Wide Blue Yonder - Beth Stafford (the reading list TXT) 📗

Wide Blue Yonder

    The couple lay intertwined, their bodies so closely woven together that it was hard to tell where one person started and the other ended. A discarded duvet was bunched at their laced feet, the last remnants of summer still clinging to the air. Morning sunlight filtered in through a slit in the window, slicing through the shadows of the room and coming to a rest upon a single, splayed hand. A bright red glow radiated from an alarm clock perched on the dresser, 07:59 blinking garishly with every passing second. With a slight, muffled click, the time on the alarm passed to 08:00, and the clock roared into life; “Wake up New York! It is a beautiful Tuesday morning, not a cloud –”
    An arm, heavy with fatigue, fell down hard on the bleating alarm, silencing it with one fell swoop. “Who ever heard of a beautiful morning?” Alec Goodman groaned, his voice laced with the memory of sleep.
The figure next to him disentangled herself from his body, lazily rubbing at her eyes. “It’s morning already?”
    Alec dragged himself into a sitting position, clawing his fingers through his hair. At his side, Sarah Mahoney stretched like a cat, her limbs arcing in broad swoops across the bed. Sarah yawned. “I’m stealing the shower first.”
    Alec nodded, worming his way into a t-shirt. “Just don’t use up all the hot water, otherwise I may have to slaughter you.”
    Sarah laughed, soft and sarcastic. “You wouldn’t – you know I’m your mother’s favourite, right?”
    “She hasn’t been calling you at home again, has she?”
    “No, no. Just e-mailing me pictures of you as a baby and crooning about how cute you used to be. I think she’s getting clucky for grandchildren.”
    Alec groaned, shaking his head.
    “I think it’s cute,” Sarah said, her bottom lip protruding slightly. “Besides, she keeps pestering me to arrange a dinner with her one night. When are you going to be free?”
    “Work’s really riding me about this merger,” Alec sighed. “Maybe Saturday, we’ll see.”
    Sarah smiled, her head cocked to the side. “We’ll see…”
    Sarah disappeared into the bathroom, her pajamas swiftly forming a shapeless pile in the doorway. Seconds later the shower screamed on, the sound of gushing water barely audible over the rusty squawk of the pipes. Alec made his way into the kitchen, tying the drawstring around his pants as he went. A box of cornflakes was still sitting on the bench, left there from the previous morning’s breakfast rush. He poured himself a bowl, pausing to smell the milk. Determining that it was still good, he smothered his cereal in it and watched the orange flakes wilt and gurgle. He shoveled the golden flecks into his mouth, wiping away a trail of milk that had escaped his lips.
    The shriek of the shower abated, the pipes rattling as they came to a halt. Sarah emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around her body. Her blonde hair clung to her face in sodden rivers, dripping from the ends and onto the carpet.
    “Cornflakes again? Damn, I was really hoping you’d make pancakes or something.”
    Alec grunted, shaking his head as he continued powering through his breakfast. “You know I can’t cook,” he said, his voice muffled.
    Sarah shrugged, a smile playing on her lips. Sarah opened the fridge, the seals making a puckered, ripping sound as they pulled apart. She inspected a tub of yoghurt, curled her top lip, and deposited it in the trash.
    “You know, we really need to cook this chicken tonight,” she said, extracting a package of sliced chicken breast and waving it before Alec’s face. “It expires tomorrow.”
    “I thought that went off on the 12th?” Alec asked, his mouth brimming with shards of corn.
    “It does – today’s the 11th.”
    “Really? Huh.”
    Sarah rolled her eyes, replacing the chicken and taking an apple for herself. She paced across to the window, her finger idly tracing the apple’s stem. She leaned against the glass, her still-wet towel leaving an impression of her body on its surface.
    Sarah cast a glance back over at Alec, who had now pushed his bowl to one side and was devouring a section of yesterday’s paper. She smirked to herself, feeling, for just a moment, struck by how odd this situation would have felt a few years ago. She’d never viewed herself as the type to settle, especially not for a man. Hell, there were plenty of those floating around in the Big Apple. She always envisioned herself as the perpetual career girl, putting every other aspect of life on the back-burner until she’d reached professional satisfaction. But then Alec had shown up, the obnoxious transfer from Chicago hell-bent on wheedling his way into her job—or, at least that’s how Sarah saw it. The at-work tension had soon bubbled over the confines of the office, first spilling into the elevator where Sarah always made a point of punching the lobby button first. Then they waged war over the taxi rink, fighting pointless battles over attaining the same cab, even though there were plenty more waiting in line. And then, one night, while trying to beat Alec to their boss’s office —the precise reason now slipped her mind, probably something trivial like weekly turnover that really could have waited until morning—Alec had pressed her against the wall, taken her face in his hands, and passionately kissed her, stealing her next heated rebuttal right from her mouth. Ah, how fine a line it is between love and hate.
    She tore her eyes away from Alec’s rugged, stubbled face and turned her attention to the street below. It was a typical New York morning, the bustling crowd a shapeless tangle of colours and textures. Unbeknownst to Sarah, a woman named Nancy Carver was once such fragment of the blur beneath her feet, desperately trying not to get swallowed in the heaving mass of people as they marched their ways to work.
    Nancy had struggled her entire life with being the unnoticed ; the one who stays late at the office but gets no credit, the one who brews the coffee in the morning but doesn’t get a cup, the one who’s forever being called every name but her own. But, as far as she was concerned, her chance to stand out from the crowd and be different had passed. That ship had sailed long ago.
    She fought her way out of the onslaught of the crowd, every so often being rammed with a hard shoulder as she writhed her way from the mass of people. She ended up outside her favourite hole-in-the-wall café, one of the last remaining cafés around who were still resisting against the vast Starbucks empire. She let herself into the café, a small bell above the door tinkling as it wheezed open.
    It was unnaturally crowded in the café that morning, the aroma of freshly-ground coffee beans lacing the air with an almost tangible intensity. Nancy extracted her purse from her handbag, a small leather beige thing with no frills or tassels; just the way Nancy liked it. A business man waiting in line before her gave her a stark up-and-down glare, before returning his gaze to the menu board.
    It was with a dim sense of frustration that Nancy spotted the tacky dollop of dried porridge on her lapel, with still visible granules of brown sugar speckled within. She couldn’t remember being pelted with porridge, although it had almost certainly been an attack from her son, in the midst of his ‘Terrible Twos’ revolution. She wiped it away with the edge of her sleeve, not particularly caring that some oatmeal residue had been left behind.
    The queue before her shuffled forward, and Nancy obligingly followed. She could hear some form of dispute from the businessman in front, something about how the grande wasn’t grande at all, and how ridiculous this establishment was compared to Starbucks. But Nancy didn’t pay much attention. She’d never been one to relish the thought of confrontation, and instead let her gaze wander to the stuccoed wall above the man’s balding head.
   In a cloud of muttered curses and mumbled insults, the man before her stormed from the café, funnily enough with his ‘unsatisfactory’ coffee still clutched in hand. Nancy had to suppress a laugh.
    She ordered the usual; a regular flat white, no sugar, no trimmings. She smiled at the barista as she left, who even though had served Nancy for almost three years, still thought her name was Wendy.
    Nancy resumed her place in the stream of people, carefully sheltering her caffeinated brew from the various elbows, arms and hands that flew in her direction. But, despite her best efforts, a wayward wrist still managed to connect with the bottom of her cup, spraying coffee onto Nancy’s suit and jacket.
    Tyra Thornberg mumbled an apology, but didn’t care to check if the woman was all right. Instead she continued her trek along the street, every so often glancing at her watch for the time. She couldn’t afford to be late to this interview, not with rent due and bills to pay. She smoothed her blouse as she walked, relieved to see she’d escaped the shower of coffee from that mousy woman’s cup. That would really leave an impression on Dexter Martin; turning up reeking of cold coffee with the stains to match. This interview was her last-ditch effort, her last chance to land employment before admitting defeat and moving back to her hometown in Missouri. They never made it look this hard in the movies, that was for sure. She’d been struggling to find a job for almost three months now, surviving on the small sum of money she’d saved up through college working as a barmaid, tucking it away for a rainy day. As it would turn out, it rained non-stop. She had thought she’d simply fall into a job, and a decent one at that. Her ambitious side had her eyes set on a position as creative director at a firm, but she would have been happy to settle on marketing manager. Turned out she’d have to settle for far less than that. So much so that the qualifications that she’d spent four years earning were now redundant. She was applying for the job of Mr Martin’s PA and secretary, a far cry from the high-flying career she’d envisioned for herself all those years working at Smokey Joe’s tavern. Still, Dexter Martin was a well-known advertising tycoon, and Tyra wasn’t giving up hope just yet. She’d get to her dream job eventually; she’d just have to start at the very bottom of the ladder first.
    Her mauve pumps clacked across the pavement, their pace increasing as she stole another glance at her watch. Dammit, she was going to be late. She swept a wayward strand of brunette hair away from her face, hastily tucking it into her bun. All this rushing around was making her feel—and probably look—awfully disheveled. She self-consciously tugged at the hem of her skirt, pulling it down over her stockinged knees.
    A sharp beep snatched her from her fretful pulling and smoothing. “Watch where you’re going!”
    Tyra staggered back onto the sidewalk, watching the cab speed away, a vague hand gesture signalling from the driver’s window. She stood on the curb and waited for the pedestrian crossing to turn green.
    “You know, half the time I think these people are trying to get themselves killed,” Len Bateman tutted, his heavy Brooklyn drawl lacing his words. “You saw her, right? She practically stepped right out in front’a me.”
“Yah-huh,” came Hugh Stern’s disinterested response, his attention more focused on tapping out a