A Breathless Place Read online

  A Breathless Place

  Harper Bliss

  Contents

  Content Note

  Chapter 1

  The Letter

  Chapter 2

  The Letter

  Chapter 3

  The Letter

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  The Letter

  Chapter 6

  The Letter

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Letter

  Chapter 13

  The Letter

  Chapter 14

  The Letter

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

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  About the Author

  Also by Harper Bliss

  Content Note

  Please be aware that this book discusses the topic of suicide which could trigger certain readers.

  Chapter 1

  I’ll be dead in six months. In 183 days to be exact. I can’t wait. But for now, the prospect alone brings me adequate comfort.

  I stare at my computer screen. The cursor blinks mockingly on the white background of the Word document. It’s supposed to be the first of many. If this is the speed I’m going to be working at, I might have to add a few days to my very last calendar. I don’t want to do that. I’ve chosen the date carefully—as carefully as these things can be chosen.

  One day after my sixtieth birthday, I will say my final goodbye. It turns out, if you want to die, there’s a lot you need to take care of. And I want every last thing to be taken care of. My perfectionist streak will continue until my very last breath. The only problem is I’m not used to sorting out every little thing myself. I have people for that. My personal assistant Daisy handles all my administration. My chef Rian cooks most of my meals. Harry takes care of my home here in New York. My manager Ira has made sure every single one of my needs has been met for the past thirty-five years. But I haven’t told him my greatest need yet.

  How do you tell someone something like that? If there is an acceptable way, I haven’t found it yet. And I’ve had years to think this through. It’s been nearly a decade since the thought first crossed my mind. Furtively at first, as though it was afraid to become a full-grown idea, the inkling of such a possibility would creep up on me in unguarded moments. It took months before it dared to linger for more than a fleeting second. Before I dared to grasp it and examine it further. It took years until I became certain it was what I wanted. But my own certainty is just that. My own. It’s not something I can easily inflict upon others. That’s what I’m trying to explain in this letter—the first of many.

  Dearest Ira, I type. Before I continue this letter, I need to decide whether I will tell him beforehand or not. It will determine what I write. I’ve been going back and forth on this. If I tell him ahead of the time, I don’t need to write him a letter. But he will try to talk me out of it. Oh, how he will try. Ira might know me best of all, but he will still try, with all his might, with all the power he has over me, to change my mind. That’s not a conversation I want to have. So I need to write this letter. But I guess I don’t need to write it today. Although that’s what I told myself yesterday as well. And the day before. I can’t keep on postponing it.

  I click out of the Word document and check the list I made of people who need to receive a letter on March 19, 2021. With the life I have lived, I figured there would be more, but there are only a few names on my list.

  Maybe I should start by writing one joint letter to all of them. I can add personal touches later on, once I’ve gotten down the gist of what I want to say.

  My phone rings. It’s my private number. The one only a handful people have—the number Daisy doesn’t screen for me. Speak of the devil. It’s Ira.

  “Izzy.” He sounds out of breath. “I just got word Bruce fell off his horse.”

  “What?” Bruce is the biographer I’ve been working with for the past two years on my final project—although, of course, Bruce doesn’t know it is my very last professional endeavor.

  “It’s bad. He’s in a coma.”

  “Oh no.” On a really bad day, I would have considered Bruce a lucky son of a bitch. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell. But…” I know Ira. The cogs in his brain are ever-turning. Business always comes first. That’s why I pay him his fifteen percent. “I spoke to the publisher. They have a replacement in mind already.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “The book was as good as done, Izzy. All the source material is there.”

  I huff out some air, making sure Ira hears my exasperated sigh on his end of the line. “Who are they suggesting?”

  “Leila Zadeh.” He sounds as though that name should impress me.

  I rack my brain. I’ve heard the name before, but that’s the only bell it rings.

  “She writes a lot for The Metropolitan,” Ira says.

  “Bruce really can’t be replaced. Not this late in the day.”

  “I know. You’re right.” The last one is Ira’s favorite sentence. “But just meet with her. See how you get along. No pressure.”

  No pressure? Yeah right. “I don’t know, Ira.” I was never totally on board with the whole biography thing, anyway. To have someone delve deep into my life like that. I only went along with it because of my own secret plan. Because by the time my biography is released into the world, I will be long gone. Ira sold me on the idea of leaving a different kind of legacy.

  But Bruce was such a likable man. Easy to talk to. Unassuming. Never pushy, although his hands-off approach seemed to work in the end. Poor Bruce. “Which hospital is Bruce in? Is he getting the best care possible?”

  “Of course.” Ira’s voice is calm. “We can go see him as soon as it’s allowed.”

  “Send me a dossier on this…. What’s her name again? Then I’ll decide.”

  “Coming your way right now.” A silence falls. “Are you okay, Izzy?” Ira asks after a while.

  “All the time I spent with Bruce and I never knew he rode horses.”

  “Hm.” I can hear Ira swallow. “It was his job to find out everything about you. Not the other way around.”

  A minute after we’ve rung off, I get a reminder on my cell phone for my workout. It’s hot instructor time in my virtual gym. Ramona’s the only reason I still show up every day. Ramona and the addictive blend of endorphins and arousal she elicits from me.

  After the news about Bruce, I need the distraction. On my computer screen, I get a notice I’ve received a new email. It’s from Ira and the subject reads Leila Zadeh.

  That will have to wait until after Ramona has made me sweat and forget.

  Dear Friends,

  * * *

  At first, this may be very difficult to comprehend, but I’m confident that, in the end, you will understand why I had to do this. Maybe not fully. Maybe not how I feel in my very bones that this is the only way things could go for me. But you will get it. That’s why I’m writing you this letter.

  I’ve thought about this for a very long time. For years and years. Taking my own life is not a decision I’ve made lightly; you can be absolutely sure of that. It’s one I’ve looked at from every possible angle. I studied the outcome of every other possibility, although, let’s be frank, between dead and alive, the options are quite limited. Or maybe that’s not entirely true. There’s only one way to be dead. But there are many ways to be alive.

  You can be alive-alive, like you, Ira. You take every bull by the horns, you take on every challenge, no matter how difficult, and ride the fuck out of it. I do love that about you, but that’s not an option for me. Since the surgery, I’ve been cautiously-alive. Well, depressed-alive at first. But the depression did lift.

  I want you to know I’m not doing this because I’m depressed. When I was depressed, I went to see Doctor March and he helped me through the worst of that. This is not a matter of depression. This is a matter of actively choosing death over life.

  I’ve led a privileged, astounding life. The kind of life people grow up dreaming of. It’s truly been a wonder. It’s a marvel, the way things have gone for me, back to when I was so young. Yes, there was pressure, and fame isn’t something that comes without adversity and its very own challenges. But it’s been truly great. If I was at all religious, I would say I’ve been blessed. Despite what happened, I have been very blessed.

  It’s also because so many wonderful things have happened to me that I’m now able to say, firmly, that, for me, it’s been enough. You may think I don’t have the right to say that, but I would disagree. This is my life. Why can’t I do what I want with it, even if it means cutting it short? Besides, you can hardly call my life short. Maybe sixty is short for some, but I sometimes feel like I’ve lived m
any lives in those sixty years. I’ve been the singer—that alone has been enough to fill so many lifetimes. I’ve been the me I’ve become after my career ended. All in all, it’s been a crazy, hectic, often ecstatic ride. A ride of which, nonetheless, I’ve had enough.

  Chapter 2

  When the bell rings, Harry, who insists on calling himself my house manager, goes to the front door to let in Leila Zadeh. After reading through the materials Ira sent, I decided to meet with her. Because I want to at least have the option of finishing the biography. The clock is ticking. 180 days left.

  From the accompanying photos, I gathered Leila Zadeh is a glamor puss, so I dressed to match her. Off-white casual suit. Shiny earrings. Even a hint of lipstick. But when Harry brings Leila into the den, I greet a woman wearing jeans and a loose-fitting blouse.

  “Miss Adler.” She beams me a wide smile. “What an honor to meet you.”

  Here we go with the deference I used to bask in but have come to despise. Because I now know how little it means. “And you.” I shake her hand. She has a firm grip. Not a hint of nervous sweat on her palm.

  “What a lovely home you have.” Leila’s jet-black hair is pulled back in a tight chignon. Her eyes are equally black as coal. Her lips are painted fire-engine red. “And you look absolutely stunning, of course.”

  Holy moly. Enough already with the inane flattery. Didn’t Ira brief her? Maybe he did, but maybe she’s decided to disregard him. Who knows, she might even mean what she says. But stunning isn’t a word I’ve associated with myself for a long time. Maybe because stunning people aren’t in the habit of wanting to die.

  “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

  “Whatever you’re having.” She glances at the cocktail glass on the coffee table.

  Busted. Not that it isn’t amaretto-sour-o’clock somewhere. I nod at Harry, who hurries off to prepare my guest’s drink.

  We sit, and I cast my glance over Leila Zadeh again. From her file, I know she’s fifty-nine, just like me. She slings one leg over the other. She’s all soft curves and her lips seem to be stretched into a perpetual smile. Her skin is the color of molten gold.

  “I’m truly thrilled you agreed to meet me. It’s shocking news about Bruce, of course.”

  “Do you know him well?” I continue my study of her. The skin around her eyes is creased. Probably because she smiles so much.

  “Quite well. We worked together a number of times. I’m, um, well-acquainted with this project as well.”

  “Are you?” I quirk up my eyebrows. I’m well aware Leila knows much more about me than I do about her—it seems to always be the case whenever I meet someone new.

  “Let’s say I’ve done a very deep dive into all things Isabel Adler in the past few days.” She rests a kind gaze on me. “It’s been fascinating, to say the least.”

  Harry knocks discreetly on the door, then walks in with a tray carrying Leila’s cocktail. He offers it to her and as he turns away from her, he shoots me a quick wink.

  Maybe I should include Harry in my list of letter receivers as well. He hasn’t worked for me that long, but I have grown very fond of him. He doesn’t behave as though he has a broomstick shoved up his ass like my previous ‘house manager’ did. He doesn’t take himself nor this job too seriously and brings a lightness that, on most days, my house sorely lacks.

  “So you’ve read all of Bruce’s notes already?” Leila’s made it sound as though her continuing the project is a done deal already.

  “Notes?” she says. “What I’ve received from his editor are not mere notes. It’s a proper first draft. Only the last few chapters are missing.”

  Bruce has been holding out on me. Last I spoke to him, he told me things were progressing slowly but surely. Maybe he wanted to finish the last few chapters before he gave me more than that. The last few chapters that span the last horrible decade of my life. I know I haven’t shared enough of my emotions for Bruce to be able to work it all into a cohesive narrative, without him having to invent things about me, or attribute feelings to me I might not have felt.

  Bruce has been quite exasperated with me the past few months. I know that much. I was slowly working my way up to sharing with him the most difficult part of my life —and now he’s being replaced.

  “I’m a touch confused, Miss Zadeh.” From her background information, I know she’s not married. “I thought you coming here today was more like… an audition.” I’m well aware of how condescending I sound. It’s a test—although it’s also true. “Whereas you’re making it sound as though it’s a given you will be taking over as my biographer.” Who gave her Bruce’s draft, anyway? I’ll have to ask Ira as soon as Leila leaves. Those notes contain very sensitive information about my life.

  “Oh,” she says, her perfectly-painted lips forming a circle of surprise. “Well, I’m not really in the habit of auditioning for jobs any longer. I usually get asked.”

  Now I can’t help but smile. Leila Zadeh doesn’t back down easily. At least I like that about her.

  “I studied your résumé,” I say. “Impressive.” I fix her with a stare—I try to keep it cool even though I am rather amused by her. “Although it hasn’t exactly made me feel as though you and I are on equal footing. You know everything I told Bruce about myself, whereas I only know about your many professional achievements.”

  She takes a sip from the cocktail, places the glass down carefully, then opens her palms. “Consider me an open book, Miss Adler. I’ll share whatever it is you want to know.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t even know Bruce rode horses. For some reason, I feel so guilty about that.” I take a quick sip from my drink as well. “I never asked him anything about himself. He just isn’t the kind of person that invites that sort of inquisitiveness.” Nice one, Izzy. If this is my way of saying I wasn’t the least bit interested in Bruce’s personal life, I must be succeeding.

  Leila nods as though she understands what I’m trying to say. “His style is to disappear into the background. From what I’ve read, it appears to have worked.”

  I chuckle. These damn journalists. They’ll play you until you’ve spilled your dirtiest, most hidden little secret. “What’s your style?”

  “I’m more… prominent.” Her lips lift into a smile. “More present.” With attention-drawing lipstick like that, I bet she is.

  “If you were to get the job.” I can’t help myself. It’s as though I need to be patronizing with her. I don’t know why. “How would you proceed?”

  Her widening smile is bracketed by small creases in her skin. “I would start by trying to fill in the missing pieces.” She stares me straight in the face. “I would need to ask you about losing your voice.”

  Bam. Leila Zadeh doesn’t mince words. She’s the opposite of Bruce. I nod, then drink again. I can drink as much as I like now. It’s not as though I still have a singing voice to look after. Neither will I need my liver to perform optimally so my body thrives for decades to come.

  “After we’ve gotten to know each other better, of course.” She slants her head. “In fact, I might start by inviting you to dinner at my house so we can establish a more intimate rapport. This is a huge project, and finishing it is not a job I underestimate just because I was brought in this late in the day.” She narrows her eyes. “That will also give you the chance to subject me to some in-depth questioning of your own.”