Strange Shape of Love

You can’t go back and change the beginning,

but you can start where you are and change the ending.

—C.S. Lewis

PROLOGUE

Saturday, December 7, 2019

The newsroom seemed eerily quiet, even for a Saturday. Charlotte wove her way to her desk where she stashed her computer and notes, ready for an afternoon of exploring London. She was about to turn away when her eyes landed on a large manila envelope in the wire basket that served as her inbox. She picked it up without intending to open it, but read her name and Thorntree’s address, handwritten in a strange loopy script.

She glanced at the world clocks on the wall. Sydney, New York, London, New Delhi, Hong Kong. Don’t be late,she thought. And yet that writing. She twisted her unruly hair into a knot on top of her head, released it, then ripped open the envelope. She felt the stiff edges of a photograph and yanked it out. Her breath caught as she stared at a nude photo of herself. A grainy black and white shot, an eight by ten.

The image revealed her from the waist up, arms raised overhead, her full lips a finger’s breadth apart, her wavy, blonde-streaked hair, tangled and sweaty, reaching for her breasts. She peered inside the envelope, shook it even, but nothing accompanied the photograph to explain who, why, what. Or when.

Could it be a doctored shot? Her face but not her body? A feeling of dread wormed its way into her gut.

With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, she further examined the image, holding it at arm’s length as if it might harm her. When and where had it been taken? Six or seven years ago in New York? Oxford? Ithaca? Three people had taken nude photos of her in her early twenties that she could recall. Why any of them would send her one now was a mystery.

Perhaps Rafe had sent the image as a joke, to recall their frequent struggles as model and sculptor? Of course she could ask him. And yet, if he hadn’t, what would he think? What about Russ? A weird form of revenge porn? After all, he’d broken up with her. And that left Zander, the only other person who’d photographed her back then. But they hadn’t spoken in over a year.

Charlotte bit her lip. She caught sight of a man absenting the doorway—had he delivered this? More likely, he was just a staffer departing the newsroom.

She gave the image one more uncomprehending look. Not knowing who’d sent it or why irked her. Was it a threat? A warning that you can’t have everything at the precise moment she felt on the cusp of success. Cruel after she’d lost so much. She shoved the photograph into her shoulder bag; the envelope she tossed into her desk drawer.

Outside on the street, she found a trash can. Her hands suspended a few inches above a green bin, she began to rip the photo into ever tinier pieces.

The past is the past, she thought, allowing the fragments to flutter into the receptacle like confetti, let it stay that way.

Chapter 1

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

New York City

Friday, November 22, 2019

A shadow fell across Charlotte as she sat hunched over her computer, fighting a rising panic. Her deadline had passed. She was banging away on the keyboard, so engrossed in writing the story that it took a moment before she glanced up. Morgan hovered at the edge of her desk without speaking. If Charlotte ignored her, maybe Morgan would go away. She needed to finish.

“Shelby wants you,” Morgan announced, as though she had the inside scoop on all things Shelby.

“Is it about the story? Because if it is, tell her I’m almost done. Just waiting to hear from one more source.”

“Really? Which source?”

Normally Charlotte might have engaged in a conversation because she knew what it was like to be the bottom rung in a magazine like this, craving for a chance to write. A magazine that—rumor had it—might be heading for bankruptcy.

Charlotte hesitated. Should she confide that she was waiting for the irreverent Italian artist himself, the focus of the piece, which of course meant the story wasn’t close to finished. “Oh, just someone at Blenheim Palace, someone in charge of security when the golden toilet was stolen.” The lie flew off her tongue. She smiled at Morgan, who squinted at her, as if sensing Charlotte’s fabrication.

“I don’t know, but she wants you. Pronto.”

Pronto? Charlotte suppressed a sigh. What was it now? Surely Shelby wasn’t going to blast her for missing a deadline. Her story wasn’t that important, was it? Or was it yet one more test in her slow climb up the ladder?

To Charlotte’s further annoyance, Morgan lingered until she’d finished typing her sentence. She grabbed her cell phone, just in case the artist, Maurizio Cattelan, called. She absolutely could not miss him. Not a second time. She had a slew of questions, not the least of which included whether he’d stolen the golden toilet himself. As a publicity stunt. Something he’d done with a previous piece of art but ended the fun by returning it a few days later. The golden toilet, on the other hand, had been missing from Churchill’s palatial birthplace for nearly two months.

With Morgan close on her heels, Charlotte entered the inner sanctum of Shelby’s office, a shrine to immaculate minimalism. Unlike most executive editors at big-name magazines, Shelby eschewed the messy office look. Few books, and even fewer files, and little paper of any sort populated her white lacquered shelves and acrylic desk. One could almost imagine she had nothing to do with the magazine except on occasion to shout orders.

“Hi. Morgan said you want to see me?” Charlotte’s eyebrows rose questioningly.

Shelby nodded, then gave Morgan a dismissive wave. “And close the door.”

Charlotte felt sorry for Morgan, but knew if she’d remained, nanoseconds later, the exchange would have become fodder for the rumor mill. Grist?

Here in Shelby’s office on the thirteenth floor of this mid-town Manhattan building, one could only see the skyscrapers across the street. Unfortunately. Because everyone knew she coveted an office with a hundred-and-eighty-degree view, but she’d been thwarted time and again because, well, magazines didn’t exactly ooze money, not in this era of online media. And Savvy Faire was in competition with Vanity Fair, Vogue, Esquire, Rolling Stone, and every other magazine that concentrated on culture, fashion, style, travel, and art.

“I’ve got good news for you,” Shelby said breezily. “Great news, actually.”

Great news? Charlotte remained standing because Shelby’s office contained only one chair—Shelby’s. The idea being that every minute cost money, hence no time to waste on lengthy conversations. Charlotte slapped on a smile and, adopting her own version of minimalism, said, “Oh?” dreading Shelby’s next sentence.

The last time her boss had offered such “good news,” Charlotte had gotten violently ill on a trip to Central American museums for a piece on indigenous artifacts. The other time she’d gone to LA for an art opening at The Getty, where an unfortunate night-long encounter with a featured artist still made her cringe because Shelby had blasted her. “You do not do that, do you understand, you bleach-blonde idiot?!”

Charlotte wasn’t a fan of the white furniture or trademark white outfits Shelby wore—seemed like she was trying to imitate Tom Wolfe. In sharp contrast to all that white, though, Shelby’s thick, shoulder-length black hair hovered and floated inside the room like an alien spacecraft.

She waited for Shelby to speak. The woman seemed to enjoy biding her time as she took a sip of coffee from the bone-white porcelain cup. Charlotte hoped this “great news” meant she was being sent on a plum assignment. She could use a vacation. She crossed her fingers. Please let it be Spain, or Morocco, or even a Caribbean Island. She could already feel the sun warming her skin. Tanning her pale freckled body. And Thanksgiving only a week away. Without a family of her own, she preferred spending holidays elsewhere.

“We’re sending you to London.”

“London, why?” The mere words felt like she’d been sucker-punched, not only because England in November and December meant she’d be packing a coat, not a bikini, no, there were other reasons.

“Well, because Thorntree’s bought us.”

“Really?” This sounded like terrible news. Where was the great news?

“Making our magazine online. Only. You haven’t heard?”

Charlotte shook her head. She couldn’t believe what Shelby was saying. Not on any level. “We were bought by Nigel Thorntree? The media magnate?”

“Yes, him,” Shelby said. “Are you hard of hearing? And he’s keeping me on.” At that her mouth quirked into a tiny smile. “Which means I can keep you on.” She tilted her head to one side as her fingers drummed the transparent desk. Clearly, she was awaiting Charlotte’s reaction.

“Aren’t you thrilled?” Shelby asked, examining her red lacquered nails. “Because you should be.”

“I am. Yeah, sounds great.” Though not thrilled in any way, Charlotte mustered a smile. All her bad luck had begun when that full-length mirror broke during her nine months abroad at Oxford. She’d studiously avoided returning to England for the past six-plus years. “When am I going?”

“Next week.”

Charlotte stood mute as Shelby added, “Anyway, don’t worry, I’ll be joining you soon enough. After I’ve wrapped things up here.”

She had to be kidding. That’s definitely not what I’m worried about, Charlotte thought, failing to keep a disappointed sigh from escaping her lips.

Shelby took another languorous sip of coffee, her bright red lipstick imprinting the delicate white cup. “You’ll need to finish up the golden toilet story; almost done, right?”

“Done? Yeah. Just a few more touches. One last phone interview.”

“You’re past deadline, you know…” Shelby paused, running her hand along the molded edge of her desk. “Come to think of it,” she added, swiveling her chair to face outside, “let’s save that story. Soon enough you can visit Blenheim Palace in person. Then you can interview whoever you want about that damned stolen toilet. And get some new photos. Sound good?” She rotated again to face Charlotte.

“How long will I be staying?”

“Where?” Shelby frowned.

“In England,” Charlotte said, annoyance seeping into her tone. Does she think I mean Blenheim?

“Indefinitely, what did you think?” Shelby said with characteristic disdain.

“Is Morgan going?”

“Morgan?”

“You know, your assistant.”

“Her? No. You’ll be writer and assistant. Cost savings, you know. I spoke with Nigel about it.” At the man’s name, Shelby’s mouth twisted into a smug Cheshire cat grin. At least that’s what Charlotte detected. She prided herself in having a sharp eye for facial expressions.

The smile still on her lips, Shelby swiveled once more to face the windows.

Charlotte knew she’d been dismissed and slipped out without another word. She imagined Shelby staring outside, pitying the poor tiny people scurrying along the streets of Manhattan like timid mice. Am I a timid mouse too, Charlotte wondered, then reflected on what she’d lost by not returning to England as promised half a dozen years ago.

Chapter 2

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

The airplane lifted into the sky, rising above Manhattan, its familiar structures glittering against the backdrop of night, almost as if mocking her departure. Charlotte stared wistfully out the tiny window, desperate to stop the tears that tugged at her eyes. How could she leave this city, when it had been homebase on and off for nearly three decades, and when it housed her network of pals? She felt like killing Shelby for upsetting her life, yes, even more than her recent ex-boyfriend. Thank you very much, Russ.

Another wave of nausea hit her. She sipped the sparkling water delivered by the flight attendant. And thank you, Daisy and Channing, for taking me out for one last drunken girls’ night on the town. “Reject fucking Shelby’s offer,” they’d said over margaritas at one of several bars, but what options did she have? Not many. Not any, if she was truthful. Besides, she needed the money. More potholes than possibilities loomed ahead. Especially with Shelby slated to be her boss in London.

After she’d woken up with a whopping headache, and finished packing, a thought struck her, one that must have been the work of her mother or father, calling to her from the other side. Her mother had died a dozen years ago and her father nearly three. She gazed into the darkness. Just like them to suggest this move might be a gift in disguise, her chance to switch gears, to dramatically shift her life. So, in a moment of optimism, she’d shouted into her now empty apartment, “Thank you, Shelby, and look out, Thorntree Entertainment. That’s right, Charlotte Cooper takes London by storm!” Her work options would improve, she decided, even if her boyfriend situation didn’t.

Then, her hopefulness waning, she thought: Of course, I deserve shitty assignments like the golden toilet (pun intended!), and of course I deserve to be sent to London with Shelby harassing me. What I really deserve is worse than that.

On and off throughout the day, she’d thought of contacting Celia, her very closest friend from Oxford, who now lived in London. What would she say about this move? Most likely, she’d be ecstatic. Celia was a true friend, and despite the distance that separated them, they’d managed to see each other on cheap vacations over the past half dozen years, once in the Caribbean, twice in New York, and once in Malaga. But never in England. No, Charlotte couldn’t risk running into Rafe. Wouldn’t. She even refused to look him up on social media. Much too painful. And so she hadn’t, not in a while.

She’d settle into her tiny rental in Shoreditch, and then one day she’d surprise Celia. That was her plan, as far as plans go. Her decision probably wouldn’t last, and that suited her, but she liked the shock element and wanted to get a few days of work under her belt first.

In the early days of living with Russ, Charlotte had taken a stab at travel blogging, but that had turned into a flimsy excuse of a job. She wasn’t really cut out for that line of work. Frugal travel had been her “niche,” but in the end, she’d gotten sick from eating street food in Thailand, survived a brush with petty thieves in Trinidad, and itched from bed bugs at a youth hostel in the Yucatan. No, such work, if one could even call it that, didn’t suit her.

Besides, Russ hadn’t taken her seriously, and his opinion had been important to her. He was so accomplished, as an archaeologist and then a tenured professor at Columbia at the tender age of thirty, while she flew around trying to get influencers and followers for her blog. Nevertheless, that blog had led to her job at Savvy Faire.

And yet, her assignments at the magazine—covering the latest art exhibit and New York fashion (often boring), attending fundraisers and countless other beautiful people events (double boring)—didn’t exactly raise her status with Russ or his intellectual friends. He kept telling her she should write “meaningful” pieces for a “serious” publication.

With everything going on in the world, he reminded her—climate change, immigration crap at the US-Mexican border, refugees streaming into western Europe, not to mention an increasingly divided America—surely, she could find work with a reputable news agency. And yet she hadn’t. She’d resisted, almost to spite him. So, no wonder Sarah had entered his life.

Now, she wondered what had been stopping her. Deep down she knew the answer was linked to events half a dozen years ago—the summer of 2013. The accident that changed everything, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape its snares.