Page 17 of The Devil Wears Orange
Once the car is in motion for some time, I pull the sweater away from my face. I look back, but no one follows. The police won’t allow a paparazzi chase through their streets again.
“Pull over, please.”
Jack obliges.
Clumsily, I reach for the door latch and exit, gulping air, and slump against the car. I thrive on chaos and deadlines and near-impossible tasks, but this colossal misunderstanding is too much for me to fix.
“It’s over,” I say. My breath becomes shallow. There’s a pain in my chest like an elephant has decided I’m a good resting spot. I can’t breathe. There’s a warm touch on my shoulder, and a calm voice whispers in my ear.
“I think you’re having a panic attack,” says Jack. “Ride the wave. Don’t fight it. Fighting will make it worse.”
ButI need to fight – for my job, my reputation, my life.
“Look at me.”
His voice draws my eyes to his bespectacled face.
“Ride the wave. Understand?”
There’s something soothing in the steady calmness of his voice, and I give into his control. I stop fighting against my body and abandon all thought, let myself go to ride the wave like I’m on a surfboard, and the ocean is the problem I just conquered. The chest pain subsides. My breathing returns at a regular pace.
“Okay,” I tell Jack, and we get back in the car.
Settled, I scoop up the cell phone that’s charging next to me and dial a number. My breath deepens with every ring.
Someone on the other end picks up, sucks in deeply, and blows out what I know is cigarette smoke. Harriet says, “Hello, Charlotte. What do you need, and where should I meet you?”
Chapter 10
Jack’s inability to penetrateCharlotte’s inky sunglasses unnerves him. How can he read her facial expressions if he can’t see into the windows of her soul? His blazer, which she borrowed, hangs loosely over her shoulders, its collar flipped up below wisps of her hair tucked beneath a headscarf. Earlier, he witnessed Charlotte pull these items from her purse as a disguise from the paparazzi; not that there are any in this little cafe he has brought her to. No one is here at this time of night, and the waiter seemed ready to close before they threw open the door.
Charlotte reapplies lipstick, a small mirror secure in her hand. She smacks her lips, tucks the mirror away, and scoops up the menu. How can she see anything through those sunglasses? She looks like a giant fly poring over the menu, and instantaneously, his mind retrieves a memory from young adulthood. He’s sitting in the TV room watching Cronenberg’s Naked Lunch, theunfilmablefilm that his brother, Richard, made him watch,stoned. Richard had fetched a container of brownies from his room and, though Jack questioned the verity of his brother baking anything, into his mouth the brownie went. It wasn’t long before he realized his mistake.
Charlotte wiggles a finger at the waiter, and he plods over. Jack watches with amusement as she orders, marveling at the changes made to each item for her preference. She’ll have the chef’s selection of cheeses, but no blue. The mushrooms sound lovely, but they would be lovelier cooked with truffle oil. Do they serve side orders of bread? And finally, poached doesn’t mean over-cooked. After, Jack is quite surprised when she turns to him and asks what he will have. He thought she had ordered for him as well.
“Café.” He smiles at their waiter as he passes the menus back.
“I’m curious about something,” says Charlotte once the waiter walks away.
“Yes?”
“Why are you helping me? I don’t know you. I meet you at the police station and here we are in…” Charlotte’s words trail into a whisper, her brows furrow to indicate her thoughts catching up. “Oh,” she says finally. “I understand now. You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m a professor at Oxford. I’ll show you.” Jack pulls out his wallet and opens it to perfectly lined plastic – credit cards, driver’s license, and an assortment of rewards cards. “I have my identification somewhere. Ah, this should do,” he says and holds up his library card.
She snatches the card and flips it front to back and front again, studies it. “Anyone can get a library card from their local university,” she says and returns it.
“Actually, not anyone can. I teach Art History and I have a special interest in following this case... um, for myself.”
Charlotte removes her cell phone from her purse. Staring at it, color fades from her face.
“What is it?” says Jack.
“I can’t access my social media accounts. Or my work email, for that matter.” Her voice softens. “Pierre already had IT yank my access.” Her eyes pounce on Jack, a sudden fire to them that invigorates her. “Do you know what condition the magazine was in when I became its editor-in-chief? It was barely hanging on, draining Papineau Publishing’s resources. Pierre tried to sell it, but no one wanted it. I made it what it is today.” She slinks in her chair and groans. “My dedication to the magazine meant I spent every waking moment working for or planning or thinking about it, about future articles, themes. I chose integrity instead of giving into the advertisers to do the best job possible for their readers, and he repays me by firing me? He didn’t reach out to see if I was all right. He cut the cord just like that.” Charlotte snaps her fingers. “He is such a jerk.”
“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” Jack says and his empathy seems to settle her. “I meant it when I said I can help in some small way. I’m well versed inCapitaineFavreau’s type and know how to deal with him.” He reminds himself not to push. After all, it’s better to have her believe she needs his help. “But, if you don’t need my services, I can return to England...”
“I didn’t say that,” she says. “Besides, you’re all I have. No one’s rushing to my defense. Except my parents, but they’re so far away.”
