhaled she found the air thin and dizzying and felt as if she might suffocate.

The large, tweedy man holding the brown package and the dead cigar said, "Nasty out there, isn't it, dear?" And she knew he was real. Real, too, was the figure next to him on the sofa. Sitting in Hedra's place. Allie Jones.