Chapter Text
Helen sighs into her laptop and squints at her phone, hoping Claudia might somehow feel the weight of her mildly irritated gaze. “Her daughter is only five, so no trouble at all. Just dinner, bed, and before you know it, you’re back home.”
“Oh, Claudia… I don’t know. I was going to work on my column tonight.”
As I do every night. But she doesn’t say that. Claudia probably already knows that Helen’s social life has the structural integrity of a folding chair, held together mostly by their weekly coffee dates, the occasional office check-in, and an hour scheduled every other Thursday with an elderly gentleman who begins every sentence, “And how does that make you feel?” Helen doesn’t mind it, exactly. She’s grown accustomed to the quiet rhythm of her miniature orbit. It’s predictable, and Helen feels comfortable within the days she can expect.
“I know, I know,” Claudia says, already guilt-laced and halfway to pleading. “But Madeline’s babysitter just canceled and we can’t move the reservation. Margot is an angel, I swear.” Helen glances out the window at the street below, gray and damp and aggressively dull; she sinks further into her blanket.
She absolutely does not want to go.
But she loves Claudia. And she does have a soft spot for well-behaved children and people in desperate need of her assistance.
“Okay,” she says, already regretting it. “What time do you need me?”
“Oh my God, Hel, I adore you! This restaurant is so viral right now.”
Helen’s already halfway out of her pajamas, phone on speaker, slumped onto the bed.
“What time, Claudia?”
“Like… now?”
“Be grateful that I adore you.”
Helen’s hair is damp, and the toe she stubbed rushing out of her apartment is still throbbing when she buzzes up to the apartment number Claudia gave her. “Madeline Ashton. Can I help you?” Even through the crackly intercom, the voice is overly confident — like she’s answering the door to a fancy condo, not a walk-up in Chelsea. Helen’s already annoyed when she clears her throat.
“Hi, Madeline. It’s Helen Sharp, your sister rang me about—”
“Oh yes, come up.”
The line cuts before she can finish her sentence or respond, and she’s left blinking at the door. Not exactly rude, just… abrupt. Helen makes her way upstairs, forming an opinion of Madeline which, so far, leans toward the unflattering. Brisk, overly assertive, probably a nightmare to have a balanced conversation with.
She adjusts the strap on her bag, laptop with her at all times, and makes her way upstairs telling herself that she doesn’t care. Helen is here for Margot, that’s it. She can put up with the girl’s overly strung mother for one night.
At the top of the second flight of stairs, Helen pauses, doublechecks the address, and knocks. Not before taking a deep breath in preparation, of course. Helen, despite having seen pictures of Madeline before, finds herself stunned when they lock eyes; Madeline is beautiful, so beautiful it’s irritating. Her smile is practiced, and her gaze has Helen feeling crowded, like she’s stepped into a world that belongs to Madeline alone.
“Hello… Helen, is it? Thank you for coming so last minute. I've really got to run, but let's do a quick introduction for my baby?” There’s no small talk or effort to charm as Helen is welcomed into the hallway, her attention tethered solely to her daughter; Helen is not worth lingering on.
“Oh, of course!” She offers a smile toward Margot, a small five-year-old girl with curly blonde hair and a nervous demeanor. “Hi, Margot. It’s lovely to meet you.” Margot is incredibly cute, all rosy cheeks and darting blue eyes as she offers a polite, clearly rehearsed introduction. She glances to her mother, seeking confirmation that she has behaved as expected, and Helen observes the quiet pride in Madeline when her face softens.
But as quickly as it comes, Madeline turns back to Helen. “Claudia should’ve told you everything, but in short, there’s dinner in the fridge, it just needs microwaving,” Madeline says, already halfway to the door. Helen can’t help but watch the way she moves — purposeful, poised, perfectly illuminated by the low lighting. “Feel free to help yourself. Margot’s in bed for seven, she’ll pick a book from the shelf.”
“Sounds perfect. I’m sure we’ll have a great time.” Helen smiles, hoping it reads as natural and capable. She is looking after this woman’s daughter, after all.
Madeline smiles politely and moves Margot to the door, speaking in affectionate hushed tones as they hug goodbye. “I love you, Mango. Be good for Helen.”
“Love you, Mommy.”
Helen feels out of place, glancing around the apartment in a way she’s aware must seem stilted. A few more seconds of farewells, a final pleasantry between the women, and then Madeline is gone, leaving Helen and Margot standing awkwardly in a space that suddenly feels very empty.
“Would you like to eat now, Margot?”
“Yes, please.”
They make their way into the kitchen just off from the hallway, and Helen finally sees the living space in its entirety. It’s cozy, with a marbled island dividing the kitchen from the living room. Two windows stretch across the far wall, promising generous light, which Helen imagines must look beautiful against the backdrop of artwork Madeline has clearly curated with care.
It takes a few moments to locate the pre-prepared meal, and a few more to find the cupboard that hides the microwave. Margot is eager to help — bless her — hovering by Helen’s side, clearly hoping to be useful as she makes light conversation with the young girl.
“You can go and play for a few minutes, if you’d like.” Helen offers gently. “I saw some of your toys by the sofa.”
Margot pauses, as if searching her memory, tongue peeking out in concentration. “No thank you,” she says at last. “Mommy says it’s nice to be around people.”
Helen freezes just briefly, but smiles reassuringly, careful not to make anything of the girl’s off-hand comment. Still, something about her words leaves Helen more intrigued by Madeline than she wants to admit.
It reads 7:17 p.m. on Helen’s phone by the time she sinks down into the sofa, Margot tucked into bed and the apartment quiet. She likes Margot. She’s polite and very cute, rambling on about her mother and their trip to the park earlier in the day.
For the first time, unwatched, Helen lets herself glance around the room freely. Madeline takes pride in her living space, that much is clear; bookshelves built into the red brick eaves on either side of the television are lined with novels and polished little trinkets. Helen lingers momentarily on the books, scanning for familiar titles. She wonders what genres Madeline enjoys reading, or if the novels are simply for show.
She assumes the latter.
Blankets are folded neatly by the sofa, next to a not so neat basket overflowing with children’s toys. It’s all beautifully furnished, thoughtful, and probably quite expensive. A far cry from Helen’s patchwork of secondhand finds and reliance on Facebook Marketplace.
The apartment feels relatively impersonal, aside from the few framed photographs nestled among the decorations. In one, Margot clings to her mother’s neck, both of them smiling in a way that makes Helen feel briefly, unexpectedly warm — until she just feels lonely, a dull weight settling in her chest.
She settles comfortably into the sofa with her laptop, resisting the urge to snoop further, and resigns herself to finishing at least one more page before Madeline returns. She envisions a quick exit on her part, and then at least an hour to read in bed while she waits for her sleeping medication to kick in.
How embarrassing, Helen finds herself thinking, the highlight of her night afforded to her by a prescription.
Madeline returns around 9 p.m., a telltale clatter behind the door and a hushed shit leaving Helen to assume she might be a little tipsy. It doesn’t surprise her; Claudia has been known to enjoy one drink too many. Helen quickly packs her laptop away and awkwardly gets to her feet, sits again, and then stands once more. It’s as though she’s forgotten how to behave like a normal person.
“Helen!”
Madeline sweeps into the hallway, dress flowing behind her calves with an almost theatrical flair. “You look like a deer in headlights, my dear.” Before Helen can respond, Madeline’s attention shifts to the kitchen where she begins rummaging around in search of something. Helen assumes she’s talking to herself when she starts muttering in hushed tones, “Deer… dear. Honestly…”
“Well… I hope you enjoyed your evening. Margot is asleep and fed,” Helen says, edging toward the hallway, still watching as Madeline rummages. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“A-ha!” Madeline grins, dramatically presenting a bottle of expensive-looking red wine. “I knew it was in here somewhere. Care for a glass?” She’s already pouring one for each of them, and Helen can feel her carefully constructed evening plans slipping from her grasp.
“Sounds lovely. Just a quick glass though, if you don’t mind. I’ve got work in the morning.” It’s not entirely true. Tomorrow’s plans consist of walking to her favorite library — a small, rundown number in the East Village — where she hopes to get some pages written, but Madeline doesn’t need to know that.
Madeline just smiles sweetly, and Helen hates that a woman so haughty, so seemingly uptight, exudes a presence so compelling. She doesn’t even enjoy wine. Not red, anyway. But she likes the quiet confidence that has Madeline pouring it without waiting for an answer, the absence of permission that leaves Helen unwilling to object. It becomes clear: people don’t say no to Madeline Ashton.
They have a short conversation across the kitchen island, Madeline complaining about Claudia’s insistence that she needs a partner to “…adequately care for Margot. I mean, who does she think she is! Actually I think she might have been joking…”
The conversation is, as expected, very Madeline-focused, and Helen finds herself nodding along and hoping she’s umming and ahhing at the right moments. She watches when Madeline sips from her glass with an understated elegance that Helen finds herself quietly trying to mimic. She’s never met anyone like Madeline before — never met anyone who moves with such purpose, with such effortless poise.
It’s incredibly infuriating.
When Helen arrives home, albeit half an hour later than intended, she feels strange.
It’s the wine.
She spends a few minutes in front of the bathroom mirror convincing herself of this. The wine. That, and how irritatingly perfect Madeline is.
Her distaste toward Madeline doesn’t stop Helen from researching her, of course.
Madeline Ashton quickly becomes her top search across the social media platforms she frequents, and a quick Google search confirms what Claudia has already told her: a producer for both off-Broadway and Broadway shows, a respectable 18,839 followers on Instagram. Her search turns up nothing new, nothing unexpected or scandalous. It only makes Helen more curious.
She hovers over the Follow button briefly, then thinks better of it. That would be weird. Madeline would think it embarrassing.
Just go to sleep.
It takes an hour for Helen to drift off while her medicine kicks in — too restless to read, wired from the wine, and wondering whether Madeline has fallen asleep yet.