ONE
The city of two million people sleeps and as the clock sweeps its 24-hour cycle (two 12-hour cycles in many instances) citizens die, give birth, are abused, wed, laugh, cry, pay homage and divorce.
So, for some life sucks.
As the dawn approached, Linda checked the clock, smiled the smile of a dreamer, and slipped back to sleep without reaching into the bed beside her. She was aware it had been 121 nights since she was not alone.
Almost an hour later, Linda Beckett stirred, pulled out her fingers, dried them on the sheets and switched off the alarm. She stretched, and rose to begin another day of performing like a puppet on a string: Shower, breakfast, off to work, back home by seven, have dinner, write and retire fatigued to the loneliness of her bed.
Linda appeared destined to live within this insensitive and cruel cycle, yet she was aware that she was not alone; other puppeteers were dancing in similar entrapments.
On this new day, October 12, Linda's cycle was broken in an unbelievably simple manner.
As she walked up the steps to the entrance of the building where she'd worked fifteen years as an archivist, she missed her footing, tottered and fell backwards into the arms of a ruggedly handsome man in an executive-class business suit.
"Are you all right, Ma'am/Miss?" he asked anxiously.
Linda nodded. He looked relieved and he helped her sit to catch her breath.
"Good, must fly. Have a meeting to run," and he was gone, merging into the mass shuffling into the 33-floor office building.
Another chance of sidewalk romance gone begging, thought Linda, knowing she should have portrayed the part of a dying swan to keep that handsome executive hovering over her.
"Not wearing sensible shoes, I would suggest," said the voice: male.
Startled, Linda locked eyes with a nondescript man in casual clothes leaning on a walking crutch. He was grinning. She anticipated the pitch: within a minute he'd be asking her for a 'coin of substance' for a life-sustaining breakfast.
Oh well, it takes all types to inhabited the planet. She ferreted five bucks from her handbag and thrust it at the scrounger, avoiding eye contact.
"My fee for licking pussy is fifty bucks, you sucking me without teeth scouring is also fifty and I'll bring you to orgasm conventionally for one hundred; all other variations are negotiable."
Linda knew she had the choice of giving the Crutched One a high decibel dressing down, ignoring him or calling the police to arrest this probable escapee from a home for the criminally insane.
What saved him were his twinkling blue eyes. Her beloved father had had eyes like that, now long extinguished. So she ignored him, sitting for another minute to wait the return of her normal feeling of stability.
Something brushed her sleeve.
"Here," said the Crutched One. "Phone your office to advise you've had an accident at the entrance to your office building, you are reporting in unwell and are off to your attorneys."
"What?"
"Are you deaf?"
"No, but there's nothing wrong with me."
"I know, but if you insist on going into your office I shall not be able to take you to breakfast."
It came out involuntary, obviously linked to a thought but not one that Linda normally would reveal.
"What, to a soup kitchen? I don't think so."
The blue eyes were now really twinkling, and if Linda was an accurate judge of situations this guy annoying her was on the verge of wetting himself.
"Phone your office – and that's an order," he said kindly.
In one of those rare occasions when Linda was not Miss Correct Beckett, she broke free and phoned her office manager, who seemed to panic at the mention of attorneys.
"I'll phone back in due course," said Linda, pressing the End button.
"Thanks. Sorry about you knee," Linda said, pointing the knee brace. "What happen? Trip over a baseball game ticket?"
"Very droll," he smiled. "Actually I fell when playing polo."
"Oh yes, whereabouts? Polo is neither played in this city nor for at least two hundred miles in any direction as far as I'm aware."
"I know. I suffered my mishap in training at the polo school in Mar del Plata in Argentina."
"I'm sorry about that," said Linda, not believing a word. "You are down on your luck so perhaps you will accompany me to breakfast."
"Oh, what a great idea. I'd like that very much. Do you have a place in mind?"
"Antonio's."
Mr Crutched One looked at his watch and frowned. "It will be still rather crowded at this time. Would you mind if we went to Benidictine's?"
Linda had never been there and, looking at Mr Crutched One's clothes, concluded neither had he. This would be fun.
"Come," she said brightly. "I'll flag a cab."
"Don't bother, I have wheels." He pushed two buttons on his phone and called his friend.
Well, concluded Linda, obviously he's not what he seems.
"Let me help you," she offered lightly, trying very had not to sound like Nurse Linda.
"No, I'm fine. Oh, introductions – I'm Philip Bannerman."
"And I'm Linda Beckett. Pleased to meet you."
Philip was lean, tanned and very muscular and looked around thirty, some five years younger than Linda. She would describe herself these days as frumpy, a little over-weight and feeling rather out of step with the rest of the world.
A stretched Mercedes pulled up as they reached the sidewalk.
Oh no, thought Linda. This can't be!
But it was.
"In you hop," said Philip and addressing the driver said, "Ian, pass me my razor please, I think I've found you and interesting lady. She turned down my offer for $100 sex, missionary position."
"Yeah boss, sensible lady. I would have turned you down myself."
Linda's mind was in turmoil. She was thinking about not being at work when she ought to be, insinuating a possible work-related damages action, almost bad-mouthing this apparent 'gentleman' and wondering if her credit card was in her handbag.
Oh, one other thing. Her usual practice was to ignore convention and open her legs on first dates; she thought it was a ridiculous charade to wait until the second or third to perform the inevitable. The trouble with this arrangement was it was not yet 9:00: one didn't normally face ending a casual date with sex after breakfasting.
"Is this a date?" Linda queried.
"What would you like it to be?" countered the voice under the twinkling blue eyes.
Linda looked at his knee brace in disappointment, unaware that her glance and expression had been noted.
"It's you call," she mumbled. "Just a breakfast get-together will suffice."
"I'll arrange a date later," he said firmly.
She avoided looking at him in case miraculously he'd guessed her secret about rewarding companionship.
Linda wasn't surprised that the restaurant day manager was at the door to greet them. A man with a stretched Mercedes from whose tongue rolled the name Benedictine's with casual fluency, would automatically merit a formal welcome.
"Good morning, Charles," said Philip. "This is Miss Beckett, who had a little mishap outside my offices. Could you see that she is attended to properly in the Powder Room."
"Yes Mr Bannerman, please come this way, Ma'am," instructed Charles, waving to a waitress.
Linda was halfway to the Power Room when it hit her: Bannerman, Philip Bannerman, multi-millionaire businessman who'd just married Miss World of recent vintage. He owned the business Linda that employed Linda and although rarely seen would be attending today's special board meeting late this afternoon. Oh, my.
They had a delightful breakfast, both nibbling and downing three cups of coffee.
A lapse occurred in the conversation, and Philip looked at Linda, eyes no longer twinkling.
"You appear to have had a bit of a bum life recently, I sense?"
"Yes, that's true. Lost my partner of eighteen months and although finding a lovely replacement he was gone within six weeks, and since then – 121 nights ago – one side of my bed has been empty."
"You know who I am, yes?"
"I do now."
