‘Hi there, sorry, you’re calling about Mel, right?’
‘Um, yes. Melissa Brown. I’m trying to track her down. Is she still working there?’
‘Technically, yes. But she doesn’t work from the office anymore. She’s satellite. Can I ask who’s calling?’
My mind scrambles for a story and bizarrely lands on, ‘Yeah, sure, I’m calling from her dentist’s office. We can’t seem to track her down. We have an unpaid invoice for… $270 that I need to get paid. She has Lefroy Henshaw down as her primary address for some reason.’
The other end of the line is silent for a second. ‘That’s weird. Really? I can email her?’
‘Yeah, I’ve tried emailing, but nothing,’ I add quickly.
‘How odd. She’s usually super on it. Maybe you’re going to junk. I’ll email now from here. She should get that.’
That’s interesting, I think. She must still be answering emails. In which case I definitely don’t need this call flagged to whoever is answering them.
‘Okay,’ I reply, ‘that’d be fantastic. Actually, why don’t I forward you her bill and you can pass that on to her directly too?’
The voice on the end of the line hesitates, clearly not keen on being dragged into a credit control situation. ‘Me? Um, actually, you know what, why don’t I just give you her postal address. What’s your office name again?’
‘Morningside Dental,’ I answer, using the name of a dentist I used shortly after moving to New York.
I hear the tap-tap of a Google search and a grunt of acknowledgement.
‘Oh yeah, I see you, perfect. I’ll give you the address I have listed for her. That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.’
‘That’d be great, thanks,’ I affirm, with the appropriate level of enthusiasm that I assume a dental receptionist might have for this offer.
As I pass a bodega, I grab a chained-up pen and carefully scrawl Melissa’s address and phone number onto the back of my cold hand.
33 Melissa
Thursday 22nd December
Edward has left for work before I’m up the next morning.
I lie in the warmth of the sheets a little longer, pushing my life and the facts of it away for another few more precious minutes before slipping a hand beneath my T-shirt and noticing the gathering swell of my tummy there. Twelve weeks tomorrow.
I force myself from the bed. I have one day left to find the connection between the women on Robert’s list and to work out how I survive what’s coming next.
The address and phone number written on my hand are long gone, safely stored on my phone. The phone number I tried before Edward returned last night was out of service, as I predicted it might be, but I still have the address.
I shove everything I need into my handbag, grab a baseball cap and call down to the doorman for a taxi. I figure I’ll be harder to follow in a car.
As the taxi slips out of the underground pick-up zone, I lower the peak of my cap and scan the sidewalk outside the building; the street is clear. I lower my gaze as we roll away and I don’t look up or behind until we clear a full block.
* * *
Standing in front of Melissa Brown’s apartment building in the winter sun, a knot of nerves forms as I realize the reality of following through with my plan to see if she’s there, alive and well, or if she’s not.
I stare up at the building, its windows glinting in the morning light, before I head along the landscaped garden path to the glazed front door and gingerly press her buzzer. I wait with the warmth of the sun on the back of my neck, the sound of birdsong reaching me from a small park across the street. I press again, almost resigned to the fact I won’t get an answer, when the speaker crackles to life.