“Fine.” I doubt she’ll remember to call back, but it doesn’t matter. A lightbulb has gone off in my head, and I don’t want to waste another minute. “I have to go now.”
“That’s better, then. Keep your pecker up. As I said, I will find a solution… Not Clamato! Are you out of your gourd? Two words. Shellfish allergies. Do you want to kill off a leader of the free world…” Aunt Miranda trails off and I hang up the phone.
I pad in to the bathroom to quickly brush my teeth and twist my dirty-blonde hair up into a clip. I don’t dwell for a minute on my blotchy skin and swollen eyes. In my heather gray sweat suit, I’ll be nothing but invisible today. That’s just how I want it. Then I won’t have to slow down and explain myself to anyone. After the car accident, people always wanted me to talk. I hated that. I like being a grown-up. No one can make me share how I’m feeling if I don’t want to. ‘If you want help, look to the end of your own arm,’ isn’t that what they say?
“Everything will be fine,” I tell myself in the mirror, just as I have nearly every day since I was 12, “Believe.” It’s been my mantra ever since Bridget, our cook and my nanny, packed me up from the old house in England, and waved goodbye. I look myself straight in the eye.
“You will find Hudson.” I get ready to go.
*****
“Geek Squad!” answered the cheerful tech support girl on the other end of the phone line. “What’s your problem?”
What’s my problem? My problem is that my tiny dog is lost out in the freezing cold in one of the world’s biggest cities.
“I can’t make my computer talk to my printer. I need to be able to scan and print. It’s urgent,” I reply. For over an hour I’d been trying to make flyers from the cardboard-framed Elfie that the young man from Takasaki had pressed into my hand. Time was ticking. I can just about manage my blog, and Microsoft Word, but no one could accuse me of being tech-savvy.
“We can help you with that. Can you explain exactly what’s going on? Let’s, uh, start with the computer part.”
Sighing with relief, I recount the frustrations of trying to make my ‘Lost Dog’ flyer with the planet Mercury taunting me from its position in retrograde, making all of my electronics and technology go pear-shaped.
“Please hold.” She clicks off, leaving me to listen to the Geek Squad’s hold music. It’s a syrupy Muzak version of The Carpenters’ Close to You. I would have expected someone cooler from the Geek Squad. I sit at my writing desk, in the little maid’s room off the kitchen, and drum my nails on the desk. For something to occupy my mind, I click on to my blog while I wait. Yes, I said maid’s room. Yes, my brownstone is Pre-War. Yes, I know how lucky I am. I managed to buy it with what was left of Mum’s money after all the debts were paid. I needed a place with a big kitchen, and this one came kitted out with a Chambers stove and an industrial, French-doored refrigerator. It was a match made in heaven, so I splurged. I haven’t regretted it for one single day.
I can’t stop looking at the photo of Hudson in his holiday garb. It’s clear that he had liked the elf who was snapping the photo. The goofy smile on his scruffy little face is evidence of that. His one black eyebrow is sky high, and he appears about as happy as he’s ever been. He looks so vital, like he’s just about to burst out of the picture and land in my lap.
Tears prick at the backs of my eyelids. My arms ache from the emptiness of not having him to squeeze. Wow, I have been on hold a long time.
My phone beeps and I grab it quickly, in turn putting the Geek Squad on hold. If I can wait, they can wait. Maybe it’s Officer Curtis with some news from the police department?
“Hello?” I say breathlessly. “This is Charlotte.”
“Ms. Bell. This is Henry Wentworth ringing from Nichols Bespoke Events, on behalf of Miranda Nichols.”
I feel my shoulders rise to ear level. “Did she make you call to apologize? Because I don’t have time for this. My dog is missing.” I stab at various keys on my computer, hoping that a technological miracle occurs so I can skip the whole Geek Squad appointment, and take action.
“Erm, no. The nature of my phone call is to offer my services, not to apologize.” Then, with a slightly prickly tone, he says, “I wasn’t aware that I had anything to apologize for.”
“You wouldn’t, would you?” My patience is wire-thin. “Listen, I have another call on hold, so goodbye…”
“Wait! Ms. Bell, please,” he says.
“It’s MISS Bell.” I’m aware that my mouth is a tight line. If I didn’t like this man before, I really didn’t like him now. “I have a call on the other line.”
“Your Aunt, that is, Miranda asked me to ring you to see how I might help you find your dog. To start, I think we should report the animal missing.”
“We? Since when are we ‘we?’ I’ve already reported him missing. Thanks for the inventive suggestion.” Great, this was her “machine”? Her right arm? Her mini-me? I’d do better hiring a tween with a smartphone and a bookshelf full of Nancy Drew Mysteries. “I’ve even filed police reports, if you can imagine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the middle of an important phone call!”
I click over to the Geek Squad.
The girl is gone, and they’re playing a wordless jazz version of Close to You. I didn’t think it was possible for that song to get any sappier or more maudlin, but they made it happen. I drum my fingers on the desk. Geez, how long are they going to leave me hanging? I try to hang up so I can call back, but the other line is still engaged. I wind up clicking back to Henry, and he’s in midsentence. He is just like Miranda! She never listens when I speak on the phone either.
“…given your fragility due to your parents early deaths, may I express my condolences, she felt that you might be a danger to yourself if your dog were to be found, pardon me, deceased and you were left alone.”
Oh, no. No, no, no. I’d had enough pity back when I was twelve years old. Nonstop pity from everyone, starting with the police lady who gave me the news, to the social worker who was assigned to get me through the school term, to the air hostesses who watched me on the flight to America, to the head mistress of the boarding school where Aunt Miranda dropped me off that fall. It’s exhausting to be pitied. People want you to make it OK so they don’t have to feel worried for you, so they don’t have to consider that life is fragile and that terrible things could happen to them, too. It’s hard work being the object of pity. I had to nip this right in the bud.
“Don’t worry about me,” I told him breezily. “I’m fine. Tell Aunt Miranda that she’s absolved. I am noting that she did something to help. She sent an assistant. Box checked. I’m officially releasing you from duty. She’s off the hook, and so are you. Have a nice day!” I hang up the phone, for real this time. If I didn’t need Aunt Miranda, I certainly didn’t need some random lackey who was being paid to be my fake friend.
I switch back over to the hold music. They’re now playing a peppy Latin-inspired version of Toni Braxton’s Unbreak My Heart.
“Geek Squad. Thank you for holding,” a voice says, breaking through the knock-off pop song. “We’ve considered your case, and we think the best course of action is to deploy remote crisis intervention.”
“Wow.” I realize I’m no Steve Jobs, but that sounds intense. “Yes! I want that. Does that mean you’re coming here?”
“Yes ma’am. We can launch a vehicle within the hour.”
Launch? That’s taking their branding a bit too seriously, if you ask me. Unless they really are going to launch something.
“Fine!”