5,99 €
It's 1988 and Harvard graduate lawyer Tom Metzler is visiting London for the first time. Although on legal business, he It's 1988 and Harvard graduate lawyer Tom Metzler is visiting London for the first time. Although on legal business, he finds time to visit the Natural History Museum where, among the cornucopia of treasures he witnesses something of preternatural beauty that's to change his life forever the sight of a stunningly beautiful young woman. He's elated when their eyes meet and she fixes him with a winsome smile then deflated when, in an instant and as if by magic, she disappears.By some incredible coincidence, this vision of beauty reappears at Tom's hotel later that evening. Tom's delighted yet bewildered when she addresses him by name without the slightest introduction and even more so when she tells him that he won't be flying home to New York with Pan Am as planned. Instead, she informs him that she's booked him a seat on the TWA morning flight instead as she hands him the ticket together with a new passport in a new name! The following morning, it's as if he's bewitched. Without questioning the strange new arrangement, he dutifully catches the TWA flight home in a trance. It's only when he arrives at his Manhattan office that the enormity of his chance meeting comes to light: no one at all seems to recognise him. It's as if he never existed. And then, to add to his bafflement, one of the staff announces that the Pan Am flight on which hewas to have travelled has crashed over a town called Lockerbie in Scotland. Everyone has died, passengers, crew and many people on the ground.Someone, somehow has saved his life but how? And why? Tom finds the answers when that beautiful young woman materialises once more and explains that she's his guardian angel, sent back to earth in human form as a punishment by the Celestial Tribune! Tom falls deeply and passionately in love with Imogene, for that's her name but physical love is taboo. Nevertheless, he woos and pursues her until finally they make love, the angel falls pregnant and they set in train a rollercoaster ride of romance, intrigue and suspense surrounding a love affair that's forbidden by the Celestial Tribune and by the laws of time itself!"
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 475
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
An Angel’s Kiss
Vincent Cobb
The right of Vincent Cobb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.
No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted
save with the written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the
Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN -978-1907759-29-1
Published by
M-Y Books
www.m-ybooks.co.uk
Front cover and typesetting by David Stockman
davidstockman.co.uk
An Angel’s Kiss
Tom Metzler was at the start of a meteoric rise. A recent Harvard Law School graduate, he had secured a plum position at the law firm of Harrison and Freedman, Lexington Avenue, New York, one of New York’s largest legal firms, which employed upwards of two hundred associates and sixty partners. It was a prized appointment, offered only to the top two members of his class at HLS. At twenty-six, Tom was confident that with hard work and diligence, he was definitely on a fast track to a Partnership.
Tom was not particularly tall or short; he had an average build but was top of his class in the good looks department as well, having been endowed with fair hair and lazy blue eyes, illuminated by his razor sharp intellect. He had an air of arrogance about him that was characteristic of his youth and his educational achievements. His casual business attire characterized him as an up-and-coming legal recruit who could not fail to achieve all his goals. And yet he harbored some deep insecurities within; he felt, at times, very lonely, and the loneliness sometimes undermined his stalwart determination.
There were moments, especially late at night after yet another evening spent in the workaholic stupor of endless work on limitless legal papers, when he longed to enjoy the glittering nightlife he knew was just outside his door. A man with his smarts, his good looks should be socializing with his peers and flirting with the pretty women he regularly noticed instead of being shut in for more than twelve hours a day, sometimes seven days a week, living up to his professional expectations.
His work exhausted him. He typically staggered out of the law offices each night with just about enough energy to eat before stumbling into bed in a state of near collapse. On the occasions when he did manage to take the time to interact with the females who attracted his eye, he was too weary to act on his desires. There had been a woman with whom he nearly had a relationship. One of the legal assistants, a singularly lovely young woman, asked him out to dinner one night, and Tom was certainly tempted. However, his fumbling attempts to liaise with her had ended in a disastrous jumble of inarticulate evasions and now he was fast developing a reputation for being no more than a legal drone at the office. Smarting from the encounter and embarrassed by his lack of social skills, Tom had shrugged philosophically and immersed himself further in his work.
But here he was, alone in the City of London with time on his hands. His mission was almost accomplished. And a simple mission it was at that. More a thank you gift, really, from his bosses for his commitment to the firm.
Tom had come to London to deliver a legal brief and an affidavit needed at the Justices’ Temple for an international fraud trial pending at the Old Bailey. Hand delivery was not unusual for such high profile cases, even though it was 1988; some papers were just too valuable to be consigned to any postal service. In this case one of the defendants was an American citizen and the affidavit with which Tom was entrusted confirmed that this defendant had previously been involved in a similar scandal in the US. Art Neston, one of the senior litigation partners at Harrison and Freedman had specifically chosen Tom for the task, and the young man was determined to be as efficient as possible.
In addition to the thrill of being singled out for an assignment by a man he respected, Tom was thoroughly enjoying his first time in England. The chambers in London covered all his expenses and had flown him in first class with its free champagne and in-flight entertainment and put him up at the swanky Park Lane Hotel. Delighted to be in London, he had crammed as much sightseeing into his short stay as he could, visiting galleries and museums and seeing streets and buildings that he recognized from books and movies. And what a glorious time it was to be in London. Every shop in town was ablaze with the colorful lights of the holiday season, enticing shoppers to come in from the cold, grey streets to spend money, and Tom was happy to oblige. His sole disappointment was that he had no one with whom to share the experience.
Briskly striding through narrow streets on his way to make his delivery, Tom had to concentrate. The street signs and building numbers were difficult for an American to interpret and he needed to identify which of the old buildings corresponded to the address on the envelopes he carried. The Temples, off Fleet Street, were in a maze of what appeared to be derelict properties that looked like they dated back to before the Great Fire of London; they were ancient, leaning towers with narrow staircases that led to antiquated offices where some of the best legal brains in the UK did their work. Finally locating the office he sought, Tom accepted the notarized receipt from the duty solicitor and then met with the prosecution’s Chief Counsel, who consigned the document to his own sealed briefcase.
Regretful that his duties were now complete but determined to visit London again one day, Tom looked over the itinerary for his return to New York at six the following evening on the Pan American Airways flight out of Heathrow Airport. The realization that he had the morning to recover and the remainder of the day to spend as he wished lifted his spirits.
Fighting the temptation to spend the afternoon lying in bed, resting before the journey, Tom decided to visit the Natural History Museum in South Kensington, where archaeological artifacts and fossils from the Jurassic period were on display. He grabbed a taxi from opposite the Queen’s Bench Division, stopping to drop his briefcase off at his hotel along the way.
The Natural History Museum was fairly quiet that afternoon – it was a mid-week day close to Christmas and the constant threat of a heavy downpour ensured that few visitors had ventured into the museum. The intermittent pelting rain inspired Tom to wonder if there might be snow in New York this week.
Curiously, Tom realized that there was a woman in the museum who appeared to be eyeing him with a discomfiting intensity. She wore a skirt that fell just below her knees, a beige cashmere polo sweater and a tailored jacket that highlighted her slender waist. Glancing at her, he could see that her classic clothes belied her youth; she was about his own age. Another covert look confirmed that she was spectacularly beautiful, with penetrating eyes that seemed to change color as he tried to look away from them. His eyes were drawn to her again and again, but he was too shy at first to meet her eyes, which were still watching him closely. When they finally did make eye contact, she appeared to undress him in her mind. Had he been asked to describe her, he would have been confused because there was nothing he could really identify; he wasn’t even sure whether she was brunette or blonde. All he did know was that her steady gaze was dazzling and her beauty took his breath away.
He glanced down again, flushing slightly. Trying to conceal his interest, he swiftly moved on through the exhibition, but the beautiful stranger persistently followed him from to room. Confused, he was on the point of either confronting her defensively or asking her out when she disappeared, almost as if she had suddenly become invisible. He shook his head, a little disappointedly, and continued with his visit, but the experience with the beautiful stranger left him unsettled.
Tom was a typical product of his social background. His family had sculpted his whole life in their own image since his early days at a private prep school. Both his father and his grandfather were senior partners in one of the largest law firms in New York and his indisputable destiny was to follow in their paternal footsteps. The family prided itself on logic and clear thinking and this made it unimaginable to Tom that he might become involved in a random romance, even with someone who was so mystically alluring. Shaking his head, Tom decided he would forget the beautiful stranger, return to the hotel, have an early dinner and perhaps explore the city’s nightlife. He jumped into a taxi just before the heavens opened up and the rain began to drum heavily on the roof of the car.
He was still shaking his head after he had returned to his room and taken a shower. Though he kept telling himself to forget the incident, he couldn’t help speculating. What on earth could the woman want from him? This was his first time in London, so it wasn’t as though she recognized him, was it? Or could she perhaps know him from Freedman’s? He didn’t think so, particularly as he had only recently joined the firm and hardly knew anybody there. Anyway, he told himself, he was hardly likely to forget someone as stunning as she. Towel drying his blond hair and splashing on his favorite CK Oneaftershave, he swiftly dressed in beige chinos, a striped shirt and loafers before he abruptly turned off the Christmas songs merrily blasting from the radio and left his room.
It was still too early to dine, so he sat at the bar with a cocktail and wondered which of the shows he should take in. The Phantom of the Operahad got good reviews and had just opened on Broadway as well as the West End; but the West End was where it originated, so he considered that he should see it here on this side of the pond. There were some great movies playing too – he hadn’t found time to see Rain Man, which everyone was still raving about, and he knew its run would be over in the theatres back home, so he thought that the cinema might be a better choice. He picked up a nearby Evening Standardand scanned the entertainment pages for other inspiration, but just then a woman caught his eye. Shocked, he looked again, and he realized for sure it was the same woman who had scrutinized him so intensely in the museum.
She was sitting a few stools away from him, nursing a glass of champagne and half-smiling as if they were acquainted. She had changed and now wore a satin evening dress that caressed her feminine curves. Glossy hair piled on top of her head, the soft tendrils framing her delicate face, and her ad-perfect make-up gave her the look of royalty preparing for a semi-formal theater night. From time to time she brushed away a lock of her hair that fell in front of her eyes in a distinctive mannerism that he already knew was wholly her own. Moving closer, he recognized the distinctive aroma of sweet roses he had smelt earlier; it seemed to emanate from within her body.
”Do I know you?” he inquired in a polite though tremulous voice. “Because you seem to know me somehow.”
”Sure I do. You’re Tom Metzler – from New York,” the strange woman replied nonchalantly.
He frowned. This was becoming quite bizarre.
”You’ve lost me. Have we met somewhere – New York, perhaps? Do you know Freedman’s? Big law firm on Lexington Avenue?”
Still smiling gently, the young woman said nothing but soundlessly opened her purse, took out what seemed to be travel documents and handed them across to him.
”These are your revised flight arrangements for tomorrow, Tom. I’ve booked you on the TWA Flight for New York departing at eleven in the morning. You need to be there by nine-thirty. You will also find a pseudonym on the ticket, together with a passport in that name for when you arrive in New York.”
Tom took the papers from her and viewed her with dismay.
”I don’t get it,” he said, surprised. “What’s this all about? I remember you from the museum – did you follow me? Look, I have no idea who you are, so how do you know me? Why would I take travel documents from you? Documents for a flight I have no intention of catching, under an unfamiliar name – with a false passport. What’s going on?”
In response, she leaned over to him, placed a hand on his arm and, in a soft voice, whispered, “I can’t give you an explanation, not just yet anyway. You have your ticket, you have your passport, you willcatch the TWA flight as arranged and everything will be revealed to you when you arrive in New York. In the meantime, please give me your Pan Am ticket and your passport.”
”But... who are you?’ he stammered while at the same time unhesitatingly doing as she had commanded. It surprised him even more to discover that he had the documents with him; he was sure he had left them in his room.
”You don’t need to know who I am. Just make the flight.”
In a state of shock, Tom checked the ticket she had given him and saw it was in First Class, under the name of a Thomas Heaton. Puzzled, he opened the well-worn passport; it was in the same name as the ticket, and an unfamiliar face stared out at him. The passport seemed valid enough, but he doubted he would pass inspection at immigration in New York, given the strange likeness in the photograph. Ready to question the obvious, he was shocked to see that once again she had mysteriously vanished.
”What the hell is all this about?” he puzzled aloud, as his mind struggled to make sense of everything. A stunningly beautiful stranger spots him in a London Museum, then follows him back to the hotel and delivers a first class TWA ticket for a morning flight to New York tomorrow under a false name, and she offers no explanation. Whichever way he explained it to himself, it was ridiculous. How could she know his name? He didn’t know anyone in London, other than the counsel at the Chambers – she must have some connection with his firm in New York. But that didn’t explain why she had changed his Pan Am flight to an early morning departure with another airline. Finally, just how was he supposed to get home with a pseudonym and false papers?
In desperation he considered contacting Art Neston at Freedman’s to ask if he had something to do with it, but it was too late – Neston must certainly have left for the day, was probably long since asleep for the night, in fact, judging by the time on his wristwatch. Suddenly inspired, he went to Reception and asked the desk clerk to call Pan Am, desperate for a stranger to confirm that the strange woman had not actually deleted him from their manifest for tomorrow’s departure. She hadn’t. The desk clerk smilingly reassured him that there was a reservation in his name: “It’s here, sir. ‘Thomas Metzler, in First Class’.”
He was momentarily relieved but gasped as he realized that he no longer had a valid ticket for that flight or a passport in his own name.
Muttering his thanks to the now confused receptionist, he crossed the lobby to the lift – funny how you got into the habit of calling things by their English names when you’re in London, he mused – and escaped to his room. He needed to think about this. He took a bottle of Scotch from the minibar and rifled through his paperwork, only to discover that his itinerary had been altered. The schedule prepared by the firm’s travel agent had been changed. The original plan had been whitened out and typed over with instructions that he should return on TWA in the morning under the name of someone called Thomas Heaton. He shook his head. Could he possibly have made a mistake? Or had he dreamt everything that had happened to him?
He lay down on the bed to try to rationalize what was obviously insane. First the beautiful stranger had appeared as though from nowhere, she had greeted him by name and had demanded his travel documentation, which, for reasons he could not discern, he had handed over to her. Then, without giving any reason, she had said that his plans were changed, that he would now be traveling on the TWA flight in the morning. After that she had disappeared. Tom ran it over and over in his head, like a looping film, but no matter how many he times he replayed the scene, he could make no sense of it at all.
The next thing he heard was the 7am wake-up call. Wresting himself grudgingly from sleep, the taste of stale alcohol souring his breath, Tom scowled. He couldn’t remember requesting an early morning call. He struggled out of bed, still trying to come to terms with the dramatic circumstances that had literally overtaken him. He undressed quickly, took a shower, mechanically packed his bag, and checked out of the hotel. Out on the curb, he stepped into a waiting cab, which he hadn’t ordered, and directed the driver to take him to the airport. He was sure he was still in a dream. He vaguely remembered that he hadn’t eaten the previous night, but it somehow didn’t seem important.
He remained in his befuddled state as he checked-in at Heathrow; no one questioned his alias, either on the ticket or in his passport, and he easily boarded the TWA plane. For some reason, which he didn’t try to fathom, he felt a sense of intense loneliness this morning, almost as though he had encountered a missing part of himself, only to find that it had suddenly been withdrawn.
A few moments after take-off, he closed his eyes and concentrated on forgetting the circumstances that had led him to this moment; he pushed his confusion, his headache, even his loneliness, to the back of his mind and entered a dark unconsciousness until the captain’s voice announced that the airplane was beginning its descent into John F. Kennedy Airport. No one had disturbed him during the long journey. No one had offered him a drink, and no one had made any mention of food. It was almost as though he were a ghost.
He disembarked just before noon Eastern Standard Time and caught a cab into midtown Manhattan; he was still bewildered by the rapidity of events that had happened to him. He was even more bewildered by having cleared immigration without being even casually questioned. He remembered rubbing his face with his hands as the Customs official checked his documentation and welcomed him to New York without a second glance.
When he arrived at Freedman’s sometime after 2pm everyone appeared to ignore him; Mr Neston’s secretary seemed to look right through him. Then he realized he had misplaced his briefcase with the receipted affidavit in it.
”Are you surprised to see me?” he asked Jenny the receptionist.
He finally caught her eye.
”How can I help you sir? Do I know you?” she inquired.
Tom was stunned by the question. He was about to reply when one of the other secretaries came rushing into the office, her face drained of color.
”Have you heard?” She said in a hysterical voice. “1010WINS is reporting that Pan Am flight 103 from London just exploded somewhere over Scotland! They don’t know what caused it yet, but they think it might have been a bomb.”
”Jesus!” Jenny exclaimed. “Tom Metzler was on that flight! Did anyone... I mean, are there any survivors?”
Tom sank heavily into the seat next to Jenny’s desk, overcome by shock as the news hit him. The conversation between the two secretaries seemed to blur into a random clutter of white noise; they were obviously discussing the accident, but he was unable to take it in. He felt himself trembling; his hands began to shake and he felt overwhelmed with a sudden nausea. Needing the toilet quickly, he rose from the chair and dashed out of the room.
Retching violently, he thought he might swoon as unspeakable thoughts swam in his head. Pan Am Flight 103 was supposed to be his return flight from London, but somehow the mysterious woman had changed his itinerary to and earlier TWA flight. He threw up again into the toilet. Whatever had happened to him – the bizarre change of flights, the new passport – it all seemed to be a destiny shaped by an ethereal woman’s intervention. He should be dead.
He stayed in the bathroom for some time, leaning his burning forehead against the cool white tiles, desperately trying to reconcile himself with his escape from the tragedy. Still shaking, he straightened up. There was no way he could go back into the office and confront the secretaries. His head hadn’t yet cleared from the incidents in London and now he was being forced to confront something so weird that he could find no reasonable explanation. Why had it happened? That was the only word that came to him. Why? Why? Why?
It was beginning to sleet when he left the office: spots of rain with snow mixed in. There would probably be a messy mix with snow later that night. Trudging back to his apartment through the cold dampness without an overcoat, his thoughts continued to spin. There is absolutely nothing special about me, he thought and then he said aloud to no one, “I mean if I was some kind of a mathematical genius I could understand it. But a rookie lawyer? Who the hell would want to save a lawyer?”
Tom lived in an eastside studio walk-up on Sixty-Fifth Street; a single room made smaller by the typical New York closet of a kitchen and an odd-shaped bathroom with an old claw-bottomed tub that took up so much room there was not even space enough for a clothes hamper. It was cheap enough that he could afford it on his entry-level salary and close enough to his law firm’s offices that he could walk to work.
He fumbled with the lock for an agonizingly long moment, then climbed the five flights to his apartment and struggled with all three locks on that door. Once in, he staggered across the room and flung himself onto his waterbed, too weak to consider that he hadn’t eaten anything for more than twenty-four hours. Groping around on the floor under his bed, his hand found a half-consumed bottle of whisky, and he swiftly removed the screw top and drank a few mouthfuls of the burning liquor. Better to let the mystery disappear in a wave of alcohol, he decided, than to attempt interpretation. In any event, there was no one he could ask for help.
An Angel’s Kiss
”We’re missing a soul.”
”How do you mean? We can’t lose a soul.”
”I’m telling you. We’re one short from the accident. We should have two hundred and fifty-eight souls on board, plus eleven who died on the ground. And we have one missing. Check it yourself.”
”No, I’ll take your word for it. So, how could this one have just disappeared?”
”It’s that Imogene. I bet she was involved in it somehow. I’ll check the list again and see if I can find the name of the missing soul.”
”But why would Imogene be involved? I mean, what’s she got to do with the Pan Am accident?”
”Nothing. Other than to anticipate the event; one of her charges was on board. She was instructed to monitor the departure of the soul, nothing more. But she’s done this before, you know. Avoided what should have been a tragic accident. And you know what happened in that circumstance?”
”Yeah, I remember. Thanks to her we now have to watch that man throughout his lifetime in case a time-paradox occurs. I don’t want to get involved in that again!”
”Well, if I’m right and it’s her again, I’ll make sure that it’s she who’s required to do the monitoring this time. She’s not going to get away with it again.”
”I bet she thought she could play the same trick on us… You know, allow it to happen and then leave the disasters for us to sort out. Have you checked the name yet?”
”Yes. He’s American... a twenty-six-year-old American. She changed his flight details... moved him off the Pan Am flight and onto an earlier one on the same day.”
”What’s his name?”
”Mr Tom Metzler; young lawyer from New York. Only now his name’s Heaton – Tom Heaton.”
”Is he Jewish?”
”How do I know? And what difference would it make if he were?”
”Well, I just thought she might have picked him out to lay some blame on him... that’s what she did the last time.”
”Even if she did, it’s not going to work. This time we’ll be ready for her...”
Imogene was suddenly aware of a feeling of trepidation. She knew she had done wrong in deciding the American was too young to die – especially in the horrifying circumstances of a mid-air disaster. But something told her that this time she wasn’t going to be able to walk away from it and leave the clean-up to the other angels.
”Why did you do it?” she was asked.
”Because I thought he was too young” she replied. “I’ve watched over him since birth and he’s grown up to be a really nice guy. He recently graduated from Harvard Law School, his life was just beginning and I thought it was wrong to deny him the opportunity of such a bright, happy future. So I changed his name and his flight arrangements.”
”And who gave you the right to decide who should live and who should survive? Was it your right to challenge a destiny sanctioned from above?”
There was no inquiry in the question; it was simply a statement of fact.
”Well, no one. But I thought we all had free will. You know, the right make up our own minds.”
”You’re confusing yourself with humans, Imogene. Free will is a human illusion. We know that we’re subject to the rules of Fate. You do not have the right to determine whose lives should be extended simply because you feel some sympathy for them. Once again, you’ve created a mess and this time we’re passing the responsibility on to you.”
”You can’t do that! You don’t have the authority!”
”We do now. Permission has been granted to commission you with responsibility to ensure that this Tom Metzler, or Heaton as you’ve renamed him, does not commit a paradox from now to the end of his lifetime and…”
”How am I going to be able to supervise that?’ she interrupted. “I mean, I’ll need some help… he might live for years.”
”That’s your problem, Imogene. You should have thought of that before you intervened. Now you’ll be compelled to take human form in order to discharge your responsibilities in the right and proper manner.”
”And bear in mind that we will be supervising you constantly. Should a time paradox occur; should we have to rearrange historical consequences, you’ll be held to account. I do not envy you.”
Oh shit! Now what had she done? It wasn’t only that she would have to exist in New York, a place she hated, but, worse, she would have to temporarily adopt a human form and spend every minute of every day ensuring that her protégé did not commit any act that he could not have committed once he was dead. How the hell would she manage in human form? All that suffering, the anguish, the stress… Dear God, how on Earth would she survive?
But, apparently, there was nothing she could do about it; the Powers That Be had determined the transaction and here she was compelled to take a human form.
An Angel’s Kiss
Tom emerged from a nightmare, his head throbbing with the dehydrating effect of the alcohol, still believing he was ensconced in London, expecting to check out of his hotel to catch the Pan Am flight to New York.
He looked around him, unable to believe at first where he was. In the mirror, his face was horrifying; the reflection peering back at him had changed in subtle ways so that it was nearly unrecognizable. He checked again.
His soft, round baby face had thinned and aged somewhat; his jaw line had squared and his cheekbones jutted from under his eyes. Looking into that mirror, Tom felt as though he were meeting a stranger for the first time. His thin, fair hair had changed color and was now dark, thick and unruly, desperately in need of a good combing. Even his eyes were unfamiliar, the watery blue having been replaced by deep brown. The self-confident smile that usually lurked at the corners of his mouth had also disappeared; in its place was a solemn gaze that might be interpreted as sadness. He shuddered at the reflection and stared at it as though it might simply vanish and he would see his old self again. But the face remained, the same face he had seen in the phony passport. How could this be possible? He shook his head in frustration, deprived of words to express his tumultuous feelings.
He began to worry. What would become of him? Looking like this, how would he be able to go to work? Then he realized that this was why the secretaries hadn’t recognized him the day before; to them he was just a stranger.
What he did know was that he was undeniably alive. The enigmatic alien, whoever she was, had accomplished that for him. But he wasn’t happy with the way she had altered his appearance. He sat on the bed, traumatized by his bizarre experience; he searched through his nightstand for a bottle of aspirin he knew was in there someplace.
He trudged down the stairs to his mailbox to check if he’d got any mail; he was expecting a letter from his parents, but nothing was there. When he returned to the apartment, he found a note on the floor just inside the door with his name on it. Momentarily forgetting his pounding head, he bent over to grab it.
It smelled faintly of roses, wild roses, and when he opened it, he read, Meet me at the Melody Diner on Sixty-Fourth and Third in one hour. I will explain everything to you then. Please don’t be late. Imogene.
Who is Imogene?he asked himself, seeing that under her name she had noted a time that was only a few minutes before. How did it get here without his seeing it arrive? He had only been out of the apartment for a few moments. Could Imogene be the woman from London? The stranger who had changed his travel arrangements? If so, he had to see her.
Dashing down the stairs and out into the cold morning air, Tom looked down at himself, dismayed to find, as he left his apartment, that he hadn’t thought to shower or change. His clothes, chosen in London, looked suitably crumpled and blended into the gray morning; he felt impervious to the slush splashing at him from the sidewalk. On the way to the coffee shop, he picked up a Daily Newsand saw the headline: FIRE IN THE SKY - Pan Am Explosion over Lockerbie: No Survivors.
Shocked to the core, Tom was again hit with the stark realization that he had somehow cheated his fate. Perhaps Imogene was the key; if she was the beautiful stranger, she was the only link he had with his previous existence, and he couldn’t wait to see her again.
Entering the nearly deserted diner, Tom spotted the woman immediately. Sitting alone in a dimly lit mirrored corner, her silky hair glistened in a shaft of early morning sunshine emanating from the glass doorway that opened into the street. She was dressed warmly, a cashmere coat thrown untidily over the back of her seat and knee length black leather boots covering the shapely thighs of her alluringly crossed legs. She seemed different from the woman he had met in the museum; beautiful without a doubt, but less ethereal and more human than he remembered. Her hair seemed to be silkier, as though she had just blown it dry, but her eyes had the same penetrating look as she met his eyes. He sat down heavily beside her and, without breaking her gaze, passed her the newspaper.
”Are you having coffee?” she asked in a sympathetic tone, brushing aside a lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes. Mesmerized by so feminine a mannerism, he lost his concentration for a moment, “What? Oh yeah. Sure.” He ordered and sweetened a cappuccino then returned to the table.
”So, since you know who I am,” he said dryly, “why don’t you introduce yourself?”
She held out a slender hand.
”Imogene. My name’s Imogene. We met in London yesterday.” Her hand was warm to the touch and it sent an electric current along Tom’s arm.
”You changed my travel arrangements, you changed my name, you changed my looks – are you going to tell me why? I mean, I should be dead, shouldn’t I?” Tom flushed with emotion as he stumbled over the words.
”Coffee first, and then we can take a walk. Perhaps we can take a cab to Central Park? I’ve heard it’s quite lovely there, especially now that it’s snowing lightly. I promise I’ll explain everything to you eventually.” Imogene smiled gently but firmly, ignoring Tom’s impassioned questions. Leaning across the table she placed her left index finger on his lips, which effectively silenced Tom. It was almost as if he couldn’t speak, and he realized that this amazingly beautiful young woman was having a devastating affect on him.
Still silent, he followed her outside, where she hailed a passing cab. He climbed in behind her, allowing her to instruct and then pay the driver – or at least, since he wasn’t asked to pay, he assumed she must have done so. He was unaware of anything till the cab pulled up by Central Park, near 74th Street. Somehow they’d got to the West Side and the slush had miraculously disappeared from the sidewalks. A light snow fell around them as she led him down a gentle hill into the park and they walked companionably to the lake, where she sat on a bench looking out over the icy water, patting the space beside her and motioning to him to join her. He wasn’t at all surprised to discover that the seat was completely dry, as if the snow and sleet had passed it by. He also felt unseasonably warm, as if the weather had missed them entirely. A delicate smell of roses drifted about him and he felt as though he were ensconced in a summer garden.
”Beautiful day isn’t it?” she remarked as she slipped out of her topcoat.
”Can we dispense with the weather and concentrate on your explanation?” Tom snapped out of his reverie, determined to get the answers he wanted.
She smiled. “Of course. Where would you like me to start?”
”C’mon. You don’t need me to remind you... Er...”
”Imogene. My name’s Imogene. Can you remember that?”
”I got that. Please tell me what happened to me. And who are you? What role did you play in this nightmare... And why?”
The questions fell in a tangle from his mouth.
”Just relax, Tom. Let me start at the beginning. I want you to listen carefully - and please don’t say anything until I’ve finished. You can ask all the questions you wish to then.
”First off, I’m what you call an angel, one of those spiritual beings whose job it is to look after humans during the course of their lifetimes…”
Seeing Tom’s look of pure astonishment, Imogene held out a hand to prevent him from interrupting. “I told you not to say anything until I’d finished telling the story.”
She seemed unconcerned by Tom’s face, now drained of any color, almost as though she had experienced it before.
”Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you that I was an angel… Or rather I aman angel… and when I realized you were about to travel on that Pan Am 747 to New York, I decided I should save your life by altering your return flight arrangements. I knew there was a bomb on board so, yes, as you said earlier, you should by rights be dead.
”Now, I knew at the time that I’d be in trouble for this. I mean, it simply isn’t allowed. But you were so young and attractive and full of vitality and so looking forward to a brilliant future that I disobeyed the rules and arranged for you to live out your life with a different persona.”
”So why are you telling me now? Why didn’t you...” he interrupted.
”You’re doing it again, aren’t you? I haven’t finished yet.” She glared at him for a moment before continuing. “Anyhow, I was summoned to appear in front of The Celestial Body, Heaven’s governors, to account for my misfeasance. My explanation was deemed unacceptable, and I was informed that because I may well have altered a section of history and created what could well become a time-paradox, I must supervise you throughout the remainder of your life. I must live under the guise of a human being, to ensure you don’t make any decisions that could cause a time disruption. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Tom sat, numb, with his mouth open, quite unable to take in what she had been saying. Had it not been for the dramatic alterations to his travel plans and the odd suspension of reality here in Central Park, he would have thought her deranged and would have left her to freeze on this park bench.
But she was telling it just as it was.
Urging his brain to accept the impossible, he considered quickly that if this Imogene was, as she claimed, an angel, then what she said had to be true. One thing he knew was an absolute: he definitely should be dead, blown up in that plane crash. His mind continued in turmoil, thoughts racing around his head, searching for some other, more rational explanation.
”I can tell you’re a bit surprised,” she said, an amused look on her beautiful face.
”Surprised? For goodness sake, what kind of a word is ‘surprised?’ Of course I’m surprised! One minute I’m rescued from certain death and the next I’m told my guardian angel’s broken the rules of Heaven to save me and that she has to adopt human form and supervise me for the rest of my life! Of course I’m surprised! Wouldn’t you be? No, you don’t have to answer that. Can I ask you though, please, is this some kind of a set-up, a trick?”
She looked at him steadfastly. “No. I wish that it were. Then I wouldn’t be stuck with you. This isn’t easy for me, you know. One minute I was happily saving your life, and the next I have to listen to your complaints.” She waved her arms over her body. “Look at me – I’m dressed like a young woman and I haven’t a clue how to behave like one. The least you could do is to stop whining and help me out with this predicament.”
Tom ignored her protests. “So let me get this straight. You saved my life why? Because I’m good looking?” He laughed self-deprecatingly.
”Don’t be absurd,” she snapped. “I’ve watched over you since the day you were born. I’ve looked after you from kindergarten and elementary school all the way through Harvard and beyond. Always I’ve tried to influence you, but I was never able to make decisions for you. For instance, it always occurred to me that you were never meant to be a lawyer – that you should have been a journalist, which is what you wanted to be.
”So I felt sorry for you. The fact you’re good looking is incidental to saving your life. And now look at me, I’m totally stuck with you!”
Tom put his head in his hands as if he were seeking some relief from this disaster. He didn’t really know what to say or what might happen to him from here on. He only knew he was completely bewildered and simply couldn’t comprehend how all of this possibly could have happened.
”So what do I do now?” he asked eventually, sighing heavily.
”Oh for Christ’s sake get over yourself, will you? How on earth do I know what you should do? I haven’t been given any instructions – except that I have to watch over you very carefully to ensure you don’t commit yourself to something that could alter the course of history or, equally, to prevent you from failing to do something that could have exactly the same consequences.”
”I can’t believe that an angel swears! Are you ‘allowed’ to do that?” It was Tom’s turn to glare at her.
Imogene grinned wickedly. “I sort of like it,” she said. “It’s at least one of the better perks of being human.” She pointed a finger at him. “And don’t you dare criticize me – I’ve had to compromise my divinity for you. You might at least show me some gratitude.”
Tom’s mouth fell open yet again. Ignoring the question of gratitude, he plowed on with questions, “Just how do you propose to supervise me? I mean, will you have to observe me every minute of every day? I think you’ll have a job to do that – what’ll you do when I’m working, for instance? You won’t know what I’m planning until it’s too late!”
”You’re right of course. But I’ve already dealt with your position at Freedman’s – as far as they are concerned, you died in that air crash. A letter of condolence, from the airline, has been sent to your parents and a memorial service for you and the others from New York who died in the crash is to be held at St. Patrick’s in the near future. So, you’ve ceased to exist. I’m already in the process of reorganizing your living accommodations.”
“Hey! Hang on here,” he snapped. “I’m not going to pack in my job just because you say so! And I’ll be damned if I’m prepared to change my address. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get an apartment in New York? Besides, why should I? Just because you’re afraid of some paradox… or whatever you called it?”
She sighed as if her patience was overstretched. “These are not matters for you to decide. It’s out of your hands. How could you possibly go back to your job when Freedman’s has been informed you’re dead? Your landlord is also aware that you’re deceased and no doubt new tenants will be interviewed tomorrow.”
He rose from the seat and spluttered with indignation at this outrage. “Now you’re the one being absurd. Are you telling me you’ve made me disappear?” He clicked his fingers to emphasize his point, “Just like that?”
She pointed to his jacket pocket. “Don’t you have one of those mobile phones?”
He nodded, reached into the pocket and pulled out the bulky transmitter.
”So, give your old firm a ring. Ask to speak to someone. What about your old boss, Art Neston? Ask for Tom Metzler.”
Tom shook his head, but responded by dialing the number. When he got through to the offices, he gave his name and asked to speak to Art. There was a puzzled silence before he said, “Then could I speak with Tom Metzler, please? This is a friend of his, and I don’t have his number, but… But I… What? Sorry? He was on that Pan Am plane that went down? Oh … I’m so sorry… I…”
”She’s hung up on me,” he said, taking his seat again. “She sounded terribly upset.”
He put his head in hands again, muttering, “What the hell is happening to me? What have you done?” He spread his arms out, almost in a gesture of submission. “I’ve lost my job; I’ve lost my apartment; and now you’ve changed my name and my appearance I don’t even recognize myself.”
Imogene placed her hand on his shoulder.
”I realize this must be hard for you, Tom, but your presence at the law firm hardly caused a ripple in the fabric of creation. They’ll miss you, temporarily but eventually your absence will become a distant memory. As I keep reminding you, this isn’t easy for either of us. A little while ago, I was an angel in Paradise and now look at me.” She gestured again toward her own body. “I have to submit to this burden of a physical being; I feel pain and hunger and thirst – sensations I’ve never experienced before. I might conceivably become ill; I have a weakness of the flesh that’s tempting for me… and while I will admit that that’s a peculiar sensation that could well give me pleasure, it’s nevertheless something exceptional in my experience and troublesome nonetheless.
”So we both have to suffer – you for your loss of occupation and former attachments; me for the burdens of humanity. But can’t you at least acknowledge, Tom Metzler – I really should call you Tom Heaton – that you’re alive when you should’ve been dead, and that’s a blessing?”
”I wish I were dead,” he said, his head still buried in his hands. “Why didn’t you leave things alone? Now I have nothing – I’m not even sure whether I still exist in the outside world. And what am I going to do for a living? How will I pay for anything?’
”Jesus!” Imogene pointed her finger upwards. “Forgive me, it’s just that this guy infuriates me.” To Tom she snapped, “Will you try to stop moaning? I’ve arranged an interview for you at the New York Timeson Monday. They’ll already have received your réméwhich qualifies you admirably for the position as an Assistant Reporter – so you don’t have to worry, you will get the job. Your name’s officially changed – you’re Tom Heaton, one of Tom Metzler’s classmates at Harvard. All of your papers are in order, including your passport. Oh, and by the way, I’ll be working for you at the Timesas your trainee.”
”What?” He gawked at her, clearly nonplussed. “I don’t understand…”
”You don’t have to yet, so don’t worry. It’ll all become clear eventually. Now, shall we go and inspect your new apartment?”
He shrugged as if this was of no concern to him.
”Is this some other miracle you’ve arranged? Where am I living now, at the Plaza?”
Imogene smiled, and the skies around Tom lit up like a beacon; it was though she had become the North Star that he was destined to follow. Suddenly he didn’t mind, and for an instant he felt happy and free; a great peace came over him. She was with him, and she was worth a hundred jobs at Freedman’s. He wondered whether or not she realized he was totally smitten with her.
”I’ve taken an apartment – a two-bedroom near Washington Square Park. Quite expensive, so I’m told, but we don’t have to worry about that.”
She took his hand and led him away from Central Park and into a taxi that seemed to be there, awaiting them, and they sped southward, toward the Village.
In the taxi he said to her, “Just how long is this… this partnership to last? I mean, is it short-term, like a few days or weeks, or am I now allowed to live to my full life expectancy?”
”It’s a good question, Tom, one I don’t have the answer to. Perhaps for the time being we should simply concentrate on reorganizing your life so I can maintain my watch over you. Oh. Here we are.”
They stopped outside of one of the storied, terraced brownstone houses on Sullivan Street, a building that NYU had somehow not yet appropriated. Tom noticed, as they emerged from the cab, that this time no one paid the fare; neither were they asked for one. The apartment was in a block he vaguely recognized as one near where a wealthy friend of his parents had lived years ago in the Washington Mews.
An elevator took them to the second floor and Imogene, who held a set of keys, let them into a spacious apartment. Swiftly Tom calculated that the monthly rental must cost about a year’s salary. Unable to help himself, he looked around captivated. It was really stunning. The entrance hall was thickly carpeted and led to a spacious living room that was beautifully decorated, furnished with creamy leather sofas, glass tables and soft rugs. Plush cream silk curtains framed the lovely views of joggers encircling Washington Square Park visible through the tall sash windows. In one corner, on a low level unit, was a large screen television set equipped with a state of the art video recorder and above it, on recessed shelves, were a Hi-Fi and surround-sound speakers.
Tom could barely contain his excitement and walked across the subtly lit room to check out the equipment. Dragging his eyes away from the stereo, he realized that there were several objets d’artplaced on occasional tables that looked like expensive antiques. Even the pictures on the walls were either original works of art or extremely good reprints. Set off from the lounge was a modern kitchen that appeared to Tom as though it had never been used. The coffee maker and stainless steel cooking utensils gleamed on polished wooden countertops and Tom could see the dishwasher and huge refrigerator/freezer. In the middle of the kitchen, under well-designed track lighting, was a central island edged with bar stools.
Imogene took hold of his hand again. “Come. Let me show you the bedrooms.”
”I take it we have one each?” he inquired facetiously.
She laughed. “Of course. But as far as the outside world is concerned, you and me are an item. You’re fortunate to have a girlfriend who’s wealthy and allows you to share her apartment at no cost.”
”But you said you were only my assistant. How could you possibly be so wealthy?”
”Inherited wealth – from my grandmother. So, do you think you can adapt to that arrangement? About our being an item that is?”
”I guess – but it depends on where it might lead.”
”It could lead to you having an extended life.”
”I wasn’t referring to that.”
”I know exactly what you were referring to. And the answer is no; that can’t happen. The only human traits I can indulge in are the ones necessary for my survival in this body. I am afraid sex isn’t deemed necessary.”
”Why? Would it interfere with your, what did you call it, divinity?”
Imogene smiled and said nothing.
”So, what happens if I do meet someone and fall for her? Will that be permitted?”
”I don’t see why not. But one thing you must bear in mind is that you can never have children. That’s exactly the kind of time-paradox the Tribunal’s afraid of. So the safest thing would be for you to have an irreversible vasectomy, that way you can never be tempted. I’ll set it up.”
”What?” Tom exploded. “I’m definitely not having one of those… those things. I’ll just have to use contraceptives!”
She sighed again; this whole human thing was getting intolerable. “Your views don’t count here, Tom. You don’t have any choice. There’s a doctor I know at New York Presbyterian. He’ll do it this afternoon.”
”What?” he gasped. “In other words, if I’m supposed to be dead, how can it be possible for me to have children? So you’re going to make sure it never happens!”
”Now you’re coming to terms with it. Do you like the bedrooms?”
”They’re very nice,” he said miserably, accepting the change of subject. “Which one’s yours?”
”The one with all the women’s clothes in the closets! You’ll find some clothes for you in this bedroom – you shouldn’t have to buy anything for quite a while.”
”You seem to have thought of everything – I don’t even have to give notice on my old apartment or collect my things!”
Tom found the anger he was beginning to feel quite surprising.
”Let me just ask you this. Are you going to follow me in the streets? Will you cook and wash for me? Will you clean the apartment? Will you take me to and from work? In other words, am I going to be imprisoned with you for the rest of my life, but starved of sex?”
An expression of sadness came over Imogene. She visibly struggled to cope with his allegations until finally she said, “It would be dreadful if you thought of me as your jailer. At first, until such time as you do accept the time-paradox, you will need to be monitored carefully, virtually around the clock. But eventually you will get used to the rules of your existence and your major decisions will be less traumatic than they are now. In the long run, you’ll be given free rein. At least that’s what I’m planning. I’d hate you to think you’re my prisoner – why not think of me as your protector instead?”
”You’ve ignored my question about sexual deprivation,” he muttered moodily.
”No I haven’t. I’ve already told you what sex means for me. It would defile the very essence of spiritual immortality.”
”Perhaps you should taste the fruit,” Tom replied slyly.
”What’s that supposed to mean?”
”You know… the apple on the tree… the forbidden fruit?”
”Oh – that! There wasno apple. There wasno tree.”
”What? How about Adam and Eve and the serpent?”
She sighed heavily. “Tom, believe me when I tell you there wasno serpent and no Garden of Eden either. God created this mythological story to ensure humanity inherited a code of moral conduct to live their lives by.”
”No shit! Next you’ll be telling me…”
”And no,” Imogene said, interrupting him. “You’re wrong… I don’t regret saving your life. The whole notion of regret’s a human trait and not something I’m familiar with – at least, not yet.” She shrugged. “I suppose if we stay together long enough, I may well become adjusted to this body I now inhabit.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “Right now, it feels quite bizarre; I’m having difficulty dealing with all of the sensations that are presenting themselves.” She brushed the hair away from her eyes, in that same gesture that was becoming both familiar and endearing to him.
”Yeah. Maybe,” said Tom, “but the sensations I’m dealing with are pretty damned scary too. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to cope…”
”Trust me. You will, in time. So, Tom Heaton, shall we go and try some local cuisine – I’m feeling quite hungry.”
Imogene took him to Dino’s, a quaint little Italian Restaurant on Carmine Street, just off Bleecker, a pleasant short walk from the apartment. The smell of fresh-baked bread, garlic and basil wrapped themselves around the two as they entered the restaurant. Tom was astonished by the warm welcome Imogene received; it was as if she ate there regularly. Smiling her thanks, she chattered amicably with the maître d’, who led Tom and her to a round table by the window. Before they were even fully seated, the effusive head waiter himself poured them each a glass of cold Soavé and handed them a menu. Within minutes, the chef came out of the kitchen personally to take their order and Tom watched, incredulous, as Imogene conversed with him about the food before greedily ordering pasta, pizza and a veal parmesan; surely she didn’t intend to eat it all herself? Sneaking another look at her slim body, he felt his temper rising, convinced she had taken it upon herself to choose for him too. He was therefore dumbfounded when she loudly closed her menu, asking, “So. What’re you having?”
”I’m not hungry,” he muttered, aware it was a childish response.
”Oh come on, you’ve gotta eat something,” she cajoled softly and, without another word, she ordered Spaghetti Bolognese for him.
After lunch, which again Tom couldn’t remember being paid for, Imogene decided she wanted to go sightseeing. They headed north, and when it began to rain, they caught a cab to Times Square. The theatres on the cross streets beckoned and Imogene said she was quite interested in seeing Phantom of the Opera
Tausende von E-Books und Hörbücher
Ihre Zahl wächst ständig und Sie haben eine Fixpreisgarantie.
Sie haben über uns geschrieben: