“Jeff… Miss me already?” My voice is flat, and I force myself then to make more of an effort. Jeff is my only confidant since our talk in my hotel room and I appreciate him more than he knows.
“Always.” He clears his throat. “Did you see the news?”
“Yes.” I say, pouring myself another glass of wine. It’s the first time I’ve drunk wine in my own bed and I’m almost ashamed to admit I still feel a little naughty about it. It’s about time that I did, because being naked and tipsy under the covers is the only way to numb the emptiness I feel without her. “I watched it this morning.”
“Then switch it back on. The bank we got stuck in front of yesterday…” Jeff pauses for effect. “It was robbed. Just like we thought. And guess what? I’m watching it right now, and we’re on the footage. You’re leaning out of the taxi window and Randy is looking furious in the front. It’s hilarious!”
“Really?” I sit up and switch on the news channel, only to see the very last of it before they move onto a breaking story about a terrorist attack. I’ve been keeping an eye on the news online, curious about the bank incident. “I just missed it. Was anyone hurt?”
“Hurt?” Jeff laughs. “No, the bank was closed when it happened. Why do you sound so worried?”
“No reason.” I try to put on a more casual tone as I continue. “So, what’s the story?”
“Details are still a bit muddled,” Jeff answers. “Apparently, whoever they were, they managed to disabled the alarm, then somehow managed to switch off all the security cameras. No money was stolen, but according to leaked information, a famous piece of jewelry had been taken from one of the safes. The Garamond necklace. It’s made out of pink diamonds and apparently it’s worth somewhere in the region of twelve million.”
“Hmm… never heard of it.”
“Me either, I saw in on Twitter. The owner of the necklace, a multi-media heiress, Tweeted about it. She said she was heartbroken about losing the precious piece of jewelry as it had once belonged to her mother.” Jeff snorts. “She’s worth over three-hundred million so I’m sure she’ll get over it eventually.”
“Yeah. I’m sure she will,” I say absently. “And no one’s been arrested yet?”
“According to the news, no. But you know, investigations tend to be kept quiet for the first few days, so it’s possible.” He falls silent for a moment. “How are you? Bit better than yesterday?”
“Not really,” I say. “But I’ll live. Just not used to feeling so miserable, that’s all.”
“Sorry to hear that. What are you doing?”
“Drinking wine in bed.” I chuckle. “Googling her.”
Jeff laughs off my self-pity. “I thought you didn’t know her name.”
“I don’t.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking alone. Come out with me. It’s only seven, we could get some dinner too. I’ll pick you up in a taxi in an hour, how does that sound?”
I take some time to think about that. Jeff is right. It’s only seven pm and I could do with the distraction because the day seems endless and I know I won’t be able to sleep.
“Sure.” Giving in is probably for the best. “I’ll be ready.”
After I hang up, I take another twenty minutes to continue with my pointless May Ferguson search. I must have gone through over seventy women with the same name when I see someone familiar looking and I hold my breath as I inch closer toward my screen. I click onto her Facebook profile. May Ferguson from Templeville, Maryland, seems like a chirpy lady. Her profile is public, allowing me to see all of it, children and friends included. It’s not the woman who stole my heart; I doubt she’d post pictures of her pet gerbil named Pete, and her collection of fridge magnets, but she looks close enough to pass for her. I narrow my eyes as I pull up another picture. It’s May Ferguson’s official picture for her driver’s license, which she apparently obtained late in life at the age of fifty. She’s asking her family and friends what they think of it and there’s a trail of comments underneath. I shake my head and make a mental note to check if my own profiles are set to private. Poor May Ferguson has been hacked, her identity has been stolen and she probably doesn’t even know it. I have to admit, she’s a smart choice. Not only does she look just like Blake but she doesn’t seem to travel much, and certainly not internationally. It’s unlikely someone would get caught using her identity, if they’re careful.
Still not really any wiser, but feeling smug with my findings, I get out of bed and jump under the shower. As the water trickles down my back, my mind goes back to Blake, slippery and soapy against me. I think of the sounds she made when I made her come while she pulled my mouth tight against her and I take in a quick breath while my hand slides between my legs. Nothing can relieve me from the deep, sexual ache I feel as I recall the memories of those steamy nights and even my own attempts to release myself from my constant craving don’t help much. As I take the showerhead out of its holder and turn up the pressure before aiming the jet between by legs, I know that these are going to be the longest three months of my life.
21
“No flowers yet?” Jeff asks as he sees me lingering in the reception area. I’ve been down here for over three months, every day around eleven am, waiting for my daily delivery.
“No, nothing yet,” I say, hopeful that the flower delivery man may have just had a flat tire, because the alternative—that something has happened to her—is unthinkable. The first bouquet of fifty perfect red roses arrived at the office the day I got back from New York and has been coming every day since. It was so big that I had to borrow a bucket from the janitors to put it in, and keep them on the floor, next to my desk. Co-workers enquired about it, but I told them I had no idea who they were from. There was no sender on the card that simply said: ‘To Emily Evans’. I knew she wanted me to know she hadn’t forgotten about me, and most importantly, she wanted to let me know she was still okay. It gave me hope and got me through the awfully long days without her.
Every day before eleven I worry, and every day after the roses arrive, I feel like I can breathe again. I never thought of her as a hopeless romantic, but I love it. I bring them home with me at night, and now my small apartment is full of them, taking up the table, the kitchen counter, my nightstands, the sideboard in the hallway and even the bathroom. I bathe in them, and sometimes, when I miss her so much that I want to scream, I even sleep with them – the soft sweet petals reminding me of her skin. Instead of continuing to work at night under the bright desk light in my office like I used to, I burn candles and drink a glass of red wine on my balcony with her roses next to me while I indulge in steamy memories. I fantasize about her all the time, about what will happen if we see each other again. What she will do to me. What I will do to her. Her kiss, her touch is on my mind at all times and I often moan softly to myself, even at work. My sex drive is through the roof and I’ve even started dressing differently; sensual, seductive.
People around me have noticed. Anyone I work with can guess it has something to do with the roses, but they’ve stopped enquiring about it as they get nothing from me. I get envious looks from female colleagues and the men are simply intrigued. Although Jeff knows no more than that the flowers are sent by the woman I met in New York, it’s nice to have someone who empathizes with me, and I smile as he pats my shoulder.