The Other Side of Sydney

THE OTHER SIDE OF SYDNEY

CHAPTER ONE

The Art of Almost Having It Together

There was a woman in my bedroom.

No. Not my bedroom. That was the peculiar part. I knew the room, though I'd never seen it. Sun across a wooden floor. Open curtains moving in a breeze. Somewhere, music I almost recognized.

She stood behind me. Close enough that I could smell something floral and warm, close enough to feel her hand find mine.

"Do you remember?"

I was turning to look at her when something wet landed on my ear.

Ollie.

I opened my eyes to a schnauzer with a damp beard and the expression of a small landlord collecting overdue rent.

"That's disgusting."

He sneezed.

"Don't make it worse."

The clock said 6:19. My alarm had been going off for two minutes, apparently. I reached for it, missed, knocked my book onto the floor and got a rather offended look from the dog.

For a moment I lay there, trying to find the room again. The sun had been so bright. And the woman--

Nothing. I couldn't see her face, hadn't seen it even in the dream. Just her hand, a low voice, and that strange feeling of being late to a conversation we'd already started.

Ollie planted one paw on my chest.

"Fine. Breakfast. Your concerns have been registered."

He jumped off the bed, nails tapping a triumphant rhythm along the hall.

I stayed another thirty seconds. Maybe a minute. It's hard to say. I was thinking about the woman and also about whether I'd remembered to buy milk, which is a depressing combination of thoughts to have before seven.

• • •

The coffee maker was taking its time. It always did when I needed it most, possibly because I talked to it like an employee whose performance was under review.

"Come on. We both have somewhere to be."

Ollie had finished breakfast and was inspecting his bowl for omissions. Outside, the rain hadn't made up its mind between drizzle and a proper storm. The glass door looked dirty until I remembered it was mostly rain.

I had on an oversized T-shirt and the old gray sleep shorts with the fraying drawstring. The T-shirt once belonged to an ex. Which ex, I'm not sure. That's not romantic. It just means it's an excellent shirt, and nobody remembered to reclaim it.

My phone lit up.

MOM.

I let it ring twice. Three times would have been rude.

"Morning."

"You're awake."

"Apparently."

"Don't start."

"I haven't started anything. I've barely achieved consciousness."

She asked about Sunday dinner. I said yes, as I'd said on Wednesday, and again on Thursday. She said my sister might be bringing a gentleman. My mother says gentleman as if she'll be checking his references and his horse.

"Is he employed?" I asked.

"Sydney."

"Does he have land?"

"Your sister is happy."

"That's lovely. I'm happy for her."

A pause. Then the softer voice.

"Are you happy, sweetheart?"

I watched the first drops fall from the spout of the coffee maker. It was an unfair question before caffeine.

"Yes, Mom."

"All right."

She wasn't convinced. Neither was I entirely, but there was no point making her worry before breakfast too.

When we hung up, I realized I'd poured coffee into Ollie's spare water bowl.

"No," I told him as he approached. "Absolutely not."

I emptied it, rinsed it and got a mug. A proper adult performance, start to finish.

The truth was, life was fine. More than fine. I liked my job. My apartment belonged to me in all the ways that mattered; there were books on the floor and an appalling number of candles, and the couch had a permanent Ollie-shaped depression in one cushion. At forty-two I'd figured out most of the things you're supposed to figure out. I paid my bills. I knew when to stop arguing with customer service. I could tell when a relationship was going nowhere.

Possibly too early, that last one.

I took my coffee to the bedroom before I could think about it properly.

• • •

By eight-twelve I was dressed in black trousers, a cream blouse and the charcoal blazer I wore when I wanted to seem as though I had answers. I usually did, at work.

The blouse refused to sit flat at one button. I adjusted it, took it off, changed bras, and tried again. There. Good enough. Whoever invented women's clothing sizes had never met women.

I brushed my long brunette hair over my shoulders. Caramel highlights that had looked expensive at the salon were doing something unpredictable at the ends. I negotiated them into loose waves. My eyes, hazel-green with those annoying amber flecks people only ever seemed to notice up close, looked sleepier than the rest of me. Concealer helped. Mascara helped more.

I considered a stronger lipstick and put it down. Meetings, not seduction. Though I wasn't sure whom I'd be seducing at nine thirty on a Friday. Daniel, probably, into finally sending me the revised numbers.

The garnet pendant went on last. White gold, deep Bordeaux-red stone. I wore it often enough that the pale spot beneath it was practically permanent. Small diamond studs in the lower piercings, nothing in the second holes. A silver bracelet.

When I bent for my shoes, the little crescent moon above the inside of my left ankle flashed in the mirror. Three stars beside it. I'd had the tattoo for years and still forgot it was there until something caught the light. I'd gotten it at a moment in my life when everything seemed about to begin again.

That hadn't worked quite the way I'd pictured.

My phone buzzed.

CLAIRE: Tonight. Eight. Don't invent a crisis.

ME: Ollie has separation anxiety.

CLAIRE: Ollie has a heated bed and a better diet than either of us.

ME: He's very vulnerable.

CLAIRE: Wear the black dress.

I looked at the screen.

ME: Why?

CLAIRE: Because you bought it. See you there.

I had a feeling. Claire was fond of surprises. The last surprise had been an introductory pottery class where I'd produced something resembling a collapsed ashtray.

"Your auntie Claire is plotting," I told Ollie.

He'd stolen a sock from the laundry basket. He didn't care.

• • •

The receptionist had bought another citrus diffuser. The office lobby smelled like someone had squeezed an orange over a photocopier.

Daniel intercepted me near the elevators, holding two folders, his laptop and a paper cup that was leaning at a dangerous angle.

"Ready for ten?"

"Define ready."

"Confident. Prepared. Thrilled to be there."

"Then no."

"Great. Me neither."

I caught his cup before he dropped it. He didn't even say thank you until we reached our floor.

Work was straightforward, by comparison with the rest of life. A project was late; you identified why. Someone had a problem; you found the missing information. People could argue for forty minutes over a budget line, but by the end there was usually an answer. At least a next step.

The morning meeting ran long. I was correct about a deadline, wrong about a vendor, and had to admit the second part in front of six people. Not my favorite Friday activity. Daniel passed me a sticky note reading YOU OWE ME A COFFEE, which made no sense, as he'd been the one who'd insisted on the vendor.

By three we had approval. I should have been delighted.

Instead I kept remembering the dream.

Not all of it. The voice more than anything. "Do you remember?" A hand in mine. And the sunlit floor. I'd find myself looking out the window at wet gray buildings and expecting, somehow, to see those curtains.

I opened a new spreadsheet and typed the wrong client name into the heading.

"Brilliant," I muttered.

"What's that?" Daniel asked from the doorway.

"Nothing. Just congratulating myself on excellence."

He took the chair across from my desk without asking. "Drinks?"

"Can't. Claire's kidnapping me."

"Send a ransom note. I'll put it through accounts payable."

He left before I could throw a pen at him.

At four forty-six Claire texted again: THE BLACK DRESS. NONNEGOTIABLE.

I typed, Are you setting me up? Then deleted it. I didn't want her to think I was worried about it.

I was worried about it.

• • •

The black dress still had a bit of tissue paper in one sleeve. I'd bought it for a dinner that had been canceled months ago. Not rescheduled. Canceled in that special way where one person understands why and the other is left with a dress.

It fitted. Better than I remembered, actually. Soft neckline, close through the waist, the skirt ending just above my knees. I stood sideways to the mirror and adjusted the seam at my hip.

"Oh, all right."

A little smoky shadow, rosewood lipstick, silver earrings instead of the office studs. Hair loose. The garnet stayed; I wasn't quite prepared to abandon everything familiar. Black heels, floral perfume.

I looked good. I knew it. Then felt ridiculous for thinking it.

Ollie watched me from the bed, one ear folded over.

"I'm going out. With adults."

He yawned.

"Yes, I know. A rare treat."

I crouched to kiss him and got dog hair on my dress. Of course I did.

• • •

The hotel lounge had velvet booths, amber lamps, a pianist and enough dark wood to suggest that someone had spent a great deal of money manufacturing intimacy. Rain turned the windows into smeared gold and silver. Half the people were looking at their phones; the other half pretended they weren't.

Claire waved from a curved booth.

She wasn't alone.

Of course she wasn't.

The other woman turned as I approached. Dark chestnut hair, a beautiful ivory blouse, a jacket cut so cleanly I wanted to know who made it. She looked a few years older than me. Gray-green eyes. Composed. Not cold, exactly.

"Hello, Sydney."

I stopped.

The voice.

I knew that voice. Which was impossible, unless she narrated an audiobook I'd fallen asleep listening to. I searched her face and came up empty. No. Never met her.

"Syd?" Claire said.

"Sorry. I--long day."

The woman stood. "Marianne Vale."

"Sydney Morgan."

"I know."

"Bit alarming."

"Claire told me."

"Oh. Well. Slightly less alarming."

Marianne smiled. It was a good smile, the sort that made you want to see it again, and I was annoyed with myself for noticing.

Claire shifted over to give me room. "You two are going to get along."

"You've seen us exchange about six words."

"Seven," Marianne said.

I looked at her. She lifted her wineglass with a barely visible grin.

I sat down.

Dinner took place in the adjoining restaurant, where the napkins were heavy enough to be used as weapons. We talked about books, travel, dreadful vacations. Claire told the story about the sheep in Scotland. I've heard it four times. Somehow there are more sheep every time. Marianne laughed until she had to set her glass down, and then apologized for laughing, which was charming and entirely unnecessary.

There was a tiny scratch on the back of her hand. I'd been imagining her as some sort of impeccable, mysterious person; the scratch helped. People with scratches bought groceries and caught their sleeves on things. Probably.

She asked what I did. I told her. She asked the sort of follow-up question that proved she'd listened rather than waited for her turn. I found that irritatingly attractive, too.

At one point Claire went to the restroom and Marianne asked whether I believed people could change.

"That's an expensive question," I said. "How much time do you have?"

"All evening."

"Then yes. Of course. Though most people just buy new furniture and call it a fresh start."

"Have you ever done that?"

"I own a sofa I regret, if that's what you're asking."

She laughed, then seemed about to say something else. Didn't.

When Claire returned, Marianne reached for her glass too quickly and tipped a little wine onto the tablecloth.

"Damn."

"Good," I said.

She looked startled.

"I was beginning to think you were perfect. It was making me uncomfortable."

Claire rolled her eyes. "She says that about anyone who can parallel park."

• • •

We were finishing dessert when Claire got a call and stepped into the hall.

Marianne watched her go. Her hand had come to rest on the stem of her glass, but she wasn't drinking.

"I almost didn't come tonight," she said.

"Me too. Claire threatened me."

"I was nervous."

I looked at her. "You hide it well."

"Not especially well, apparently."

She turned the glass one slow circle.

"Can I ask you something strange?"

"Oh, I think we're well past ordinary conversation."

"Have you ever dreamed of a place you've never been?"

I didn't answer immediately. Outside, a taxi drove through a puddle. The splash hit the window hard enough to make someone at the next table turn around.

"Why?"

"Please."

"Yes," I said. "This morning, actually."

Marianne looked as if she hadn't wanted that answer.

"Was the room full of sunlight?"

I put my spoon down.

"Did it have long curtains? And a wooden floor?"

I felt hot, then cold. Really. Like standing too close to an open freezer.

"Who told you about that?"

"Was there someone behind you?"

"Stop."

She did.

I kept waiting for the reasonable explanation. A joke. Claire had arranged a hypnotist. Someone had filmed me talking in my sleep. All ridiculous, but at least possible.

"How do you know what I dreamed?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't remember."

"That is not an answer."

"No. It isn't."

She rubbed her forehead. For one ordinary second she looked tired.

"There's something upstairs. I think you should see it."

I laughed. Couldn't help it. Not because it was funny.

"No."

"I haven't asked--"

"You want me to go to a hotel room. You know private things about me. This isn't an invitation, Marianne. It's a warning sign."

"Fair."

"Fair?"

She took a key card from her bag and placed it on the table. Room 814.

"You'd be alone. I won't follow you. There are some things there--clothes, some jewelry, a photograph. I can't explain them properly."

"Try anyway."

She looked at the card. "I think you'll recognize something."

"You think? Or you know?"

"I don't know anymore."

And there it was again: fear, or something near it, under that expensive composure.

Claire returned while I was deciding whether to walk out.

"Can you give us a minute?" I asked Marianne.

She rose at once. "Of course."

Claire waited for her to move out of earshot. "What happened?"

"Tell me exactly how you know her."

Claire blinked. "The estate situation. You know that."

"Go on."

"A friend connected us. Marianne helped identify some things from my aunt's collection, and she knew the right people for the appraisal. Syd, why?"

I showed her the key card. Told her about the dream. Claire's face changed about halfway through the explanation.

"No. Absolutely not."

"That's what I said."

"Good."

"Then she said there's a photograph upstairs."

Claire stared at me. "And you're considering it?"

"I don't want to. I also don't think I can spend the next six months wondering."

She touched my wrist. "I can come with you."

"No. I'd rather go alone, if I go. But I'll call you. And I want someone to know where I am."

"I already know where you are."

"Then someone sensible."

That got a reluctant smile out of her.

I went to reception. Asked enough questions to make the clerk eye me with professional concern. Yes, 814 was an ordinary suite. Yes, I could leave whenever I liked. No, they couldn't share a guest's private details. I wasn't expecting them to. I checked the elevators, the stairwell, the battery on my phone. I even considered going home.

Then I went back to the table and picked up the card.

"This had better not be some bizarre wellness retreat," I told Marianne.

"It's not."

"You sound disappointed."

She didn't laugh. "Be careful, Sydney."

Wonderful. That helped enormously.

• • •

I texted Claire from the eighth-floor hallway. ROOM 814. NOW. CALL ME IN TWENTY MINUTES.

Her response arrived before I reached the door.

CLAIRE: I hate this.

ME: Noted.

CLAIRE: That was not a joke.

ME: I know.

The key worked.

There was no one inside. I checked. Bedroom, bathroom, wardrobe. I looked behind the connecting door, found it locked, checked that the suite door opened freely and tried not to feel like an actress in a bad thriller.

The sitting room was beautiful, annoyingly so. Cream sofa. Marble fireplace. White flowers. Low music from speakers I couldn't find. Rain ran down windows taller than my apartment ceiling.

On the coffee table, a cream envelope bore my name.

Sydney,

Sometimes the things that surprise us most are not unfamiliar things, but familiar feelings awakened in unexpected ways.

Tonight is not about becoming someone else. It's about seeing yourself without the expectations you've spent years carrying.

Everything here is yours to explore, or to leave untouched. There are no obligations.

Take your time.

-- M

"Subtle," I said to the empty room.

I photographed the note, the room, and the three garment bags on a brass rail near the bed. My hands were steady. That pleased me, although the fact I was congratulating myself for steady hands was probably not a good sign.

The first bag contained a green dress.

Not just green. Emerald silk, the color of old glass when the sun catches it. Narrow straps, a softly draped front, a waist that seemed designed for someone with mine, and a skirt that flowed down in a lovely loose column. I held it against myself and looked in the mirror.

"Okay. That's unfair."

A pair of champagne heels waited beneath it. My size.

The burgundy velvet jacket in the next bag was my size too. So were the black trousers. The third contained an evening gown, one bare shoulder, ridiculously fine workmanship. More shoes lined up underneath. Black patent heels, blue satin pumps, little ankle boots.

I checked the labels.

My size. My size. My size.

All right. Not wonderful.

Claire could have told Marianne about my clothes, I supposed. My shoe size? Maybe. But why would she? I took another photograph. Suddenly I was less interested in the beautiful things than in whoever had ordered them.

A package on the bed held a midnight-blue lace bodysuit, its fine floral pattern stitched over softly structured panels. The blue turned nearly black in the folds. I knew at once it would suit me, which annoyed me. I didn't want whoever had picked it to be right.

The next package contained a black embroidered corset, the sort of thing I'd have stopped to admire in a boutique window and walked past before anyone noticed. Floral threadwork over fine mesh, small gold fastenings, careful shaping at the waist. Beautiful. Rather bold. I picked it up, thought about the mechanics of getting into it, and put it down again.

"Not tonight, thanks."

I looked at the door. Still shut. Still quiet.

I should have left. I know that now, and I knew it then. But curiosity isn't an argument you can win by telling yourself you're being sensible. The green dress waited on its hanger. I'd driven here, checked the room, told Claire where I was. I could try on a dress and leave.

So I did.

The silk was cool going on and warmer a minute later. It skimmed my bust without straining, settled at my waist, then slid over my hips as if someone had stood here with pins and a measuring tape while I wasn't looking. I fastened the champagne heels and took two steps, holding the skirt clear of the floor.

I actually laughed.

Not a ladylike little laugh. A delighted one. The dress was gorgeous. I was gorgeous in it. It would have been nice to have someone tell me so, which was an embarrassing admission even in an empty room.

Then I turned toward the window.

For half a second I expected sunlight. Not the rain-dark city, but a bright wooden floor and curtains moving in a breeze.

I caught the edge of the dressing table.

Nothing happened. The room was still the room. The music was still playing.

I looked at myself again, less delighted this time.

"Enough of that."

I changed out of the dress and hung it carefully. My black dress was waiting on the chair, but I didn't put it on immediately. The blue lace sat on the bed. I touched its edge. Soft. Much softer than it looked.

No one here. No reason to. No reason not to.

I tried it.

The straps needed adjusting, and I made a terrible job of the first one. When I'd sorted them out, I stood before the mirror. It fitted more comfortably than I'd expected. The deep blue looked good against my skin. Its shape was flattering without making me feel like someone had tried to redesign me.

I kept looking.

Not for as long as I later told myself. Probably longer.

I thought about the lingerie I usually wore to work. Reliable. Practical. Beige, frequently. The kind of things you buy six at a time while also picking up toothpaste.

This was different.

I could enjoy it and still be the woman who spent her Friday afternoons arguing over budgets. I didn't know why that felt like a revelation. It shouldn't have.

I changed back into the black dress, folded the bodysuit into its tissue, and closed the box. The corset remained untouched. I was oddly glad of that. One decision of my own among all those things chosen for me.

I went looking for the jewelry.

• • •

The case held earrings, a green-stoned necklace and a fine silver bracelet. Lovely things. Expensive-looking things. I was about to close it when something shifted beneath the velvet lining.

An anklet.

A crescent moon. Three little stars.

I sat on the edge of the bed so suddenly my clutch slid to the floor.

The design was almost identical to my tattoo. Not merely the general idea. The curve of the moon, the positions of the stars. My tattoo was small, on the inside of my left ankle above the bone. Marianne hadn't seen it. Not tonight. Not ever, as far as I knew.

I turned the anklet over. Beside the clasp, someone had engraved two initials.

S. M.

"Oh, come on."

I photographed it with my phone light, then checked the result. Clear enough. I sent Claire a picture.

ME: Does Marianne know about my tattoo?

The typing dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

CLAIRE: Why?

ME: Please answer.

CLAIRE: I didn't tell her about it. Is everything okay?

I stared at the silver chain. There had to be an explanation. An old photo online. Claire misremembering. Somebody I'd forgotten meeting. None of them particularly comforting, but explanations all the same.

ME: I'm leaving soon. Call you.

I fastened the anklet around my left ankle, below the tattoo. It fitted precisely. Which felt less like a gift than somebody proving a point.

I was reaching for my shoes when I noticed a smaller envelope partly hidden beneath the jewelry-case lining.

Inside was a photograph.

Real paper. Thick, with a narrow white border that had gone a little yellow. A room full of sunlight. Long curtains. Polished wood. The exact room I'd dreamed that morning, down to the window hardware.

A woman stood by the window in an emerald dress, her back to the camera. Long brown hair. My height, more or less. My shape. The camera had caught her left ankle, where a small dark crescent and three stars marked the skin.

I looked at the photo until the details began swimming.

No. I had never been there. I had never worn that dress before tonight.

I turned the photograph over.

Do you remember?

Some things are remembered before they happen.

The handwriting was neat, rather old-fashioned. My thumb left a faint smudge on the paper's edge. I suddenly wanted to wash my hands.

I photographed the front. The back. The edge, for no particular reason. Then called Claire.

She answered on the second ring.

"Everything all right?"

"Not really."

"What happened?"

"There's a photograph. I think it's me."

"What do you mean, think?"

"Because it's a room I've never been in. The room from my dream."

I heard a chair scrape at her end. "Syd. Come home."

"Yeah."

"I'm serious."

"I know. I'm coming."

I found one last note on the dressing table, partly beneath the empty jewelry box.

The anklet is yours. You may take the photograph. Please leave the rest.

What a generous offer, I thought, from a woman who'd somehow arranged my own haunting.

I took the photograph and left everything else. The anklet stayed on. I wanted to know how it had been made, and by whom. Also, if I was being honest, I liked it. Those two thoughts were entirely capable of making me feel ill at the same time.

The elevator took forever. In the lobby I looked toward the restaurant, but the lights were down. Marianne was gone.

I'd have been surprised if she hadn't been.

• • •

Ollie greeted me at the apartment door as though I'd returned from military service. I was gone for a few hours, but I appreciated the reception.

"Hello, trouble."

I took off my shoes and bent to scratch behind his ears. He smelled faintly of the lavender shampoo I'd used on Wednesday and whatever he'd been rolling in since.

The apartment looked ordinary. Thank God. One of my books lay facedown on the sofa. I righted it, picked up a sock that had migrated into the hall, and checked the lock without remembering deciding to.

I set the photograph on the coffee table.

The woman still faced the window. The sunlight still came in at the same angle. I opened the photo on my phone and compared them. Same image, as far as I could tell.

I considered driving straight back to the hotel. Asking Marianne what sort of person thought this was acceptable. Then I pictured myself at reception at one in the morning, demanding an explanation about a photograph I'd voluntarily carried out of someone's suite.

Tomorrow.

I'd call Claire tomorrow. We'd talk properly. We might even laugh about some of it. Though I had a feeling Claire wasn't going to find it funny.

I showered, pulled on the oversized T-shirt, and tied my hair back in a way that was supposed to be loose and ended up looking vaguely exhausted. The anklet slid against my skin as I climbed into bed.

I considered removing it.

Didn't.

Outside, the rain resumed. Ollie turned twice on his blanket and settled with a sigh loud enough to imply that I'd caused him personal hardship.

I thought about the green dress, and felt a little thrill of pleasure that I resented under the circumstances. The blue lace. Marianne's tired face across the dinner table. Claire's voice telling me to come home.

Then I remembered the dream again. The woman's hand in mine.

"Do you remember?"

"I don't," I said aloud.

Ollie lifted his head, considered me, and went back to sleep.

I must have drifted off after that.

At 3:14 a. m. I woke with my heart going much too fast.

It took me a second to understand why.

Ollie was growling.

He stood in the bedroom doorway, stiff-legged, facing the dark hall. Not the little grumble he made when I disturbed him. A deep, steady sound I'd heard only once before, when a stranger tried the garden gate.

"Ollie?"

No response.

I reached for my phone. The screen lit the bedsheet blue. 3:14.

Maybe a neighbor. A pipe. A branch tapping against a window. I listened hard enough to hear my own pulse.

Then came three knocks.

Not loud. Not frantic.

Three careful, evenly spaced knocks.

I sat very still.

They hadn't come from the front door.

They hadn't come from outside at all.

They'd come from somewhere inside my apartment.