Nele Neuhaus - Swimming with Sharks

Sergio raised his eyebrows.

“Games?”

“Exactly. What else would you call this? A relationship? First you call to tell me to keep my weekend open, and then I read in the newspaper that you’re screwing this skinny bitch!”

He didn’t like her vulgarity, but as usual, he hid every emotion behind his expressionless face.

“I didn’t have sex with that woman,” he said.

“Oh really?” Alex grimaced in disgust. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“But it’s true. And after all, you stood me up first.”

“I have a tough job,” Alex said, without averting her gaze from his blue eyes. “I work eighty hours every week, and I can’t always be available whenever you feel like it.”

“What do you expect from me?” Sergio asked.

Yes, what did she expect? Did she expect anything at all from him anymore? Alex suddenly lost interest in this childish trial of strength. She didn’t feel like arguing with him.

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s talk about it some other time. I had a long day.”

Sergio took a long and close look at her, and then he nodded.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “It would be nice of you to stop having someone else make excuses for you.”

Alex suddenly thought of Oliver, and she felt even more miserable. She had not even talked to him about Sergio. To her own surprise, she wished she was courageous enough to tell Sergio to leave her alone. Before he could say anything else, she pushed through the crowd toward the coat check.

Alex stood on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum and took a deep breath. She longed for Oliver. Suddenly, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed his number. But she got his voice mail. Disappointed, she put her phone back in her purse. She sat down on the steps with a sigh and lit a cigarette. She didn’t care if anyone saw her. After a while, she started to feel better. She flicked the cigarette butt and went looking for a taxi. She leaned on a telephone pole, taking in the mild night air, but no taxi passed.

She was just planning on returning to the museum to tell Sergio to forget about calling when a piercing scream startled Alex out of her thoughts. In the dim light of the streetlamp, she saw two men attacking a woman who had just left the museum. Without thinking, Alex jumped up, slipped her heels off her feet, and ran over to them. The woman was lying on the ground while one of the men pulled at her purse and the other—a scruffy white guy with rotten teeth—kicked her. Alex rammed her elbow with full force into the kicking man’s back. He fell, hitting his head against a wall. His buddy let go of the purse in surprise. Alex had finally found an outlet for her pent-up frustration. She took a swing and slammed her purse into the other guy’s face and then kicked him in the groin. This sent him to his knees with a gurgling groan. With sheer panic in her eyes, the woman crawled to the side.

“Are you okay?” Alex asked the woman.

The two men had run off.

“I…I think so,” the woman whispered. Her skirt had slipped up, and her knee was bleeding. She was in a state of shock, her purse pressed to her chest. Tears ran down her face. She was probably in her early forties and appeared very refined. Some passersby had stopped on the other side of the street, and two men ran over to them.

“Could you please call the police?” Alex shouted, leaning over the woman, whose entire body was trembling.

“My necklace,” the woman whispered and felt her neck. “They tore it off me.”

“It can’t be too far from here.” Alex stroked the woman’s arm to calm her. One of the passersby from the other side of the street found the necklace on the pavement. Seconds later, a police car came rushing up with the siren howling. Another appeared shortly thereafter. The police officers asked the woman how she was doing and what had happened.

“I was at a charity event in the Metropolitan Museum,” the woman said quietly. “I thought I could walk home from here. It’s only three blocks away.”

The woman, who was still holding firmly onto Alex’s hand, starting crying again.

“You’re lucky this lady came to your rescue.”

“I’m so grateful to you!” The woman wiped her tears, smudging her makeup with the back of her hand. “How can I possibly thank you?”

“Anyone would have done that,” Alex replied. “It’s okay.”

“Unfortunately, that’s anything but the norm,” one of the police officers said. He seemed impressed. “Most people quickly move on when they see someone in trouble. Besides, those guys could have been armed.”

“But they weren’t.” Alex looked at her watch. “Can you take this lady home? I have to pick up my shoes and go home.”

“Please!” The woman grasped Alex’s hand again. “Please come with me! I live on Park Avenue, not far from here. Our driver can take you home from there, so you don’t need a taxi.”

Alex hesitated. She didn’t want to be celebrated as the Great Rescuer. After the police took more information, and sent a squad car to track down the muggers, Alex was surprised to discover that she had rushed to the aid of world-famous opera singer Madeleine Ross-Downey. She decided to get into the police car after all, which took them to 1016 Park Avenue. Alex knew the area because Sergio’s apartment was in the building right next to the Downeys’. Park Avenue between Sixtieth and Eightieth Streets was the finest and most expensive area in the city. The rich and powerful lived in large, historic buildings that would better fit a gorgeous Paris boulevard. This elitist microcosm was shielded from the poverty and desperation of East Harlem, just a mile away. Security personnel and private bodyguards made sure that Park Avenue was just as secure as a small town. The doorman of 1016 was shocked when he saw the battered Mrs. Ross-Downey climb out of the police car. She was past the initial shock, and she assured the worried doorman that she was fine.

“Is it all right if I leave you here, Mrs. Ross-Downey?” Alex asked.

“Oh please, call me Madeleine.” The opera singer gave her an unsure smile. “And please, come upstairs for a moment. My husband wouldn’t forgive me if I failed to introduce him to the woman who rescued me.”

Alex was curious about the apartment and Madeleine’s husband, Trevor Downey. The papers called him “Manhattan’s Department Store King,” the heir of the department-store chain with the same name. The two of them rode up in the marble-clad elevator to the third floor. The doorman had called upstairs, so Trevor was waiting in the open apartment door. He embraced his wife in both shock and relief, and she started to cry once again.

When Madeleine regained her composure, she introduced Alex to her husband. Trevor Downey was in his mid-forties, and he had thin sandy hair and friendly brown eyes. They went into one of the salons, which was dominated by a massive fireplace, and sat down on soft leather armchairs. Trevor poured a glass of cognac each for his wife and Alex, which they both gladly accepted. While Madeleine eloquently described the mugging and Alex’s courageous actions, Alex looked around at the luxurious apartment. With its shiny wood floors, artfully illuminated paintings in splendid golden frames, and valuable antiques, it seemed friendlier than Sergio’s cold marble palace in the adjacent building. Through the opened wing doors, she noticed a snow-white concert grand piano in the neighboring salon. Trevor wrapped a wool blanket around his poor wife’s shoulders and stroked her cheek. It was obvious that the Downeys shared a deep love and respect for each other. Alex felt a sting inside that felt almost like jealousy. For the first time in her life, Alex sensed that money and success weren’t everything.