Read Online A Stranger Like You by Elizabeth Brundage - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
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tonight.”
“Really? When did you speak to her?”
“This morning.”
The man looked surprised. “You spoke to her this morning?”
“She called my hotel and left a message. We’ve been playing phone tag.”
“That’s one of Hedda’s favorite games. Who are you?”
Hugh considered giving a false name, but then thought better of it. The man looked smart, intuitive; he might sense Hugh was lying. “My name’s Hugh. Hugh Waters.” Saying it aloud felt like an accomplishment and he felt himself blushing. He extended his hand; they shook. The man looked over Hugh’s shoulder at the Mercedes across the street. “I’m from New York. We knew each other a long time ago. I’m here on business.”
“She’s never mentioned you. Not that it matters, there are lots of things she doesn’t tell me.”
“I’m only in town a few days,” Hugh said. “I was having dinner near here with some friends.” He mentioned the name of a Japanese restaurant he had passed on Vermont Avenue, one with a bold neon sign. “I was driving by and saw the lights. I figured I’d give it a shot.”
“She’s not here. I’m waiting for her myself.”
“I’m sorry I missed her.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Tell her I stopped by.” Hugh turned to leave.
“I was just about to have a drink if you want to join me. Maybe she’ll show up.”
“No, I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble.” The man opened the door wider, inviting him in. “Whiskey all right?”
It wasn’t a good idea, but Hugh said, “All right. Sure, why not?” He stepped inside.
“New York, huh? Circa when?”
“Just after college. We worked for the same company,” he said, retrieving the information he’d found on Wikipedia. For a brief period of time Chase had worked in an advertising agency. “Rollins and Beck. It was a long time ago.”
The man led him into the living room. “I seem to remember something about that. What was she like back then?”
“Popular,” Hugh said meaningfully, and smiled.
“She does have that talent for celebrity.”
Hugh nodded and tried to swallow. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“It’s Tom. Tom Foster.” He glanced at Hugh to see if he recognized it.
“Why does that sound familiar?” Hugh said, even though it didn’t.
“I make documentaries.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Used to be interesting. Now it’s complicated and expensive.”
Hugh was suddenly desperate for that drink.
“Hedda calls it my Sullivan’s Travels phase.” He looked at Hugh to see if he understood.
“Preston Sturges,” Hugh said. “He was a genius.”
“I suppose, after three films, it’s no longer a phase.”
The liquor was set up on a little cart. While Tom fixed him a drink, Hugh began to wonder if perhaps it was a trick—he scanned the room, the dark rectangle of her bedroom doorway, but saw nothing, and when Tom turned with the whiskey he smiled at Hugh and the smile seemed genuine. Hugh tried to relax. He took the glass with his left hand, knowing that the presence of his wedding ring might suggest some aspect of normalcy and stability, when in reality it was more a symbol, at least to Hugh, of everything that was wrong in his life.
“Thanks,” Hugh said.
“Cheers.”
Hugh raised his glass in a silent toast and took a sip. The whiskey was bitter; it burned his throat.
“Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Hugh sat down on Chase’s couch, in the same spot where she had lain the night before. It was hard not to picture her there, the way she’d looked after the pills kicked in, totally motionless, her eyes stuck on the ceiling. At one point he had touched her forehead to make sure she was warm, the way you’re supposed to be when you’re alive.
“What are you working on now?”
Tom poured himself a drink and took a seat across from him. “I just finished a film about a shelter in Hollywood. In fact,” he reached into his pocket and produced a postcard,
“Really? When did you speak to her?”
“This morning.”
The man looked surprised. “You spoke to her this morning?”
“She called my hotel and left a message. We’ve been playing phone tag.”
“That’s one of Hedda’s favorite games. Who are you?”
Hugh considered giving a false name, but then thought better of it. The man looked smart, intuitive; he might sense Hugh was lying. “My name’s Hugh. Hugh Waters.” Saying it aloud felt like an accomplishment and he felt himself blushing. He extended his hand; they shook. The man looked over Hugh’s shoulder at the Mercedes across the street. “I’m from New York. We knew each other a long time ago. I’m here on business.”
“She’s never mentioned you. Not that it matters, there are lots of things she doesn’t tell me.”
“I’m only in town a few days,” Hugh said. “I was having dinner near here with some friends.” He mentioned the name of a Japanese restaurant he had passed on Vermont Avenue, one with a bold neon sign. “I was driving by and saw the lights. I figured I’d give it a shot.”
“She’s not here. I’m waiting for her myself.”
“I’m sorry I missed her.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Tell her I stopped by.” Hugh turned to leave.
“I was just about to have a drink if you want to join me. Maybe she’ll show up.”
“No, I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble.” The man opened the door wider, inviting him in. “Whiskey all right?”
It wasn’t a good idea, but Hugh said, “All right. Sure, why not?” He stepped inside.
“New York, huh? Circa when?”
“Just after college. We worked for the same company,” he said, retrieving the information he’d found on Wikipedia. For a brief period of time Chase had worked in an advertising agency. “Rollins and Beck. It was a long time ago.”
The man led him into the living room. “I seem to remember something about that. What was she like back then?”
“Popular,” Hugh said meaningfully, and smiled.
“She does have that talent for celebrity.”
Hugh nodded and tried to swallow. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“It’s Tom. Tom Foster.” He glanced at Hugh to see if he recognized it.
“Why does that sound familiar?” Hugh said, even though it didn’t.
“I make documentaries.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Used to be interesting. Now it’s complicated and expensive.”
Hugh was suddenly desperate for that drink.
“Hedda calls it my Sullivan’s Travels phase.” He looked at Hugh to see if he understood.
“Preston Sturges,” Hugh said. “He was a genius.”
“I suppose, after three films, it’s no longer a phase.”
The liquor was set up on a little cart. While Tom fixed him a drink, Hugh began to wonder if perhaps it was a trick—he scanned the room, the dark rectangle of her bedroom doorway, but saw nothing, and when Tom turned with the whiskey he smiled at Hugh and the smile seemed genuine. Hugh tried to relax. He took the glass with his left hand, knowing that the presence of his wedding ring might suggest some aspect of normalcy and stability, when in reality it was more a symbol, at least to Hugh, of everything that was wrong in his life.
“Thanks,” Hugh said.
“Cheers.”
Hugh raised his glass in a silent toast and took a sip. The whiskey was bitter; it burned his throat.
“Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Hugh sat down on Chase’s couch, in the same spot where she had lain the night before. It was hard not to picture her there, the way she’d looked after the pills kicked in, totally motionless, her eyes stuck on the ceiling. At one point he had touched her forehead to make sure she was warm, the way you’re supposed to be when you’re alive.
“What are you working on now?”
Tom poured himself a drink and took a seat across from him. “I just finished a film about a shelter in Hollywood. In fact,” he reached into his pocket and produced a postcard,
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