London from My Windows (11 page)

So much could be glimpsed from these windows. Rows of redbrick flats just like hers. She had lost too much already; she couldn't lose this. This was the closest she had come to living in the past nineteen years. She would find a way to fight for this flat.

Panic began to bubble within her. The little colored dots appeared. If she let this go too far, soon she wouldn't even be able to look out the windows. She had to ground herself, wipe her mind of emotions, replace them with facts. She snatched up her sketch pad and pencil and hurried back to the living room. From here, she had the best view of the streets.

The people and cars below weren't so tiny they looked like toys, but they weren't quite real either. It made it easier to look. Men and women in suits, with briefcases and bulging handbags, strode purposefully down the footpath, heads down, mobiles in hand. Some elderly folks pushed carts, or brooms, or shuffled along. People came in and out of the grocery store directly across the street. So close, yet so far away. Ava's eyes lit on the sign. Sainsbury's. Mothers pushed prams and tried to balance the older kids who clung on to their legs. Bicycles weaved in and out of traffic that moved in fits and starts. Cars lurched; then the drivers slammed on their brakes, and laid on their horns. Double-decker buses lumbered by. She loved their shiny red color, eye-popping even through the gray. Ava wondered if they would let her hop on but never hop off. She began to sketch them all, her hand skating across the page as she tried to take it all in. The next thing she knew, her page was full, and she had to start a new one. She was astonished to discover she could draw the outside with no adverse reactions. There it was, in front of her on the page, and she was okay!

God, this was like being outside without being outside. For a second she wondered if she was cured. Ava had seen a program once where a deaf child had been given a cochlear implant. She watched the moment when the child heard raindrops on the roof for the first time. Saw the astonishment on the child's face. Ava felt like that child. Not hearing for the first time, but being for the first time. Seeing, hearing, almost touching. Existing out and among others. From a safe distance. The best of both worlds. Who needed the telly? She could watch people all day long, and sketch them. After twenty solid minutes staring down at them, it hit her. It might be a cliché, but it was true—people never looked up. She was a shepherd looking down on her flock.

Maybe Beverly was right. Maybe coming here was all she needed. Imagine if in a few days, or a week, she was cured? A whole new person.
Okay, breathe. Don't get too far ahead too fast. Take a break from the windows.
London would be there.

She turned to the walls. So many cool theater posters. Had Beverly been in all these productions?
Les Mis, Cats, Pippin, Mary Poppins, Monty Python
—there were photographs too. Aunt Beverly onstage in all different costumes. She looked like a genuine star. Ava studied the woman in each picture. Beverly was beautiful. Not only in her younger years, where Ava was shocked to see she resembled her, but she'd aged beautifully too.

There was one remarkable difference between Ava and Beverly. Her bright smile. The kind that could light up a room like Ava's father. She looked alive.

And the outfits, oh, the outfits. Each picture sported a new dress. White and tight with sparkles. Red silk. And a variety of little black dresses. Plenty of accessories too. A green felt beret, a chunky blue necklace, a cigarette holder. She didn't just look glamorous; she was glamour. It was as if she had stamped
I AM HERE
in every single picture. Ava had yet to go through Beverly's closets; did any of these outfits still exist? She'd save the discovery until later, relish the anticipation.

Ava would never get to see Aunt Beverly onstage. But Ava knew stage presence when she saw it, and Beverly Wilder had been the real deal. Ava tore herself away from the photos, imagining herself in one of Beverly's outfits, imagined how she would walk, talk, and think, if she were Beverly. She tried to smile. It wasn't natural.

She entered the kitchen and approached the window at the far end. Whereas the living room looked out toward Highgate, this one looked out to the Thames. In front of the window sat the little two-seater table. Sitting in the center were the maps Jasper mentioned. The top one leapt out at her. The London Underground. She hadn't even touched it and she could feel a panic attack coming on. She didn't even want to look at it. People. Underground. Moving about like a colony of ants. She liked a good, dark hiding space as well as the next person, but not when others were down there with her. Dark spaces were supposed to be small enough to hide in, not expansive and unending. Rushing, shoving, breathing the same stale air as everyone else. No thank you. It would ruin her love of small, dark places forever. Who would she be without a sanctuary? She would have nowhere left to run and hide. Never, ever, ever. She wouldn't even open the map. She didn't even want it in the house. Burn it. She would burn it. She picked it up by the edges like it was a dead rat she was being forced to touch.

She found matches in a kitchen drawer. Did Beverly smoke? There were no signs of cigarettes but plenty of melted candles. For all Ava knew, Beverly had weekly séances. She went to the sink and held the tip of the flame to the map. As the fire licked the edges she had to rotate the map to keep from burning herself.
London's burning.
When she was finished she stared at the ashes in the sink. Then she turned the water on high. They didn't so much go down the drain as plaster themselves to the edges of the sink. She washed her hands twelve times and then wiped up the remnants of the map with a paper towel and discarded them in the bin next to the refrigerator.

How many hours had it been since Jasper left? Two? How could she miss him? A man she'd only just met. How was it possible that his absence had already left a void? Ava wasn't used to liking people, let alone missing them. It wasn't a pleasant feeling; it was more like a low-grade ache. How ridiculous to miss a stranger. She must be homesick and she was transferring that onto Jasper.

Ava walked over to the little bar again. It was stocked with glasses and liquor bottles and a bin waiting to be filled with ice. It even had tongs. Beverly liked to entertain.
I wouldn't drink his Scotch.
What did Jasper know? Besides, how was Ava to know if it was Queenie's Scotch or Aunt Beverly's?
Finders, keepers.
Ava poured herself another. She held it up to the windows. The liquid glowed in the setting sun. “Here's to us,” Ava said. Aunt Beverly. Her father. Her mother. And her. “Here's to us.” She drank it in one go. It hit her chest like a gunshot. She choked and sputtered. It was a good kind of pain. Warmth coursed through her. She set the glass down with a plunk. That was enough for one day.

Ava entered Beverly's bedroom and opened the double closet on the far wall. Outfits stretched for miles. Shelves were lined with boxes and accessories. The beautiful bits from the photos, they were all here. Shoes lined the bottom of the closet, in every color and heel. She even had actual nightgowns hanging. Silky ones. Ava touched a pink one, then brought it to her nose and inhaled. It smelled as if it had been dry-cleaned, then never worn again. Ava took her clothes off and left them on the floor of the bedroom. She slipped the nightgown over her head. She wasn't Ava; she was a young actress, a beautiful woman in a negligee and—Ava reached and opened another box. And a green beret. She placed the beret on her head and laughed at her reflection in the mirror. One more. She opened the third box to find a long cigarette holder. She was a beautiful young actress in a rose negligee and green beret, holding an elegant cigarette holder between two fingers, smiling into the eyes of strangers, and declaring to the world:
I am here
.

CHAPTER 11

The next morning Ava was eager to sit by the windows again and sketch. The wonder of observing the city from above trumped the worries that she only had eighty-nine more days to enjoy it. Last night she had come to a decision. She wasn't even going to try to tackle the list. Beverly couldn't manipulate her if she refused to participate. Maybe she would fight it in court, but she didn't even want to think about that. She just wanted to enjoy the eighty-nine days.

Ava made a cup of tea and brought it into the living room. An emerald velvet stool sat in the center of the room. Ava scooted it to the center window. This would be her office. She sat, feet
en pointe,
as if she were a ballerina, her elbows propped on her knees so that she could lean forward, and imagine she was one with the windowpane. Maybe if she gazed out long enough, she would soon feel as if she was an integral part of the scenery, an inanimate object, no blood, no bones, no beats, no breath, no pulse. She was no more or no less than a latch on the window, one that would take considerable force to pry open.

Ava had lost track of what day it was. She was pretty sure it was Tuesday. People were going to work, starting their day. She could almost feel them as they hurried below. The windows opened like shutters. Before she could talk herself out of it Ava unlatched the set in front of her and pushed them open. The air was much warmer than Ava had imagined. Today, the skies were blue and the sun glinted off windows up and down the street. Beneath Ava's window was a tiny ledge. It was only about a foot wide and three feet long. She could sit on the ledge and rest her feet on it. If she dared. Parts of her would actually be outside. In London.

She stuck a foot out on the window ledge. The grates were cold and smooth on her bare foot. She stuck the other out. Her heart rate soared. She wanted to bring them back in; it felt as if she were holding them over hot coals.
Keep them there
.
Your seventy-something-year-old aunt jumped out of a plane after being told she was terminally ill.
Ava could manage to keep her feet out on the little balcony. Or whatever it was. Plant holder most likely. Would she be able to squeeze her entire body out there? Ava was petite, and flexible. She bet she could. She pushed herself out. There was barely room to sit, but she was technically outside. Totally safe, completely removed but still part of everything and everyone below. Her feet joined those on the pavement, as she grasped a shopping bag, hurrying to an exciting destination, answering her mobile, and juggling a dozen things before she had to rush across town to meet her lover for espresso. God, she wished she had an espresso right now. Any one of those Londoners below could right now, if they so desired, get an espresso. They had no idea how lucky they were.

Ava closed her eyes and just sat, feeling the air on her cheeks. Gratitude enveloped her. This was a surprise gift. Ava never imagined her life could have changed so dramatically. She wondered if her father was up there watching her, if he had arranged for this little miracle. No matter what, she was thankful. She sent a little prayer upward, thanking him, and saying hello and thank you to Aunt Beverly. Even if she had concocted that horrendous list.

When her face felt as if it was starting to burn, Ava crawled back inside and spent the rest of the day sketching. She read a few chapters of a murder mystery off Beverly's shelf of books. She noticed how some words were spelled differently over here. “Colour.” “Harbour.” “Rumour.” It appeared as if the Colonists had dropped the
u
along with British taxes.
Take that, England; we don't need
u. She laughed, then looked around as if Jasper were right there to laugh with her.

She made herself a turkey sandwich. And then another one.
Thanks, Queenie.
She would give her mysterious flatmate this: He was an excellent cook. When would he be here? Jasper said a few days. She didn't want a flatmate. This place was way too small. Maybe if she told him he could have the flat in eighty-nine days he would find somewhere else to stay. Seemed like a small price to pay for stealing the flat from her. Why didn't Beverly give him a list too? Not one like Ava's, of course, but a list of things
he
would be terrified to do. Wasn't everyone afraid of something? And even if he was only terrified of one thing then he should be forced to do that thing ten times. Fair was fair. She wouldn't worry about it anymore today. Every second she worried was a second wasted. Ava napped. She showered. She tried on outfits, and shoes, and accessories from Beverly's closet, modeling in front of the bathroom mirror each time, her own private catwalk. She made sure to put everything back where it was. The closet was so pristine she didn't dare leave it any other way. Twice she had an official tea break. She liked the ceremony of it. Picking out a teacup, placing the little bag in the cup, waiting for the kettle to shriek. It gave one something to do. The day passed quickly. That wasn't so bad. She could get used to this life. When night fell, she eagerly resumed her post at the window.

People led such fascinating lives at night.

I see London
. Not France. Not anyone's underpants. Although she saw a few women in short dresses and skirts, so perhaps she could see a few knickers if she cared to. Lights sparkled. Cars blared their horns. High heels clacked on the sidewalk. Voices rose and fell. Ava was almost giddy. A pair of binoculars sat on the shelf in the living room. Would it make her some kind of pervert if she watched people through them? No, she was simply an artist, an observer of life. She picked up the binoculars and set them on her emerald stool. More tools of the trade. She was hungry. She didn't want to eat any more of Queenie's leftovers. She wanted her own food.

She opened the drawer with the takeaway menus. Places that delivered. And everyone delivered. Indian, Chinese, pizza, Greek, sushi even.
Imagine!
Ava had never tried sushi in her life. She'd also never been to high school, or college. Homeschooled, and an online degree from Iowa State University. At least she did have some live discussions with classmates and professors over the computer. She'd also made some friends on Internet chat groups about art and, ironically, travel.
Friends.
Listen to her. She'd never met any of them face-to-face or even video chatted with them. And she never told them she was an agoraphobic. Although once she met Diana she'd made real progress. Diana was eventually successful in getting Ava out of the house. Once a month at least, down the street, and back at first with Diana by her side.

Then once every two weeks, trips to the market, and around the block, and eventually Ava made it to Diana's office every week for her appointments. And finally after a year of this, and a portion of the nest egg from her father's life insurance, Ava was able to move out of the house—God, the Xanax and support that had required. Then came the day she saw an ad online for the police department. A freelance sketch artist. It was like a gift from heaven. Thank God the local police department was still accepting sketches the old-fashioned way. Ava really felt like her father had a hand in that one. Ava glanced back at the menu in her hand. Funny, all the memories that Indian food could stir up in her. What choices. What an incredible city in which to be agoraphobic. She never wanted to leave.

Indian food was one of her father's favorites. She actually made a mean curry if she did say so herself. Money. She needed money to order food. She only had American dollars. Should she call and ask Jasper for help? Where was he now? Having dinner with his ex? At a pub? About to do his stand-up routine? She wondered if he was any good. She hadn't been very nice to him. It wasn't smart to alienate anyone here. Maybe she should call him just to apologize. But first, she had to figure out how to get food.

Maybe Aunt Beverly had some cash somewhere. It was odd, going through her dead aunt's flat looking for pounds. But surely Aunt Beverly would want her to eat? And where were all of Aunt Beverly's family photos? Ava wanted to see baby pictures of her dad. Hell, she wanted to see any pictures of her dad. Either Beverly didn't have any family photos or Ava hadn't discovered her hiding spot.

Maybe she should just have another Scotch instead and worry about eating in the morning. She poured herself a Scotch and went back to her velvet stool. She took the shot, and picked up the binoculars. She maneuvered them over the streets, finally zeroing in on a couple walking arm in arm. The woman was wearing a red dress and heels. The man, a smart gray suit. They were probably going to the theater.

Ava sketched the couple. She guessed that they had been together for a long time. Definitely not a first date. First dates didn't normally link arms, did they? Really, how was Ava to know? But she could imagine.
Come to my house, my sofa, my bed.
She thought of Jasper, imagined him walking toward her as she walked backwards. He would walk her right up against the wall—any London wall would do—and kiss her until she was dizzy. He'd pick her up, carry her around. He'd carry her to every single place on the list. At a bench in Hyde Park he'd lay her down and crush his body on top of hers. She'd say,
I never knew it could be like that
. He'd take her in the Tower of London surrounded by ghosts of past prisoners. His mouth, and hands, and words would distract her on the London Eye so that she wouldn't have to think about the ride; he'd ravish her in the London Underground; they'd ride bareback at Buckingham Palace. They would be dirty at every single tourist spot on the list. By the end of the eighty-nine days he'd march into court with his white wig and burning desire and declare the will unjust. He'd fight for her, do anything to keep her. Queenie wouldn't stand a chance.

Enough!
Thank God nobody could read her perverted mind.
No more fantasizing.
Ava picked up the binoculars and tried to find the couple out on their date. They were gone. She'd missed them. They were on their way to their very real life, while she sat up here, wasting hers on stupid fantasies about men she didn't even know.

After the theater, or the dinner, or the drinks, or the movies, would the couple stroll along the Thames? They were probably meeting other friends. And of course they would go out for drinks. Talk about their jobs, their kids, the play. Not one of them would realize how lucky they were to be out and about. Not one of them would imagine someone like Ava, afraid to go out, worse than a vampire, for she was equally allergic to the moon. Maybe all that Scotch hadn't been such a great idea. Ava was still hungry. She slipped on another nightgown of Bev's and went to bed.

 

Ava had a difficult time falling asleep. Could she still claim jet lag? She glanced at the clock by the bed. Nine p.m.? It was only nine p.m.? She would've sworn it was after midnight. No wonder she couldn't sleep. Had all her dirty thoughts about Jasper screwed up her biorhythms? Funny that she wasn't thinking about Cliff. Her attachment to him had been more of a necessity than a real connection. Jasper had ignited something in her she didn't even know existed. She'd never considered herself oversexed. Suddenly she was consumed by it, bombarded by lust for this total stranger. Seemingly overnight she had transformed into a pervert.

So what? London screamed sex. And sex was a pleasant distraction. Too bad it required another person.

Did it though? Did it really?

Fantasies didn't require another person. Porn didn't require another person. She wasn't going to watch porn. She couldn't. Could she? No, she could not. Why not? Because it was degrading to women. Maybe not to all women. Maybe some porn stars really enjoyed their job. Ava didn't have to be a prude about it. Maybe a little adult entertainment distraction would help her sleep. It was a biological fact that an orgasm was relaxing. She was in London. Nobody would know. She certainly wasn't going to tell anyone, would never send a postcard home:
WATCHING A BRITISH PORNO, WISH YOU WERE HERE.
She could at least see if she could get any porn on Beverly's television. Just for a laugh.

Oh, God, that wasn't cool. Using her dead aunt's cable to watch porn? What kind of a person was she? But Aunt Beverly was outrageous, too, as far as Ava could tell. Aunt Beverly would have probably put it on the list if she had thought of it.
Watch a British porno.
It was research. It was either that or lie here all evening fantasizing about Jasper.

Ava wouldn't watch very much of it; she would just see what she could find on the telly.

Aunt Beverly's television was new. It was HD. There weren't as many channels as Ava had in America, but there were enough. And there it was.
British After Dark
or
BAD
. That was funny. Ava would just have a look. She glanced around. Maybe, even though they were up high, she should put the sheets back on the window. Ava set about the task, hammering as quietly as she could, just in case any nosy downstairs neighbor would wonder why she was hammering again. It was probably impossible that anyone would put hammering together with porn—no pun intended—but they might wonder why she couldn't make up her mind as to where to hang her pictures. Once the sheets were back in place, she turned back to the screen. She pushed the MUTE button just in case her neighbors liked to listen. They could get their own porn.

Just for a laugh, she'd watch a bit. There were so many titles.
A Royal Pain
—how tacky. She wasn't going to watch whatever that was.
London's Coming
.
Piccadilly's Sex Circus
.
Bucking the Ham at the Palace, The Tower of London
. Guess that one worked as is.
Going Down on Abby. Banging Big Ben
. Maybe if she watched that one she could cross Big Ben off the list. Besides, she was only watching the free previews. That didn't really count.
Banging Big Ben,
it was.