Shatter the Silence

The telephone rang.

Gillian froze in her bed, startled by the sound. Her bed caught her like a trap and she stayed there until the phone fell into a deep slumber. She sighed, wiping the sleep from her eyes and smoothing down her hair. She wasn’t sure what time it was but, watching the sun streaming through her window, casting dancing shadows on her four walls, she knew it wasn’t early.

“Damn it,” her head throbbed, like a woodpecker had found its new nest in her hair, and the stench of last night’s escapades still lingered on her skin.

Shower first, food later. She rolled off the bed, but the ground was unsteady, her feet catching one another like they were wrapped up in chords, sending her flying into the dresser. Her head smashed against the mirror and a crack formed, slow and delicate across its centre.

I wonder how many years bad luck that is. The picture tucked in the corner of the dresser came loose, catching in the gentle breeze that wafted through the open window, falling to her feet. The smiling face of her father stared back at her, his eyes dead in the photograph as they never had been in life.

If only you could see me now, Dad. Gillian placed the picture gently on her dresser, smoothing out the creased edge and sitting down to check the damage. Her brown eyes accentuated by thin red veins greeting one another around her iris and turning a sickly jaundiced colour. Her hair, with the blunt fringe and tapered points at her ears to mirror Louise Brookes’ latest foray in fashion, which Jeremy assured her would only help her career, was defying gravity. Gillian tried smoothing it down, but winced. Pain shot through her skull whenever she touched the lump on the side of her skull.

Jeremy had a nasty temper when he didn’t get his way.

The telephone rang again.

Answer first, Shower later.

         Gillian threw on her silk nightgown, exhaustion setting in like a wet wool cloak. She pulled her nightgown around her shoulder, slowly, wincing and pulled open the door. The narrow hall danced with dust motes, catching in the reflected light of the window meeting the painted white walls, adorned with frames of her proudest moments on the silver screen. Gillian took ten steps, tentatively, to the end table that sat on the left hand side of the door, the phone standing tall and vibrating ceaselessly. The sound rang like a harpy through Gillian’s pounding skull.

         She picked up the receiver in one hand and the telephone base in the other, juggling the two as best she could and trying to decide which end was which.

“Hello?” There was no answer on the other line, so Gillian repeated herself, before swapping the handle and the receiver.  How anyone can use these things I’ll never know.

“Gilly, doll, what took you so long?”

         The hall grew ten degrees colder. Gillian leaned against the doorframe, closed her eyes and breathed slowly, keeping her composure, while her head throbbed. “Hello, Jeremy.”

“It’s been too long.” It was last night, you ass. “I need to see you,” Gillian’s stomach turned. “We need to talk. Be at my office at three o’clock, sharp.” The line went dead. Jeremy never was one for saying goodbye.

         Gillian stumbled back to her room, collapsing on the silk sheets bundled up on her bed.

I can have five minutes to cry. No more.  Once the sheets she lay on were good and damp, Gillian composed herself, sat back in front of the dresser and breathed deeply, gently smoothing down her hair.

“Never let them see you sweat. Right, Dad?”  She placed the picture back in its corner and checked her reflection. This will never do.

While fixing her hair into pin curls, and finding her favourite white cloche hat hiding in her dresser drawer, Gillian prepared the face she would put on for the world; a hint of a smile on her lips, wide eyes and a mysterious aura. She shook her shoulders, her hands, her arms, until the shaking was involuntary before she stopped, surveyed and deemed herself acceptable.

“Who says I’m not a good actress?” She air-kissed her mirror image, feigned a giggle and found her favourite pale green chiffon and silk dress hidden away like a lost treasure in the depths of her closet. 

         Gillian closed her apartment door behind her and climbed down the stairs, cursing her 5th floor apartment. The foyer was empty apart from the door man, dressed in red, who tipped his hat to her as she exited the building. “Afternoon, Ms. Anders.”

So it’s afternoon, then.

“Good afternoon,” Gillian just breezed past him like a ghost, raised her clutch in her hand and hailed a cab. The Manhattan skyline was a dusty grey, clouds sweeping over the heads of the pedestrians on the street, bustling through the people traffic. Gillian grabbed her hat as it blew in the wind, and a cab pulled up to the curb. She hastily bustled inside.

“What time is it?” She asked on sitting.

“It's Two Thirty, Ma’am.” Her driver replied.

Damn it straight to hell.

“Can you bring me to Murray Hill, please?”

“Yes Ma’am.” The driver looked back. “Wait, are you Gillian Anders?”

Gillian smiled. “No, but I get that all the time.”

“Sorry Ma’am. But you could be her younger sister, you know that?”

“Can you make this as quickly as possible? I can’t be late.” Gillian clutched her hands together and sat staring blankly at passers-by until she reached her destination.

         Throwing the cab driver the fare without another word, she stared up at the large, brownstone building.

More stairs, she greeted the doorman, and made her way to Jeremy’s office on the third floor.

         The red walls left nothing to the imagination. Jeremy liked things big and bold. Gillian greeted Marjorie, who sat at her desk taking phone calls. She looked up from her notes, pushed back a strand of hair and said “Mr. Pearson will see you in a moment, Ms. Anders.” Gillian nodded and sat on one of the chairs to the left of Jeremy’s office door. Gillian watched Marjorie work; the constant clicking of her hands on the typewriter cacophonous while Marjorie moved back and forth at her desk, toe tapping frantically, almost starting a fire from the friction.

Marjorie’s head snapped up and said “Mr. Pearson will see you now.”

“More’s the pity.” Marjorie gave her a blank look and Gillian entered through the mahogany doors.

         Jeremy’s office was so contrary to Gillian’s apartment that it took her a second to focus. It was four square walls, adorned with nothing. Red paint glared at you like an enemy, while the library of books Jeremy never read sat behind his desk like an old friend. Jeremy, himself, had his legs crossed on his desk, leaning back in his chair and surveying everything like a hawk. Sweeping a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, he sat up, walked to the door and said “Marjorie, hold all my calls,” he loosened his tie “this could take a while.”

The door shut like an iron vice.

“Sweetheart, you look tired.” Jeremy swept a chair in front of his desk and offered it to Gillian, who moved to the couch beside the window on the other side. He shrugged, rolled his neck and sat back at his desk.

Jeremy grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket, released one from the box, tapped it on the glass table in front of him, placed it between his lips and refused to light it.

         Gillian smoothed the creases out of the smooth lace and flimsy chiffon, before sitting down, as elegantly as possible, on the chaise longue and staring out the window, dreaming along the horizon.

“Why do you never light those things, Jer?” Gillian watched the sun fade from orange to black, disappearing from sight, while the summer breeze wafted through the window of Jeremy’s office. He had called her in for a meeting, which hadn’t happened for a while. Gillian hadn’t missed his infrequent calls and more than frequent leers.

“Didn’t you know? Smoking’s bad for your health.” Jeremy’s smug grin made Gillian’s skin crawl, almost as much as his roving eyes, while he ravaged her with his mind. Nauseous did not even begin to describe how she felt, so she just kept her sight focused on the Manhattan skyline

“You rang, Jeremy?”

“Well, obviously.” Hair creaked as he turned. “We need to talk.”

“You said. Do you have an audition for me?”

         Jeremy sat forward on his desk, stretching out his arms, clenching his fists together. “That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“You actually have an audition for me?”

         Shadows fell across his face as he plucked the unlit cigarette from his mouth and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. He sat back against the seat and drummed his fingers against the wooden surface. “I have to let you go.”

“What?”

“I can’t represent you anymore.” Gillian clutched her chest, pulling at the string of pearls around her neck and wringing them like wet sheets.

“I don’t understand.”

“I knew you were getting old, honey, but dumb too? Tut, tut. And would you try not to frown so much? You already have wrinkles.” Gillian touched her face tentatively. “How about a smile?” Jeremy’s patented catchphrase made Gillian’s blood boil. She leapt from her seat, and began to pace the room, wearing tracks in the carpet.

“You’re firing me? You can’t fire me...you can’t.”

“I think I just did.”

         The familiar scent of scotch hugged her senses, and she stopped, longing for a sip, maybe a swallow...

         Jeremy downed the glass, running a finger around the rim and pouring another sizable measure. “That’s your problem, right there. You want it too much; the scotch, the work. It’s a necessity. It should be as easy as breathing, or it has to seem like it. Appearances mean everything. And, unfortunately Sweetheart, you’re just not a good enough actress to hide the big bundle of crazy simmering underneath that pretty, polished shell of yours.”

Gillian’s jaw tensed. “I’m not a good actress?”

Jeremy shrugged. “You’re no Vilma Banky.”

         Jeremy grabbed another crystal class and filled it to the half-way mark. He held it out to Gillian. Taking two cautious steps, Gillian wrapped her hands around the glass, holding it like a precious jewel while it twinkled in the sun.

         The glass shattered into sparkling shards, the scotch racing down the walls like blood. Jeremy’s hand wrapped around her neck like a noose.

“You ungrateful little—“

“What?” Gillian fought against his weight as he pressed himself closer. “I gave you everything. I left Hollywood because you asked me to; because you said it would be a better opportunity.”

“It’s not my fault you haven’t got the chops, kid.”

         Jeremy’s hands drifted towards Gillian’s shoulders, playing with the straps of her dress. “Now, what would you do to keep me around, huh?”

“You’re twisted, you know that?” Gillian slapped Jeremy, hard, across the face. “How about I tell everyone what you did to me? How you forced me again? How would that go down, huh?”

“Forced you? You must be mistaken. that sure as hell never happened.”

“Don’t you remember last night?” She wanted to set him on fire. Sit there and watch him burn like the hellion he was.

“Nothing happened that you didn’t want to do: seducing me, teasing me...”

She spat in his face, and all hell broke loose.

         Gillian went crashing in to the floor, constellations forming before her eyes, while the constant throbbing in her side exploded with every thrust of Jeremy’s impeccably shiny shoes.

“That’s all you are a stupid. Little. Tramp.” The blood roared like a waterfall in her ears, every part of her body trembling. Jeremy grabbed his cigarette, grabbed a match from the box in his pocket and lit it, mumbling “stupid bitch” in the process.

“Stop it,” her whimpers barely filled the silence of the room. Gillian looked up, pleading, but Jeremy was frozen in spot, eyes wide and horrified.

The door was open.

“Hey, Jeremy?” Marjorie crooned, running the blade of the letter opener across his exposed neck. “You look down. How about a smile?”

And, quick as a flash, Jeremy crumpled into a bloody heap on the ground, blood seeping like thick paint onto the carpet where he fell. Gillian watched in shock, waiting until the last bubble stopped.

“What did you—? “

         Marjorie wiped the bloody knife off Jeremy’s sleeve, fixing her flyaway hairs in the reflection. She turned her eyes to Gillian and said “you didn’t think you were the only one, did you?”

         It was like the air was being sucked out of the room, thunderous roars ringing in her ears, yellow spots blinking in and out of sight.

The Marjorie slapped her cheek so hard it swapped sides.

“Help me.”

“With what?”

“Get rid of the body.”

“Oh no,” Gillian back away, her back hitting against the cold window pane. “No, no, no, I had nothing to do with this.”

“Oh really? You were at Jeremy’s office, I heard you get in a heated argument, and before I knew what was happening, you were threatening to kill him,”

“That never—“

“And I ran in as fast as I could—“

“You wouldn’t.”

“But it was too late. He was lying on the floor, throat cut and you were standing over him with a knife in your hand.”

"But...you..I'll tell them what really happened."

"Who do you think they're more likely to believe: the sweet, caring, crying secretary, or the washed up has-been with a drinking problem and a bad attitude, huh?"

         Metal and salt. That’s all she could smell in the room that usually stank of scotch and broken dreams.

“What do you need me to do?”

         Marjorie smiled. “Grab that bottle of scotch.”

I could use a drink. Gillian grabbed the crystalline bottle, her trembling fingers seeking comfort in the familiar feeling, and reluctantly passed the bottle. Marjorie took a stiff drink, her face growing red, before throwing the remains of the bottle over the body.

The Body.

         Marjorie reached into Jeremy’s pocket, fished out a box of matches and struck one, watching the flame flicker, before throwing it on the floor.

“I suggest you leave, forget this happened, and move back to Hollywood. There’s nothing left for you here.”

Gillian left, the building, got in a cab and never turned back.