Chapter 1: Charlotte

I sat quietly on the upper deck of the train sharing the cabin with only a handful of other late morning passengers. One young couple a few rows behind me quietly argued, their words indistinct and ethereal. A bearded older gentleman silently read a Heinlein novel, the title partially obscured by his hand; perhaps Stranger in a Strange Land, but I couldn’t be certain from my vantage. Regardless, I felt like a stranger and I was hurtling towards a strange land. The man seemed eerily familiar to me, perhaps from a former life, wearing a stylish brown fedora and a tie-dyed shirt peeking from his unbuttoned grey overcoat. A battered briefcase rested on the empty seat beside him featuring the initials: DW. Overall, he reminded me of a displaced flower child transported magically out of time to my train. Engrossed in his novel, he didn’t notice my casual scrutiny and I turned my attention to the scenery.

Outside the thick glass of the window, snow fell gently as empty stations, barren trees, brick buildings and snow-covered fields passed. I rested one boot on the edge of the empty seat across from me, fingers entwined about my knee. The gentle motion of the train lulled me to the edge of sleep.

As we approached the skyscrapers and the central tower composing the urban skyline, the train decelerated, destination announcements harsh against my ears. The man wearing the fedora bookmarked and closed his book, flashing me a quick and friendly smile, unusual for the city. I returned the smile politely. Gathering his briefcase, he rose from his seat, shuffling towards the exit stairs. Behind me, the argument resolved into obscurity. As the train shuddered to a final stop with a hiss and a jolt, I checked my watch, gathered my coat and pushed myself to my feet, following Heinlein towards his strange land.

I sighed to myself.

“What the hell am I doing?”

No answer magically appeared.

PATH commenced at the train station, a huge underground complex of tunnels filled with pedestrians, shops and restaurants. I joined the flow of fellow rats familiar with this maze, walking leisurely towards the food court where Cameron and I had often met in the distant past.

I arrived at the court fifteen minutes before noon. I purchased an overpriced bottle of Evian water and settled at a back table, content to watch the ebb and flow of urban humanity. Businessmen in suits, couples holding hands, and students sporting multicolour hair all scurried through organized chaos, a primate river tumbling and splashing under the city.

At five minutes to noon, I spotted her, walking purposefully and confidently down an escalator, one hand trailing slender fingers casually on the handrail before stepping off and striding towards one of the multitude of vendor counters surrounding the court. She wore a custom tailored Armani suit with matching heels. What looked to be natural blonde hair formed a tight bun, swept away from her face, accentuating her high cheek-bones. She wore minimal makeup. Her body movement reminded me of the easy grace of a runner or gym rat. Maybe both.

Her right hand grasped a pink cowboy hat.

Mine were not the only eyes following the woman; she carried an air of boardroom authority that attracted attention like moths to a flame. She was either very good at ignoring the scrutiny, or she was oblivious to it. At the counter, she ordered lunch and then slowly turned scanning the food court; her eyes drifted over me sitting at the back as if I were invisible, without a hint of recognition or acknowledgement. Clearly, she didn’t know who I was, which I somewhat expected. Without the pink hat, I wouldn’t recognize who I was meeting, either. If nothing else, Cameron was astute. If I chose, I could simply rise from the obscure table and disappear into the anonymous human river. Armani wouldn’t have been any the wiser. I probably should have done exactly that, but Cameron and I both knew making that choice wasn’t in my nature.

I continued to sip at my water, intrigued.

Armani didn’t look especially unhappy.

I slipped unannounced into the seat across from her, setting my Evian on the table beside her Icelandic. Her table was prudently isolated in the middle of the food court. The closest patrons to us sat four tables away, engrossed in easy conversation, paying us no attention. The pink hat rested on the table in clear view between us, like a talisman. For a moment, her blue eyes flashed surprise at my appearance. I felt her size me up, whatever surprise my entrance caused fading quickly. She betrayed no sign of any conclusions about me that she may have reached.

She set her plastic fork on the table beside her half-consumed salad and summoned a nervous smile.

“Cameron’s friend, I assume?” she said.

I returned her smile. “Pink hat lady, I presume? Cameron tends to the dramatic.”

“She speaks highly of you. Though she failed to mention that you were so...”

“Charming? Ginger? Witty?” I ventured as she hesitated.

Another smile graced her lips. “ ... female. But she also failed to mention the other qualities, much as they seem plausible.”

I silently cursed Cameron. This woman had clearly been expecting a man, though she appeared to be skilled at rolling with the punches. Actually, she seemed exceptionally capable of dealing with the unexpected. If she was concerned or disappointed in my gender, she showed no sign of it beyond the initial surprise.

She held out her hand. Automatically, I grasped it and shook it briefly. Her hand radiated a warmth against mine; firm with no awkward tightening of the handshake as some men like to assert.

She introduced herself: “I’m Charlotte.”

For a brief moment of insanity, I considered responding with my real name.

“Pleased to meet you, Charlotte. My friends call me Crimson.”

She considered that for a moment, her eyes tracing the matching hair falling loose about my shoulders.

“What do your enemies call you?” she asked. Her eyes pierced through me.

I smiled casually.

“I don’t make many enemies.” The statement wasn’t entirely true, but it would suffice.

Slowly she nodded.

“I wish I could say the same,” Charlotte said.

Cameron says that I have a unique talent for listening and solving problems. If that were true, there would be no wars and Cameron and I would probably still be more than friends. Nevertheless, I asked Charlotte to tell me a little about herself. If she was as unhappy as Cameron indicated, I hoped to gain some insight. I still didn’t know why I remained sitting across from this woman who, on the surface, couldn’t have been more different than me.

Charlotte unlocked her gaze from me, her eyes becoming somewhat unfocused as she spoke. Her voice began hesitantly, an employment candidate, uncertain and nervous to be talking about herself. As the narrative progressed, her voice strengthened and became more solid and sure, matching her clothing, hair and overall demeanour.

“I work up there,” Charlotte said hesitantly. She gestured vaguely above our heads. Sixty-eight floors of skyscraper, countless tons of concrete and steel, perched above our heads. I didn’t ask which company or floor she worked on. She didn’t elaborate. “This morning,” she continued, “I spent nearly half a billion dollars with a stroke of a pen, and profited nearly three times that. There are a lot of worried men and women gathered around a very imposing conference table.” She paused for a moment gathering her thoughts. “Most of them probably hate me, whisper about the cold bitch in the fancy Armani as soon as I left the room.” She paused again, blue eyes intently watching a point far above my head. “That’s a typical Friday morning.” She sighed softly. “There goes the Armani, Louboutin, Rolex, Gucci wearing, deal brokering senior vice president, queen bitch, the ruthless Charlotte.” Her voice remained flat and emotionless. I felt no desire to ever be sitting across a very imposing conference table from ruthless Charlotte.

Her eyes dropped from the invisible dot somewhere above me. Her blue eyes shone with a terrifying inner strength, a strength that Charlotte undoubtedly cultivated and directed at her boardroom adversaries. “That’s all common knowledge. If you knew my full name, I’m certain you could hunt it all down.” Privately, I thought: even without your full name. I had no intention of ever hunting. I had no reason to doubt her, and while her employment might provide some insights, I remained uncertain why I continued to sit at her table with the pink hat.

“Can I trust you?”

I hesitated.

“You can,” I noted simply, “but you don’t know me well enough for you to trust that answer either.”

She pondered, her eyes rising to that invisible dot again and again losing focus.

“Cameron says I can trust you. That you can help me.”

“I don’t know if I can help you or not, because I have no idea with what you require assistance. I know nothing of finances or ruthlessness, and I’d never be sitting at your conference table. I have no reason to betray you, or anyone else, for that matter. I guess the question you might want to consider is this: do you trust Cameron?” I trusted Cameron or I wouldn’t be here.

She sighed and returned her eyes to my face, somehow looking beyond my freckled features. Her eyes became less harsh, less ruthless, less piercing. She consummated her decision.

“I’m going to tell you something I have never told another soul. Not even Cameron, though I suspect she somehow knows.”

Cameron was like that: knowing things she oughtn’t. Maddening. Eerie.

Charlotte remained silent for a full minute. It seemed like an eternity, but I patiently waited as she gathered her thoughts or her courage. When she began speaking, her voice dropped in volume; a whisper, but not a whisper. Charlotte’s cheeks flushed. I strained to hear her.

“When I was in high school,” she began haltingly, “even before that, my parents would go out with friends every Wednesday. I had the house to myself and I looked forward to it. It was quiet and I enjoyed the solitude. They would leave, sometimes ask me to clean up the kitchen. I watched their Oldsmobile crawl up the street and disappear around the corner.” She hesitated then, but then continued. “I’d go to my bedroom and disrobe. Back then it was an illicit thrill, walking around the house naked. If I’d been asked, I’d clean the kitchen like that. I felt free.” She looked at me, the flush still in her cheeks. “Do you understand?”

I nodded, not sure where this was going. Her experience wasn’t all that unusual or concerning. I knew some serious nudists, some from childhood. Personally, I still stripped down at home when the mood struck, easier now that I lived alone, but I wouldn’t classify myself as a naturist either. I understood the freedom aspect. I continued to focus on her story.

“I have no idea where the idea came from, or why, but it just felt right,” she said quietly. Channeling Cameron, I knew she was no longer speaking only about wandering about her parents’ home without her clothes. I reached forward and touched her hand. Her fingers felt cooler and she didn’t seem to notice the contact, nor did she pull her hand back.