Unravelled

by Robyn Harding

  Jim would not return from his meetings for several hours, so I dug my knitting project out of my suitcase. Propping myself on the bed amidst the plethora of pillows, I sat back and began to knit. Without the distracting conversation of my fellow stitch ’n bitchers, I was making far fewer mistakes. I tried to keep my mind focused on the process, instead of roaming to that enjoyable but highly unproductive Zen space. It seemed to be working. I had knitted five nearly flawless rows when my stomach began to rumble, and I realized I hadn’t eaten in over six hours. Of course, after the enormous gooey pecan cinnamon bun I’d enjoyed for breakfast, I had intended to skip lunch, but a morning on the slopes had given me an appetite that I couldn’t ignore. I would just have something light. Jim and I were joining some of his colleagues at a fancy French restaurant in the village for dinner.

  Room service was an appealing option, but I didn’t have any Canadian money and was uncomfortable taking advantage of Jim’s hospitality by charging it to the room. I decided to head downstairs and have lunch in the attached bistro. Freshening up and changing into jeans and my new cardigan, I made my way to the elevator.

  When I reached the lobby, I popped into the gift shop and bought an US magazine to entertain me during my solo dining. I didn’t feel shy and awkward when I asked for a table for one in the quiet restaurant. There was no chance I’d run into any ghosts from my past here. Even if Newlywed happened to be honeymooning here, I’d simply explain that I was on a romantic get-away with my sophisticated, top-of-his-field boyfriend who was tied up in meetings. She may not have been impressed by my latte expense account, but this was sure to have an impact.

  The warm beet salad with blue cheese and walnuts was delicious, but wouldn’t exactly qualify as filling. Draining my glass of Shiraz, I paid the bill and prepared to leave. But when I tried to stand, I fell back in my chair. Oh my god! What had happened to my legs? Every muscle in my calves and thighs had seized up alarmingly. My hips had lost any semblance of flexibility! Finally, mustering all the strength in my arms, I managed to lift myself from the chair. As I walked painfully through the restaurant, I felt like one of those old-fashioned Barbie dolls whose shiny plastic legs were only capable of moving forward and backward. Embarrassed, I quickly hobbled to the gift shop and bought a packet of muscle relaxants.

  Back in the room, I gratefully sank, straight legged, onto the bed, simultaneously popping two of the tablets. “Ohhhhhhh gawd,” I groaned, painfully lifting my feet from the floor. These pills had better work quickly. Jim and I were joining his colleagues in less than three hours. I couldn’t very well accompany him doing my C-3PO imitation.

  At that moment, the phone rang. I gingerly turned on my side to answer it.

  “Hi hon,” Jim said. Hon: definitely very coupley. “How was skiing?”

  “It was wonderful,” I said, “but now I can’t move.”

  His voice was full of concern. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m stiff!”

  He chuckled, sounding relieved. “You poor thing.”

  “It’s not funny,” I moaned. “Seriously, I can’t move.” He continued to chuckle. “You won’t be laughing so hard when I meet your colleagues and they think I’m doing the robot.”

  “Have you tried a hot bath?”

  “No, I just got back to the room.”

  “Okay. I’m going to be tied up here for another couple of hours. Draw yourself a nice hot bath and I’ll come by and check on you when I get back.”

  I did as he suggested, filling the large oval bathtub with steaming hot water and lavender bubble bath. I was just about to step in when I heard a knock at the door. “Room service,” a muffled male voice called. Pulling on the luxurious white velour robe, I managed to scurry to the door.

  “I didn’t order anything,” I said, peering through the peep-hole to make sure it was really room service and not some ski resort strangler or the like.

  The waiter called back, “Mr. Davidson’s compliments, ma’am.”

  I opened the door, and the fresh-faced server wheeled a cart inside. It was laden with a bottle of red wine and an antipasto tray, bearing an array of cheeses, olives, cold meats, and marinated vegetables. Oh my god! Jim was so thoughtful! I forgot my aching muscles for a moment as a girlish swell of ardour filled me. I felt incredibly lucky to have met this amazing, thoughtful, and caring man. He was almost too good to be true.

  Moments later I was immersed in the warm water, a glass of wine and a plate of snacks balancing on the edge of the tub. I could practically feel the stiffness being soothed away by the lavender-scented water, the pain pills, and the relaxing glass of Zinfandel. Surely, by the time Jim arrived, I’d be as limber as a yogi. I would just stay in here, sipping my wine, nibbling at the cheese and olives until I heard him at the door.

  I was looking forward to meeting his cohorts. I planned to look my best and to be charming, witty, and relaxed in their company. They would probably envy Jim his pretty young girlfriend, maybe even teasing him about it. “What are you doing with this old guy?” they’d say. Or, “If you ever want to trade him in for a younger model, I’m only forty-seven.” It was a big step, meeting his friends, but I was ready—we were ready—to present ourselves as a couple.

  And then, when dinner was over, I’d bring him back to my room for a mini-bar nightcap. Because...well, it was the logical next step wasn’t it? We’d known each other for a while now, and we were definitely attracted to each other. The sexual tension between us was becoming almost unbearable! Besides, it would be a waste of such a romantic location if we didn’t get some action. When I finished this glass of wine, I would shave my legs.

  But halfway through my second glass, I began to feel a bit dizzy. Handling a razor in this woozy state was not a good idea. Perhaps I was overheating? As I stood, I noticed that my muscles did feel infinitely better. Unfortunately, my muscles were now the least of my problems. My head continued to swim as I wrapped a towel around myself and moved to the sink. Splashing cool water on my face seemed to have little effect. I shouldn’t have had the second glass of wine, which was really my third if you counted the one I’d had with my salad. And I hadn’t even thought to check if it was okay to combine alcohol and those muscle relaxants. Where was the package? I should check.

  And here’s where things get a bit fuzzy. At some point, I awoke to an insistent banging at the door. I was facedown on the bed, the room completely dark. Clutching the damp towel around my nakedness, I stumbled to answer the door. “Hi,” I cooed, as Jim stepped inside. He had showered, his hair still a bit wet, and he was wearing fresh clothes. I moved into his arms, groggily nuzzling his neck. “You look so good,” I mumbled. “And you smell good, too. I also smell good since I just had a lavender bubble bath. So, since we’re both clean and we both smell good, why don’t we have sex?” At least I must have said something like that because I remember leading him to the bed, and him following me, willingly. I remember him lying down beside me, and kissing me and stroking my hair. I remember running my hands over his shoulders and trying, unsuccessfully, to unbutton his shirt. I don’t remember anything after that. I must have passed out.

  Seventeen

  SO, YOU DIDN’T sleep with him, then?” Martin asked. He didn’t appear to have taken his sweater project to San Francisco with him, but he was still miles—okay, inches—ahead of the rest of us. He reached for his glass of wine sitting on Sophie’s coffee table.

  “No,” I said, rather sheepishly. “I mean . . . I don’t think so.”

  “But you could have, right?” Angie said. “You were passed out.”

  Something in Angie’s tone made me feel defensive. “I highly doubt he took advantage of me while I was comatose. He’s a successful architect! Not some date-rape drug-slipping frat boy.”

  “I’m just saying it’s possible,” she replied. “Sheesh.”

  “Did you talk about it afterward?” Sophie asked. She was looking especially pretty tonight in a fuchsia top with plunging neckline and snu
g jeans. Obviously, the body-hugging clothing was for Martin’s benefit. He didn’t appear to have noticed.

  “I apologized, of course. But I didn’t come right out and ask if we’d done it. It was too awkward.”

  Awkward was an understatement. That morning, I had woken up with a pounding headache and a bleary, undefined feeling of remorse. As I regained my senses, I realized I was naked, tucked neatly into bed, and I was alone. The evening came back to me in bits and pieces: the muscle relaxants, the hot bath, the wine, dragging Jim over to the bed and asking him to have sex with me . . . or maybe just suggesting the sex? Either way, my behaviour was mortifying. Was there a bus I could catch that would take me back to Seattle so I didn’t have to face him?

  But I valued the relationship too much to sneak out of town without talking to him. Of course, there was every possibility that he may have sneaked out of town to avoid me. Nonetheless, I showered, dressed, and then called his cell phone. My heart was beating loudly in my throat as I listened to it ring. God, I hoped I hadn’t ruined everything.

  “Hi,” he answered, his voice gentle and caring. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay,” I said, through the lump in my throat, “just... really embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. I’m at a breakfast meeting right now. Why don’t you order something to eat and I’ll come by in about an hour?”

  “Okay,” I said meekly, feeling like a little girl—a little girl with a mild hangover, that is.

  I picked at the fruit salad and muffin I’d ordered, too nervous to eat. What if my antics last night caused Jim to realize that I simply wasn’t in his league? And maybe I should just face it? I wasn’t in his league. He was sophisticated, wealthy, and a top-of-his-field architect. He cared about the future of the planet! He was a connoisseur of wines! I was a struggling writer who occasionally threw pop cans in the garbage and didn’t know enough about wine not to mix it with muscle relaxants. Astrological compatibility aside, we just weren’t a match.

  The intensity of my malaise surprised me. I hadn’t realized how much I had been rooting for this relationship to progress. While I couldn’t deny that I still harboured feelings for Colin, I honestly felt my future lay with Jim. He had the emotional maturity to know how important a relationship was. He had learned, over the years, what life was all about: love, commitment, family... He had the time and energy to devote to a wife and children, and more importantly, the desire to have them! Jim was what Colin would be one day when he grew up—if he grew up.

  Jim’s knock at the door startled me. I took a deep breath before going to greet him. I suddenly felt on the verge of tears, and I knew I had to pull myself together. If I started crying in front of him again, he was bound to think I had serious emotional problems.

  But as soon as I opened the door, he swept me into his arms. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” he murmured into my hair. “I was worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled.

  He released me and stared into my eyes. “I stayed with you while you slept—I wanted to make sure you were all right. But I had an eight o’clock meeting so I sneaked out at seven.”

  God, he was amazing. “I’m so sorry,” I cried. “I don’t know what happened. It was the wine and the bath and the muscle relaxants. And I’d only had a cinnamon bun and a salad to eat. I really wanted to meet your colleagues and I really wanted to spend—” I caught myself before I said “the night with you,” “—more time with you. I ruined our last night here, and I feel terrible.”

  “Heyyyy,” he said soothingly. “These things happen. Besides, I was going to suggest we blow off the symposium dinner and spend some time alone, anyway. So, at least we got to do that... even if you were snoring through most of it.”

  I gasped. “Oh god! Was I snoring?” Great. Snoring was about as sexy as farting.

  Jim chuckled. “You were a perfect sleeping beauty.”

  I leaned in toward him and kissed his lips. “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” I whispered. Unfortunately, Jim didn’t seem to catch my hint to come inside and let me make it up to him at that moment. Instead, he looked at his watch and suggested we get on the road. But I definitely planned to make it up to him. Where and when was the question? The next time Jim and I found ourselves alone together, I would not squander it away by passing out.

  Martin’s voice brought my attention back to Sophie’s living room. “Maybe it’s for the best that you didn’t sleep with him?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This way, your wedding night will really mean something.”

  “Martin!” Sophie squealed, delighted by his jibe at Nicola, who was unable to join us this evening. (She and Neil had an important meeting with the calligraphist who was doing their place cards.)

  “You’re such a bitch!” I cried. My eyes darted to Angie, to see if she picked up the gist of my words. Obviously, only a gay man could have such a bitchy sense of humour.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist,” Martin laughed. “But who knows? Maybe Nic’s on to something?”

  “Right,” Angie said dismissively. “But it’s not like Beth is thinking about marrying this guy.” I remained silent, counting the knits and purls building on my needle. Angie looked at me. “Well, you’re not, are you?”

  “No . . . I mean, I’ve only been seeing him for a short time . . .”

  “But do you think... he’s marriage material?” The edge had gone from Angie’s tone, and her voice was soft, almost tentative.

  “I—I don’t know,” I stammered, meeting her gaze. “I guess it’s possible.” And that’s when I saw the unmistakable glint of fear in her eyes. Angie was as afraid of losing me to Jim as I was of losing her to Thad. “It would be months—even years—away.” I tried to reassure her. “If it ever happened.”

  “Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Sophie muttered.

  Martin, oblivious to Sophie’s comment, said, “I have a feeling about Beth and Jim.”

  “A feeling?” I said, blushing.

  “This relationship shows real growth,” Martin continued, helping Sophie bind off Flynn’s mint green hat. “You’ve obviously learned a lot and you’re not going to make the same mistake twice.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Uh . . . How do you mean?”

  “Your last partner was an immature commitment-phobe, right? It doesn’t sound like you’ll have that problem with Jim.”

  “He’s like the anti-Colin,” Sophie giggled.

  “Yeah, I can’t say that thought didn’t cross my mind. He’s really an amazing man.” As soon as I’d uttered the words, I realized how revoltingly besotted I sounded. I tried to tone it down. “It’s just the beginning for us though, so, who knows? I mean, we haven’t even seen each other naked yet. Well, I guess he’s seen me naked . . .”

  “The wedding night won’t be a total surprise then,” Angie quipped.

  I laughed along but my cheeks were beginning to burn. I had already shared too much of my private relationship with my knitting circle. Without Nicola there for the fail-safe topic change, I shifted the conversation to Martin. “So how was San Francisco?”

  “Really busy, but great,” he replied, handing Sophie back Flynn’s now-completed hat. He smiled at her fondly. “Now, we just need to sew the back seam, and it will be all ready for him.”

  “Thank you so much,” Sophie cooed. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  “My pleasure. Do you have a yarn needle?” He was still smiling at her, kind of intensely. Was there something there, or was he just genuinely happy to be able to help her with her kid’s hat?

  “I’ll get one for next week,” Sophie replied, eyes still fixed to Martin’s.

  “So...” I interrupted the flirting or thanking or whatever was going on there. “Tell us about San Fran. What did you get up to?”

  “I was mostly working and networking.”

  I asked, “Any shopping? Wine tasting?”

  “No.” />
  “Did you go to any sporting events? Motor-cross racing?” Angie queried. God, she was so obvious. But Martin just gave her a bemused look and shook his head.

  “Do you have any friends in the area?” I tried. Having friends in the area didn’t necessarily confirm he was gay, but maybe he’d elaborate? Say something like: “Of course I do. Every gay man in America has a friend who ran off to San Francisco.”

  “I have a cousin there, but I didn’t have time to see her.”

  Well, this was getting us nowhere. I reached for another Thai chicken drumette. “These are delicious, Sophie.”

  “Thanks,” she smiled demurely, no doubt for Martin’s benefit. “I just whipped them up this afternoon.”

  “They’re amazing,” Martin agreed. “Did you try one, Ange?”

  “Oh, no thanks,” Angie said, turning her attention to her tiny strip of knitting. “I’m not really eating stuff like that these days.”

  “Stuff like what? Chicken?”

  Sophie asked, “Are you becoming a vegetarian?”

  “No . . .” she said, hesitantly, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m just not really eating things that are . . . you know, cooked.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I cried. “That is so Hollywood!”

  “How is caring about your health so Hollywood?” Angie shot back. “We feel so much lighter and have so much more energy now that we’re on the raw food diet.”