I hung up, trembling slightly from a punch of nerves that was intoxicating.
The movers arrived and I went out for breakfast while they loaded the truck. I googled Martin from the coffee shop. Of course I did. Who wouldn’t? He had a LinkedIn profile that said he owned a private development company—CW Properties International. It linked to a company website with his bio. The website looked slick. It listed a portfolio of developments past, pending, and proposed. Images of his various sales teams around the world. A photo of Martin seated behind a massive glass desk in a voluminous Toronto office with a brilliant view of the city skyline. Contact info. He had no social media profiles. I liked that. It showed professionalism to me. Discretion. I broadened my search to the Cresswell-Smith name in Australia. A link to a story came up about Jeremy Cresswell-Smith. The brother Martin had spoken about—ex–rugby player and son of Malcolm Cresswell-Smith. I had his dad’s name now.
I searched the name Malcolm Cresswell-Smith and followed the links to a company website and also found news stories about shopping malls and other real estate stuff. Then I discovered a business-magazine feature on Malcolm Cresswell-Smith. From the date on the article, it appeared that Malcolm Cresswell-Smith had retired several years ago. He lived with his wife on a horse farm in the Hunter Valley, not far from Sydney. His son, Jeremy, ran the company—Smith and Cresswell Properties—and his daughter, Pauline Rudd, was involved in marketing. She was also on the company board. No mention of Martin.
I sat back and looked out the window. Pedestrians passed by the coffee shop hunkered into coats, with umbrellas pointing into a brisk winter wind filled with sleet. So Martin really had been cut out. Like he’d said.
I felt a twinge of emotion for him.
I dialed his number again. Got the same message.
I left the coffee shop thinking that at least he had my number now from my missed calls. He could phone me. I was sure he would.
But three days later, on Sunday evening, when Dana came by my new apartment to crack open a housewarming bottle of wine, Martin still had not called.
THEN
ELLIE
Just over two years ago, January 13. Vancouver, BC.
“The elevator? You have got to be kidding me.”
I shook my head.
“Crap, Ellie.”
“I know. Most risqué thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
Dana laughed and raised her glass. “Cheers to that!”
We’d opened a second bottle of wine and were sitting on my new balcony in our down jackets under an outdoor heater, our Ugg-covered feet up on the railing. Beyond the deck cover, rain fell softly in the January darkness. I’d told her about meeting Martin, and that I’d googled him, and he looked legit.
“He sounds too good to be true,” she said.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Maybe he is—I mean, too good to be true.”
I gave a shrug. “Might come to nothing anyway. I hate myself for calling, though. I feel cheap. Stupid for thinking he might have actually wanted to hear from me again.” I sipped my wine. “I knew better, it’s just . . . hoping, you know? That there was actually some spark, something special.”
“Hey, you’re doing great. Maybe there’s a valid reason he hasn’t returned your calls, and even if he doesn’t call, just having done this was a big step.”
“You think?”
She pulled a weird mouth, as if she wasn’t so sure. “Uh . . . yeah. I think so.”
We laughed and got happily drunk. We ordered pizza as the night wore on, and just as Dana was about to leave, my phone rang. I froze. My heart hammered. My gaze shot to her.
“Answer it!”
I reached for my phone. Unknown number on caller ID. I cleared my throat. “Hello?”
It went dead.
I stared at the phone. “What the—?”
We waited for a moment, but it didn’t ring again.
After Dana left I sat in the dark for a long time, just fingering the engraved letters in the smooth gold of his cuff link.
He’d be checking out of the hotel tomorrow.
This cuff link was expensive. A personalized accessory. One of a pair. Maybe he was upset he’d lost it. How would it look that I’d kept it? I had to return it. Surely? A normal person without hang-ups would return an expensive piece of jewelry. I’d drop it off at the hotel tomorrow morning. Early. Before he checked out. If I happened to run into him in the lobby, I could say that was why I’d tried to phone him—to return his cuff link.
I felt better already.
THEN
ELLIE
Just over two years ago, January 14. Vancouver, BC.
“Ms. Tyler, good to see you,” said the manager of the Hartley Plaza Hotel as I approached the hotel reception desk in the lobby. I’d taken extra care. Blow-dried my hair. It hung long and shiny down my back, my bangs thick over my eyes. I’d selected a nice cranberry-red wool coat. Boots. Scarf. Black-lace underwear. I told myself the underwear was for me—just to make me feel good. I was not desperate. This was my narrative. I was a woman who wore sexy underwear. I was just returning an item with possible sentimental value to the owner.
“What can we do for you?” He was fawning. I was Sterling Hartley’s daughter. This was his hotel. I was used to this behavior.
“I have something that belongs to one of your guests. I’d like to return it before he checks out.”
“Leave it with me and we’ll see that it gets to—”
“I’d rather hand it to him myself. Can you tell me if he’s still here?”
He hesitated. The two employees behind the check-in desk exchanged a glance. It was against protocol. But I was also Sterling Hartley’s daughter.
“I’ll handle this,” the manager said to one of the employees. He took over her computer station and asked, “What is the guest’s name, Ms. Tyler?”
“Martin,” I said. “Martin Cresswell-Smith.”
He tapped at the keyboard. “No
