Girls, Interupted Ch. 02

Canberra - March 2003

The aroma of brewing coffee woke Camilla the next morning. As she blinked herself into consciousness, she knew a new day had dawned and she felt as relaxed as she had in some time.

Rolling over, she could see that Jeremy had already risen, so she stretched her arms behind her head and reached her toes as far as they could manage. Breathing out, she collapsed in upon herself, hugging the soft doona to her skin and embracing its warmth. Closing her eyes, she breathed in through her nose and held it before letting it out and relaxing.

The sound of the door opening told her that Jeremy had returned and, opening her eyes, she saw he was dressed in his gym clothes and carrying her coffee in a white cup. Sitting down next to her, he handed her the cup and saucer before he spoke.

"Morning," he said. "Sorry to wake you."

"What is the time?" She asked absently.

"7am, I'll head off soon."

Sitting up, she pulled the doona with her to cover her nakedness, but was unfazed by any skin that accidentally showed. The smell of her flat white filled her senses and overwhelmed any lingering scents of the previous evening's activities.

"What time is your flight?" he asked.

Sipping her coffee, Camilla replied, "2pm, but I will have to go to the office first. It is easier if we all leave from the same place in the same cars."

She knew Jeremy was familiar with the rigmarole of VIP travel. They'd both learnt that it was better to be in the company of their superiors when they arrived at the airport than trying to explain their business to another gate guard at the last minute.

"Are you all packed?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'll shower here before I leave, if you don't mind."

"Of course not. Take your time."

She took another sip of coffee. He kissed her and said, "I'll just brush my teeth and go. Have a safe trip."

Nodding, she swallowed her mouthful and thanked him. She watched as he left the room. As he brushed his teeth, she finished her coffee, then slid out of the far side of the bed. Locating her overnight bag, she opened it and pulled out her toiletries and hairdryer. Standing, she carried her bundle to the door of his room before she noticed he was still between her and the bathroom.

Spotting her movement, he spun around to look away before apologising.

"No need to apologise," she said. "I should have checked first."

Dashing to the bathroom, she closed the door behind her and, laying out her possessions on the vanity, she turned on the water and stepped in. The warm torrent had just wet her all over when she remembered. Remembered why she had come over the night before. She still hadn't told him she loved him.

Leaping from the shower as fast as it was safe, Camilla pulled a white towel from the rack and tied it around her. Knotting it in front, she opened the bathroom door and called out to Jeremy. When she heard no reply, she called again as she checked both bedrooms. Unable to find him, she cursed her forgetfulness, grabbed her keys, and dashed out the front door.

It was a risk to leave his apartment in nothing but a towel, but she thought that at this early hour she would likely avoid bumping into someone else. Running down the stairs, she held her towel closed with keys in the same hand while clinging to the handrail with the other. The last thing she wanted was to fall and end up naked, broken or both in the stairwell of her secret lover's apartment block.

When she reached the basement, the carpeted stairs gave way to brushed concrete, which chilled and scratched the soles of her feet. Running, she prepared herself to pull on the heavy fireproof door that opened into the garage. Still clinging to her towel and keys, she wrenched the door open and ran through, hoping that Jeremy was still in the carpark. She turned to her left, toward his car space, and was almost off the curb when she stopped dead in her tracks.

Ten metres in front of her were both Jeremy and his car. But his clothes were strewn about the floor and he was crumpled on the ground. In the florescent light, she could see that he was bloodied and bruised. Worse still, a masked man was moving toward him with clearly menacing intent.

Before she knew what she was doing, she screamed at the top of her lungs, "No!"

The man stopped moving, and turned his head to look around, confused where the sound had come from. A moment later, he saw Camilla. Her appearance perplexed him, and he stood gawking at her, unsure of what to do. Knowing she was no match for him, she screamed again, her cries echoing around the garage.

"Help!"

Knowing he had no time to finish his attack, the man ran toward the nearest emergency exit and disappeared. Camilla rushed to Jeremy's side, kneeling down on the dusty and oily floor. His eyes were closed and there was blood on his face and head. Her heart pounded in her chest, a rhythmic drumbeat of fear and desperation as she knelt beside him, praying for any sign of life. She cried out again.

"Help, please! Somebody please!"

Looking about, she crawled over to Jeremy's discarded clothes and dragged his jacket back. Balling it, she propped it under his head to raise it off the ground. She was of a mind to strip off her towel and use it as a bandage despite her modesty and the cold. Tears welled up in Camilla's eyes, blurring her vision as she gazed at Jeremy's bloodied and bruised form on the cold garage floor. But as she fumbled with the knot, she heard voices behind her.

"What the..? Honey, call an ambulance," a man's voice ordered. He was down by Camilla's side a moment later, asking what had happened.

"A man... he was attacked. He... he ran that way," she stuttered, pointing at the exit.

"Everything will be alright," he said. "Jen, can you stay with her?" The man leapt up and ran toward the exit. A young blonde woman in a suit and a ponytail knelt down beside Camilla, phone to one ear, talking to the emergency operator.

"Yes, that's the address. Someone will meet you at the gate. What? Yes, he's been attacked. Unconscious... I think. No, he's not responding. Okay... yes. Yes, we have."

There were more voices now and crying, too. When the ambulance came, Camilla stood back, not caring that some were more interested in her attire than the man laying bleeding before them. As she looked at Jeremy's motionless body, a whirlwind of regret and guilt swept through her mind. Why hadn't she told him she loved him before now? Would she ever get the chance? Her shoulders slumped, body weighed down by the burden of guilt and anguish as she watched Jeremy's unconscious form lifted into the ambulance.

The blonde woman assured her that everything would be fine just as her male friend returned to say that he couldn't find the attacker. As the maelstrom of activity subsided, Camilla shivered with the cold and the blonde woman insisted she return to her-Jeremy's-apartment. Knowing that she could do no more, she returned to his flat, stepped into the shower and cried. She stood under the water, her body trembling as she tried to wash away the overwhelming sense of guilt and helplessness that clung to her skin.

The next few hours were a blur to her. Trapped in a deception of her own making, she didn't know what to do. She knew she should stay by Jeremy's side, but that would expose their secret affair. She would have to admit that she had been lying to everyone for years. Her career would be finished, and she worried that, at age twenty-seven, she would never work again.

She dressed and collected her things and locked Jeremy's apartment door behind her. Not wanting to return to the basement, she abandoned her car and walked home. When she arrived, she stripped and changed with little memory of how she had even gotten into her apartment. It was as if she was going through her routine unconsciously.

She couldn't concentrate, but she knew she had to decide what to do about the conference that she was because of fly to that afternoon. She was sure that it wasn't without precedent that someone withdrew from these trips at the last moment because of illness or events. But without time to think of a plausible excuse, people would ask questions and right now, she didn't have the strength to lie. She knew that every minute she waited, the decision would become harder to make.

In the end, the choice was made for her. A call from the office told her that the flight had been brought forward. That shouldn't be a problem, she was told, as all the preparations and briefs had already been done. To make matters worse, she was then told that she didn't need to go to the office as a car would now to come to her. She was to meet it downstairs in ten minutes. Before she could raise an objection, the caller had hung up.

In a daze, she mechanically collected her bags that she had packed the night before. Not having time to empty her fridge, she made her way to the main door just as the car pulled up with some of her colleagues already inside. It was only as she sat down that she remembered that the protocol for official trips was business attire. Her gym clothes drew the thinly veiled ire and catty remarks of those already inside. This would be a long trip.

When the plane landed, and she checked into her hotel, Camilla tried calling Jeremy's phone. When it rung out, it sent a shiver down her spine, even though she reasoned that as he was in hospital, it meant nothing.

Why she expected him to be taking calls when he had been assaulted that morning, she couldn't say; more hoped. And rather than met her colleagues in the hotel bar for drinks that night, she stayed in her room and wept. The hotel room, with its plush velvet curtains drawn tightly shut, felt like a cocoon of solitude amidst the bustling city outside.

A week of depression and sleeplessness followed. Each time she called, she got the same result. As the phone rang again, time seemed to slow down as she watched the raindrops streaking slowly down the hotel window, matching the rhythm of her dying heartbeat. When he finally picked up the phone, she sobbed in joy as she heard him speak, even though he was clearly in discomfort.

"You did the right thing," he said. "You couldn't have helped me anymore."

She kept crying, even though she was overwhelmed with relief. "I... I can't wait to see you again," she said.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I'll be home as soon as I can."

"My ribs are pretty bad. So sorry if I don't hug you too tight."

"Shut up," she cried. "I'll never let you go again."

When she returned a week later, he had much improved, but was still showing the scars of his attack. Worse than that, though, he was shaken up and asked if he could spend most of his time at her house. He told her he had been visited by the police and the security services and knew who had attacked him and that they had intended murder.

"I can't say who," he explained. "But if I am right, then they are a very petty, jealous man."

Jeremy told her he thought his best course of action would be to get out of town for a while, which would give him time to rest and recuperate. When she asked where and for how long, he said that he planned to visit South America with his friend Boris. He would stay a few months travelling and learning Spanish. Even though she would miss him while he was gone, she agreed it sounded like a sensible plan.

"I promise to write," he said as she saw him off at the airport.

"You'd better buster," she replied, choking back tears.

"Don't stay. We don't know who will be here." He referred to her work mates that frequented the airport. After everything they had sacrificed, to be discovered now would be foolish. But despite him leaving for the other side of the world, beyond the reach of his assailant, Camilla had a feeling she may never see him again.

It was two weeks before his first letter arrived. He wrote about his experiences living in the Peruvian capital, Lima. He had access to enough modern conveniences to look after himself, but he said his guide was still checking in on him from time to time. Camilla was surprised at her jealousy when he wrote the guide was a woman. She didn't know what passed for beauty in Peru and hoped that it wasn't populated entirely with Amazonian bombshells.

Over the course of the next month, she received more letters detailing his adventures and language training. He wrote he was happy enough, though it could be very lonely not hearing English spoken with any regularity. But that had helped speed up his emersion, and he was happy to report that his Spanish was coming on in leaps and bounds. He wrote he was homesick for the familiar, which gave her hope that he may soon return.

Camilla wrote back to the mailing address he had left and told him that things back in Canberra were much the same as when he left. She checked in on his apartment from time to time, but always in broad daylight, as he had insisted.

When his friend Boris arrived, the letters became more infrequent as they were now touring the countryside. Postcards from various locations would come, but there were only tourist anecdotes and no sweet messages within. She knew he was sending cards to friends and family, but she worried he might just be rewriting the same message to everyone.

The last letter she got was from a town in Peru's south called Arequipa. He said that Boris had left and now he was heading to Uruguay. Messages would become less frequent and he had no return address. But, on the plus side, he said he would cut his trip short and return a month earlier than he originally planned.

Camilla was over the moon at that news, even though she knew he would still be gone for several more weeks. Instead of a call from the airport or another postcard, she guessed she would next see him when he knocked on her door.

And then, nothing. Weeks passed with no message of any sort. After the first week, she thought that the mail was just slow and a letter would turn up the next day. But after two weeks of nothing, she decided it would be another entire week before anything arrived. But that week turned into two and before she knew it, he hadn't contacted her for a month.

With no one else to compare notes to, she didn't know if she had been forgotten or if he had sent nothing at all. She vacillated between anger and despair, despite not knowing if he was ignoring her or if he had been injured or killed.

She began visiting his apartment every day, twice a day, looking for signs of human activity or hoping he would walk through his front door. When there were no signs after the first week, she then only came once a day, then finally just once a week.

He had been gone for seven months, five with no message. That day, Camilla went back to his apartment yet again. As spring was in full bloom, she walked the short distance from her own flat. The day was warm, so she wore only a figure hugging grey t-shirt, skin tight white short-shorts, white tennis shoes and matching ankle socks.

His rent was still paid, and she was paying his utility bills even though he'd not asked her to. Opening the door, she flicked the lights on and walked around in the vain hope he was in a room off the living space. She sighed when there was no sign of life. She opened the windows briefly to let some air in. A gentle breeze wafted through the open window, carrying with it the scent of blooming flowers and the promise of a fresh start. She sighed and closed them again and was about to leave when the front door intercom buzzed.

"Hello," she answered, her heart leaping that he may be downstairs.

A woman's voice replied, crushing her hopes. "Oh, I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number. I was looking for my friend."

The woman sounded disappointed and confused, so Camilla wondered if she could help. After all, she knew the apartment well enough. "What is their name?"

"Holland," the woman replied. "Jeremy Holland."