An Affair Abroad

by T. K. Richards

  “You okay?” he asked. I nodded yes, lying as best I could. “Stay with me,” he said as the girls handed their luggage to the attendant.

  “It was nice meeting you Mash,” said Khai.

  “Nice meeting you too. All of you. Hopefully we’ll get to hang out again soon.”

  I trembled, aware this was the moment I dreaded had arrived.

  “And thank you for taking us on the bar crawl. When you come to the states we’ll treat you right,” said Shannon.

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  Khai looked me up and down, and then in the eyes. She placed her arms around me, and I dropped a tear, visibly shaking to anyone looking in my direction. She squeezed my shoulders, then said to Mash, “You take care of our girl now.”

  Shannon turned towards me and questioned, “Take care of our girl?” I widened my eyes and handed my keys to Khai, “I’ll call you if I need you. Love you and be safe.” Shannon’s mouth dropped and put her arms around our already formed circle. The driver announced it was time to leave, and they boarded the shuttle. Mash swung me around and plastered his lips on mine with an audience watching. “Are you ready to take me home?” I asked. He gloated, “You have no idea.”

  Tapping on the coated glass and making heart symbols with their hands, my friends shouted love you nonstop, as the shuttle engine throttled. We watched them fade in the distance, then loaded my bags in his car, and headed to the outskirts. My heart was pounding, and my arms slightly damp, nervous about my choice, but excited to be adventurous for the first time.

  I was living on a prayer. Taking a chance with my heart, knowing the risk was high, but certain we shared something profound. I stepped out of my own way, and opened up a part of myself I closed off, eager to explore a new chapter.

  Chapter Eight

  Passport

  Stay. The one syllable word needed clarification. A few extra days to enjoy each other’s company seemed ideal, but I avoided initiating the conversation, in fear it would ruin the vibe between us.

  Our chemistry was unmatched. We weren’t finishing each other’s sentences or anything like that, but we were in sync. He made me feel welcome in his house, persisting I call it home. Whenever he saw me working, he gave me space and room to breathe, or when he’d be gone all day to work on one of his various projects, he made sure I had access to money and one of his vehicles. And that was just the first week.

  His level of consideration wooed me so, I dreaded the uncomfortable exchange we needed to have. Creating a genial atmosphere, I set up the folding table and chairs in the middle of the kitchen floor, and cooked one of my best meals, setting the mood for the discussion. As always, he greets me with a kiss the moment he arrives home. His hand finds the same spot between my waist and my back, and no matter what kind of day he’s had, he lets me know he is happy to see me.

  I tell him dinner is ready and to meet in the kitchen. We sit and chat for a bit, then casually I mentioned, “I looked up flights today, and I need to book something weeks in advance for a good rate.”

  “The rate doesn’t matter. I’ll cover it. What date are you looking to fly?” he asked adjusting his frames.

  “I was hoping we could discuss that. When do you want me to leave?”

  ‘God I love him in those glasses.’

  “Why would I want that?”

  He stared me down.

  “What did you mean when you asked me to stay? A few days? I’ve been here over a week.”

  “Honestly, when I asked, I didn’t have an end date in mind.”

  He hypnotized me with his gaze.

  “I don’t want to outstay my welcome is all.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  His lips parted.

  “I think I am.”

  ‘That’s a come-hither look.’

  We lunged across the flimsy table and burned from the passionate fire between us. The cheap table surprisingly held up against our quick stint of fucking in the middle of the meal. This had become my new normal. A simple look, or accidental graze against my skin ended with my legs in the air, or me bent over the couch.

  I had no idea when I was going home, and the time had come for me to face my mother with an answer to that very question. By the end of week two I was in Paris, following my lover around in the city of lights, narrow streets, delectable pastries, and historic museums.

  I took photographs of old dated buildings, and attempted to converse with the staff of the hotel in their language—desperately I tried to remember what I learned back in high school. The fashions of the women walking the streets were all awe-inspiring, but the highlight for me were the indulgent chocolate croissants.

  Mash served as a tour guide showing me the normal attractions, and hidden gems people like himself only knew about. His access to places was notable, and during this trip I learned how important he was. I was blinded by his kindness and attention in the beginning, overlooking how the world viewed him and his work. Quickly I became acclimated to the world of fame.

  Sitting out on sound check, I laid back in the penthouse suite his promoters provided, and overlooked the city. The Eiffel Tower glittered over its admirers, and the streets were buzzing. The owner of a café across the street, swept the sidewalk just before turning her signage to ‘fermee’.

  Moments later she locked its doors, and set off holding the hand of whom I assumed was her daughter. I watched them until they turned the corner, exhaled a few times, and dialed my mother.

  “Your grandmother and I had a nice chat about you little girl,” she answered.

  “Good things I hope. How is she? How are you?”

  “I’m my usual self, but your grandmother is not. She said you haven’t called her in weeks. You normally call her every day.”

  “She’s right. I haven’t been myself lately.”

  “Oh, we know.”

  “Is she mad? Are you?”

  “Truthfully, as long as you are safe, we are fine with whatever it is you are doing. What exactly are you doing? Besides laying up with a strange man. And spare me the details.”

  “I’m writing. Traveling. I’m in Paris right now. It’s beautiful mom. We should have done things like this. You know?”

  “Traveling wasn’t our thing. I’m glad you’re doing it though. Is your friend with you?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Well tell him as long as he doesn’t hurt you, he won’t have anything to worry about. Your friends have given me his address, so I know how to find him.”

  “I’m in good hands Ma.”

  “Seems so.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that, and tell you I miss you, and I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

  “I love you too, baby.”

  Weight lifted from my shoulders. I mistakenly thought that was going to be the hardest phone call of my life. I expected to be chewed out for my reckless behavior and rash decisions, and was grateful I received understanding and support instead. Then I remembered, I had to call my favorite person in the world, Grams, who was sure to cut me with her sharp tongue.

  The car returned to chauffeur me to the concert. On my way out of the lobby, I stopped at the postal stand and wrote Grams a few lines. ‘This should buy me some time before my lashing,’ I thought before leaving it with the concierge.

  Nightlife in the city reminded me of the years I spent in college. Seeing the crowds of women laugh amongst themselves, and having a good time, made me wish my friends were sharing this experience with me. ‘I missed that opportunity, but it was so worth it.’ For a brief moment, I became sad. I understood how it looked when I bailed on them to go to Spain. It came across as selfish, but I was sure they would have done the same thing if they were in my shoes.

  As I passed several groups of women, I began to miss them, and wondered what they were doing back home. Then I remembered it was bowling night, and I wasn’t missing anything except shit t
alking in a smoke-filled alley wearing borrowed shoes—having a good time nonetheless.

  Backstage was reminiscent of Taylor’s wedding day. Stressful, fast paced, lively, and crowded. A stage hand escorted me to the dressing room tucked away in a dark corner. It could have used a major facelift, cleaning, painting, or demolishing, but as I sat and looked around, I understood why it looked like a pit stop. It was. Acts from all over signed the walls, dressers, and chairs. It was the image of filthy history, and for entertainers a rite of passage.

  The clamoring of the crowd amplified the artists as each went on. I stood stage right with the other VIP pass owners, watching Mash and the artists perform. Unlike his gig at the tent, this crowd was massive and electrifying, and by the end of the show had made their way backstage somehow to meet the acts. It was unsettling to watch woman after woman throw themselves at the artists. I stood far away in a dimly lit shadow of a boulder taking it all in. Fuming in jealousy with flashbacks of deceit. Mash was humble and acknowledged all those who approached him, which was a great look for him. I, on the other hand, had been given a front row seat to a world I was sure my insecurities couldn’t handle.

  The stage hand found me in the corner, and escorted me to the car down a hallway to a tunnel, where the artists come and go. I sat there for nearly thirty minutes waiting for Mash to come out, and when he finally did he looked beat.

  “All done,” I asked.

  “That was insane at the end. Where were you?”

  “I got lost in the crowd, so I stepped back to give the fans their space.”

  “Did you enjoy the show?”

  “I was blown away. I must admit. I didn’t know you were this big of a deal. Seeing it firsthand is different from reading tabloids.”

  “Stop,” he held up his hand and looked away blushing.

  I could have and should have let it end there, but doing what I normally do, I continued to reach, “How do you handle all of the fans coming at you like that?”

  “What are you getting at?” he answered my question with a question, “I feel like there’s more to that question.”

  “Humph. I’m not too keen on seeing women put their hands all over you,” I regretfully admitted.

  “Imagine being the person who doesn’t enjoy people putting their hands all over you. It sucks, but it comes with the territory of what I do.”

  “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Well, you’re about to see more of it. I just got an updated schedule, and we’ll be hitting the road pretty heavy over the next few weeks, so get ready.”

  ‘We? Next few weeks?’

  As Mash prepared for his crammed schedule, he spent hours away from the house rehearsing with the acts for the upcoming shows. I made an effort to keep myself busy by enrolling in exercise and dance classes, and people watching at cafes for writing inspiration.

  The house was peaceful with Mash gone most of the day, and the quiet time allowed me to mentally decompress and write diligently. Submissions about travel, western news from an eastern perspective, and romance excerpts kept me occupied the many hours I was alone. When boredom struck, I revisited the non-fiction story I began writing at the Mandarin, adding bits and pieces to it, giving myself a few shameful giggles.

  Shy of a month, the hectic schedule began with the first stop in Cannes for a film festival. Mash had been hired to work a few parties, and as requested gifted me with passes to screenwriting workshops and seminars. It felt good to do something of my own interest, and not exist as the travel companion following him around all day.

  I was on my own in the streets, sight-seeing and taste-tasting when the seminars ended. Basking in the sun on the beach, taking full advantage of my me time.

  As Mash’s schedule opened up, we won and lost money in one of the casinos, before sailing on a private yacht with one of his industry associates. Snooty and elite minded people lounged on the vessel. Models in bathing suits, champagne every few feet, and A-list actors and actresses acting holier than thou. My insecurity went into overdrive every time a famous woman tugged on Mash’s arm, or tapped him on the shoulder, overly smiling in his face. I didn’t think I would ever get used to feeling inferior to powerful women. ‘How do I measure up,’ constantly crossed my mind in the presence of these people. They were desired beings making their own money, compared to me the penniless shadow.

  The boat docked near our resort, so we strolled through the villas taking in the night air. Mash asked about the seminars I attended as an icebreaker, then questioned my behavior on the boat, “Talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “About earlier? I noticed you shut down. What caused that?”

  “Just wasn’t my crowd.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yep.”

  He knew I was lying. He could feel something was wrong, but he didn’t pressure me to say. He took me by the hand and respected my moment of withdrawal, though my silence rattled him. ‘Lack of confidence is a turnoff’ I said to myself wrapping my fingers around his. “I’m fine,” I assured him, knowing eventually I would be.

  The next morning, we flew to Amsterdam. Two days in the city didn’t give us time to explore the way I had hoped. Amid the rumors of it being well known for its red-light district, I wasn’t interested in seeing sex-trafficked women work. I preferred to visit the museums, and taste the world-famous crepes as research for a travel submission, but time didn’t allow it. Neither did the congestion of the city. I bust my ass riding a bike as the streets were overly crowded, and spent my short time taking it easy in the room.

  Before leaving the Netherlands, I mailed post cards to my mom and Grams, filling them in on my travels, then it was wheels up. Four days until the next show I had no interest in attending. After taking a day to recuperate from Cannes and Amsterdam, I began looking at flights again. I was homesick. I was tired. And I was losing myself in someone else’s world. His world was exciting nonetheless, but my receiving rejection letter after rejection letter murdered my sense of self. My mind constantly wondered, ‘What am I doing with my life,’ and I needed to regroup.

  Without discussing it with Mash, I booked a flight on the night he was due in Barcelona. I had three days to tell him, but couldn’t muster the courage. Nor was there ever a good time to do so, being that he was exhausted when he made it home. Every night he greeted me with a kiss, showered, ate, and laid under me while I keyed my soul away, still attempting to prove I was worthy of my craft. With nothing to lose, I submitted a synopsis of my Mandarin piece, to a production company in search of material to produce, then woke Mash to tell him I was leaving.

  A light stroke to his shoulder led him to twist. Delicately, I massaged his shoulders to wake him. He grunted and mumbled for a few seconds, eventually opening his eyes, “Something’s up,” he muttered.

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “It must be bad news.”

  “I’m homesick.”

  “This again.”

  “I booked a flight.”

  His eyes widened and he sit up against the headboard. He looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with me, “I kind of felt you were getting sick of me with the late nights and the shows, but I didn’t think it was this bad.”

  “I’m not sick of you. I just need to go home. For a little while. I was thinking you could come be with me when your schedule opened up.”

  “What will you do when you get there?”

  “For starters check on my mother. Check on my house. Maybe drive down to visit my Grams.”

  “And then what?”

  “What is with your tone?”

  “I’m not understanding what is going so wrong here, that you are rushing to go back home.”

  “My life dammit! I just told you I was homesick. I never said anything was going wrong here. I just need to be around my people. Be around my things. Not feel like a kept woman or a shadow puppet. Hell, I’m practically a citize
n.”

  He turned towards me but said nothing. He was looking through me and I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take him or the silence. I left the bed and continued to rant, “Do you know I haven’t had one article published since I’ve been here? I feel like I’m losing myself.”

  “I didn’t know you were feeling that way. You never said.”

  “You never asked. You just keep putting off the discussion of when we would go to the states together.”

  “Nadia, if you had left after the wedding, I would have visited you by now.”

  “I’m not so sure you would,” I said pacing the room.

  “I would have. But you stayed, and I thought if I played my cards right, you would never want to leave. It never occurred to me you would get homesick.”

  “You have done everything right. I love being here with you. I’m just…”

  As I paused, he followed me to the window. I looked into the darkness, searching for the words to end my sentence. He placed his chin atop my shoulder and wrapped his hands around my waist, “Do I make you happy?”

  “Very much so,” I said leaning my head against his.

  “Then what can I do to remove this scowl from your pretty face?” he asked stroking my cheek.

  “Maybe take some time off and come home with me.”