The on-screen camera pulled out rapidly and they could see that a second plane had flown into the other tower.
‘Fuck,’ whispered Alex. He wasn’t sure if he knew anyone who would be so far downtown at nine o’clock in the morning. Then again, the horrors unfolding on the television were so shocking and surreal, it was impossible to think clearly about anything.
The driver pressed his fingers to his earpiece. ‘Sir, I have a contact who says fighters have been scrambled,’ he said, glancing into his rear-view mirror. ‘There’s a plane heading for Washington, maybe a couple more.’
The car was hurtling towards the George Washington Bridge at over fifty miles an hour, but they were forced to slow as they reached the on-ramp. A crush of traffic was causing a bottleneck and police vans were pulling up, officers unloading barriers.
‘Get us through,’ ordered Falk.
‘Hold on, ladies and gents,’ said the driver. They felt a bump as the car mounted a kerb, then swerved around a barrier. There was frantic beeping and a policeman jumped out waving his arms, but the driver ignored him, squeezing the big car between a truck and a minivan, losing a wing-mirror in the process. Alex could see that they had just made it on to the bridge; the barriers were right across the four lanes behind them.
‘God help anyone still on there,’ said David as they watched the island metropolis disappear.
Alex thought of friends living in SoHo, and Tribeca. Mike, Josh, Marty, all the crew in the van in midtown.
He was running away again. It was what he did best.
The car took them upstate to the sumptuous country home of David’s friend, the fashion designer Todd Barabosa. Within a few hours it had become a refugee camp for the super-rich and influential: all of the celebrities, powerbrokers and foreign dignitaries with the influence and connections to get them out of Manhattan had come here, spirited into the gated estate by armed drivers. Todd’s staff made food and kept the coffee flowing but no one was in the mood to eat or drink. People stood in small huddles close to the huge plasma televisions, watching the terrible events unfold, some crying, others stunned into a muted disbelieving silence. Everyone in the room knew they were going nowhere; the airports were in lock-down, the bridges and tunnels in and out of Manhattan closed, and until they knew what was really happening, they were in the safest place.
Alex didn’t feel safe. He felt vulnerable and isolated. Everyone seemed to have someone to call – loved ones, families, connected people with information. Alex had called his mum, who burst into tears of relief when she heard his voice, but he didn’t really have anyone else. He smiled at the irony. Thousands, no, millions of girls would chop off an arm to get close to him, yet there was no one out there frantically calling him, checking he was OK. Feeling hemmed in, he walked outside into the garden, a gush of balmy late-afternoon breeze ruffling his long hair.
‘Alex, wait!’ He turned to see Melissa running after him. ‘I don’t really know anyone in there. Do you mind if I tag along?’
‘Not at all.’
They wandered through the luscious grounds, not talking – there didn’t seem to be anything to say. They took a dusty path through the mowed lawns studded with beds of foxgloves and roses, up towards a shady copse that overlooked the whole estate. From there, Alex could see the colonial house, a glinting lake and a paddock of horses grazing peacefully. No one would know that anything was wrong with the world from this distance. They sat down on the hillside and he stole a sideways glance at Melissa. She really was an incredibly sexual creature: pillowy lips, high cheekbones and pale blond hair that she pulled back from her long neck. Most of all, though, he liked the way she seemed human; genuinely devastated by the events.
‘You didn’t know anyone in the towers?’
He shook his head.
‘You live in LA, don’t you?’ It wasn’t really a question. It was one of the strange things about being famous; people knew things about you. He was also amazed at the way other celebrities would instantly bond with you, a complicit understanding that you were part of their club. They talked vaguely about the people they knew in common, sharing silly stories and amusing anecdotes, talking of a life far beyond the tragic scenes of lower Manhattan. As the sun began to slip from the sky, Alex realised they had been there over an hour and that it was turning cold.
‘I think I’m going to get back to the house,’ he said.
‘Stay with me just a little while longer,’ she said, still staring out over the fields.
He shrugged. ‘OK, cool.’
And when she rested her head on his shoulder and he pulled her close, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. On a day like this, everybody needed someone to make them feel just a little bit less vulnerable and afraid. Because for all their money and fame and acquaintances, neither of them had anyone to hold them. They were both alone.
&
nbsp; 42
January 2002
‘This is so spooky,’ said Olivia, grabbing her mother’s hand so tightly she could feel the wedding ring dig into her flesh. Not for the first time, Grace wondered why she still wore it, even if she had switched it to her right hand.
‘Actually, darling, I think it’s rather beautiful,’ whispered Grace. ‘Like somewhere a fairy princess might get married. It’s very romantic.’
On any other day, the loch-side chapel would have looked bleak and severe against the deep violet Scottish sky, the highland hills pressing in on all sides. But this evening, it looked otherworldly, illuminated by torchlight that flickered long shadows against the stone.
‘Do you think Bonnie Prince Charlie came here?’ asked Joseph as they clambered out of the Land Rover which had brought them from their B&B. ‘We did him at school. He had a claymore sword. Can I have a sword, Mum?’
‘No, darling, you can’t,’ said Grace, pulling the collar of her cashmere coat up around her ears and leading the children past a lone piper in full clan tartan and into the church.
‘Bride or groom?’ asked a handsome usher in a midnight-blue kilt.