Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,85
show Charlotte someday. Then we had our sleepover at his place; then he told me everything I wanted to know. He was supposed to be a professional. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe he wanted out of the “profession.” I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. He told me exactly what I needed.
The sexiest thing—the only sexy thing—about our hookup was knowing that Charlotte had paid this guy a fortune over the years, and all it took was one medium-good old-guy orgasm (and one fake orgasm on my part) for him to tell me the very last thing Charlotte wanted me to know.
I KNEW CHARLOTTE would never answer her phone if I called. Even if she was worried about Rocco, which she probably was, she’d be even more worried about me ruining her life. Telling her husband about Andrew John—and telling everyone that she stole my passport.
She was probably sleeping in late. She and Eli and Daisy got home just before Rocco and I did. Their flight was delayed. I checked their arrival time online.
I decided: I’ll go to her house and confront her. She’ll hand over the passport, if she still has it. If she hasn’t ditched it somewhere. Not that it will do me any good now. I reported it lost in Mexico, and they had to cancel it, so I have to apply for a new one. But I want her to admit it. I want to see how scared she is about what I can tell her husband.
Eli, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your wife stole my passport. Oh, and by the way, your daughter’s not your daughter.
It takes me a while to get dressed, tiptoeing around passed-out Rocco and deciding on my look. Businesslike, no nonsense. I dig out one of the power suits I used to wear to the start-up. I even wear little heels and the fuzzy Prada vest I bought at the resale shop on East 11th.
I take the train to her house. It’s around two when I get there. I ring and ring her doorbell. She knows it’s me, and she isn’t answering. I ring a few more times.
Finally a man walks out of the front door.
My first thought is: How can this greasy creep live in a building where the lofts cost $4 million? Maybe he’s a famous actor who plays the pervy killer on TV crime shows.
He says, “Are you the fucking idiot who’s ringing and ringing? They’re not home, and my mother and I can hear the bell through the ceiling, and it’s driving us nuts.”
He is not an actor. He’s the downstairs neighbor whom Charlotte and Eli feel so superior to and complain about.
“They’re all gone?”
“They left this morning. I saw them from my window. First the bitch, and then her bitch husband with the little girl, off to school.”
“There’s been some kind of mix-up,” I say. “I couldn’t reach Charlotte or Eli, so I decided to show up and—”
“Who the fuck are you?”
I take a deep breath. He’s never seen me, he couldn’t know—
“I’m Daisy’s nanny. Who are you?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I already know.
“I’m Drew. Their downstairs neighbor. How come I never saw you?”
“She hired me two weeks ago,” I say. “Just before they left for Mexico.”
He seems to know they went to Mexico. Maybe Eli told him. My having this information seems to make my story more credible.
It’s as if a voice is telling me what to say. It happens every so often, and I can only step back and admire that force speaking through me. Speaking through the person Naomi has become. Through Ruth.
“I need you to do me a favor.” I look at him in a way that worked on Rocco and even worked on Charlotte’s therapist. A look that works on most men, I’ve discovered.
“What would that favor be?” he says warily.
“I have to pick up Daisy at school. But I’m feeling really sick. I need someone to watch her in case I have some kind of emergency.” I gaze into the beady eyes behind his filthy glasses. I’m improvising now. I’m not sure that I even want him along, except that I know that Charlotte will be really scared if the school tells her that I was with someone fitting Drew’s description. Or if Drew tells her that I asked him to go with me.
“How long will this take?” he asks. As if he’s got