Forget to Remember

down on the bed. The flight from Los Angeles had been an over-nighter. She closed her eyes, intending to take a short rest before she started making plans.
    ***
    A ringing telephone woke Carol. Where was she? Her brain quickly sorted through possibilities until it came up with London. Who would be calling her here? She realized it was her cell phone ringing. What time was it? A quick glance at the cheap watch she’d purchased said six o’clock. P.m. or a.m.? Had she slept all night? She picked up the phone from the small table beside the bed and said hello.
    “Hi Carol, this is Rigo.”
    “Hi.”
    “Did I wake you?”
    She must sound sleepy. “No…well, yes. What time is it?”
    “It’s ten a.m. here. There’s an eight hour time difference so it’s six p.m. there.”
    “Oh, right. I was just taking a nap.”
    “I’m glad you got there okay. I just wanted to see if the SIM card we installed in the phone works.”
    “Apparently it does.” The Ramirezes insisted they be able to reach her by cell phone. Carol was glad they had. It didn’t make her feel quite so isolated. Paul Vigiano was paying the charges, so that wasn’t a problem.
    She chatted with Rigo, glad he was concerned about her. However, she didn’t want to prolong the conversation until it became maudlin. “I’d better go out and look for something to eat. That’s the best way of adjusting to local time. While walking to the hotel I saw Italian, Greek, and Indian restaurants. There’s also a Burger King, so I won’t starve.”
    She disconnected and made herself presentable. She had spoken to Paul on the phone several times before she left. She wanted to stay in his good graces, and possibly be able to get more financing from him if she needed it, so she’d discussed with him how she could best look for Cynthia. That gave her a purpose, because at the moment she hadn’t the faintest idea how to look for herself. All she knew was she wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar. Frances had confirmed that.

    CHAPTER 25
    Carol waited until nine thirty to purchase her all-day tube pass so she received the cheaper rate. Having recovered some of her lost sleep, she was again very conscious of her financial situation. No more Heathrow Express rides. She rode the Circle Line from Paddington to Sloane Square, feeling at home on the rumbling train. She was able to find a seat after the second stop and observed the other passengers. Their variety convinced her London was every bit as cosmopolitan as Los Angeles.
    Since she had no leads on herself, she had decided to follow one Paul had given her for Cynthia. It was an address in Chelsea. Cynthia’s first and apparently only letter had come from there. Then she evaporated like a puddle when the sun comes out. Carol’s immediate mental association with Chelsea was a line from the musical, Cabaret , “…with whom I shared four sordid rooms in Chelsea,” sung by Sally Bowles, in reference to a dead roommate named Elsie who had apparently been an alcoholic and drug addict, as well as a prostitute.
    That had been before World War II. There was nothing sordid about the modern Chelsea, which was bordered by the River Thames on the south and featured a number of streets with high-class retail establishments. Carol was happy to spot a McDonald’s, not because she craved fast food or was homesick for the U.S., but because she knew its prices would be within her budget in case she was in this area when she became hungry.
    She kept her map folded into a small square because she didn’t want to look too touristy, but she didn’t want to get lost either. The address she was looking for was off Kings Road. She kept pace with the fast walkers that crowded the commercial area, feeling good about being able to stretch her limbs. She was certain it would take her several days to recover from being cooped up on the plane.
    The building that matched the address was in surprisingly good shape, not exactly a hangout for a starving artist. There was an intercom system at the entrance. Carol pushed the button that matched the flat number Paul had given her. She waited, wondering whether anybody was there.
    “Yeah.”
    The voice was that of a man, probably not old.
    Carol got up her courage to respond. “I’d like to talk to you.”
    “About what, mate?”
    “About a missing girl who might have lived here for a while.”
    Pause. Had she scared him? He finally spoke. “Come on up. Top floor.”
    He buzzed her in, and she