Game of Love

by Ara Grigorian

  “Yes.”

  This was perfect. She had often wondered about her athletic gifts and if what she had was genetic.

  “My uncle–Linda’s dad–was one of those scary-smart math guys. When he was in third grade he was studying calculus.”

  “That sounds horrible. Like child-abuse.”

  He eyed her. “By third grade you were beating fifteen-year-old kids at tennis. What do you call that?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I’m interrogating you.”

  If his talent was inherited, then maybe she also had inherited her athletic gifts. This would support the idea that maybe her real father had indeed been a professional footballer.

  “Of course, I didn’t know about his gifts until they moved from Argentina to LA. I found out because he and my dad got into arguments over me. The sad part was my parents called him a loser, afraid, you name it.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes. They didn’t want me to be influenced by him and follow in his footsteps. The way they saw it, he had wasted a one in a million talent when he decided to become a teacher instead of some money-making businessman. And yet, when I was eleven, I met Prime Minister Beckford through my uncle. Not bad for a loser.”

  “You admire your uncle.”

  “Admire. Love. I spent practically every summer with them, whether in Argentina or in Spain. Those were the best days of my life. He was the warm version of my dad–the one I actually wanted to live with.”

  “Things aren’t well with you and your parents?”

  “Sort of. I guess. Don’t get me wrong; I respect them. In their own way, they thought they were doing the right thing. And I can’t deny what I have today is because of them. As I talk about it, I’m conflicted. Love and animosity can’t co-exist in one space.” He raked his hands through his hair.

  “Should I stop?” she asked.

  “You can ask anything.”

  “You’ll regret giving me that much freedom.”

  “I don’t live life with regret.”

  She couldn’t make the same claim. She had plenty of regrets. “Have things improved now between your parents and uncle?”

  He paused for a few moments, until his eyes glistened. “Nearly six years ago, my uncle and his oldest daughter were driving home when a drunk kid smashed into them. They both passed away.”

  “Oh, Andre, I’m so sorry.”

  “Life is fragile, Gem. One day I had them, the next I didn’t. And I guess in some ways, when I lost him, I also lost my way; he was my moral compass. But when you think of poor Linda… five years after she lost her sister and father, she lost her fiancé.”

  “I didn’t mean to dig up painful memories,” she said, placing her hand on his.

  He lifted her hand to his lips and breathed a small kiss on her bruised knuckle. “Memories can’t hurt people.”

  He was wrong about that. Dead wrong. Even so, sad story, funny tales, or even in silence, he added depth and warmth to her. His presence brought equilibrium and consistency she desperately needed. With him, she felt safe. She wanted to feel that way all the time.

  “By the way, Nikon will be hosting an event tomorrow night. A new ad campaign for Wimbledon. Will you join me?”

  “Is it a good idea for me to be there? Press and all?”

  “We celebrities have an entourage wherever we go. You’re one of my minions.”

  “That sounds like a promotion.”

  “A well deserved one at that.”

  Andre ordered dessert and coffee. He was a bad influence, ordering all the things she wanted, but didn’t dare eat. But there it was, pistachio crème brûlée, staring at her. She decided to taste a bit. Two spoonfuls later, she wanted to eat the whole thing.

  “I shouldn’t indulge,” she said, as she picked up a piece of hardened sugar crisp.

  “You’re right,” he said, pulling the plate away from her. “You shouldn’t. This is mine; I did not agree to share.”

  “Sharing is caring. Didn’t anyone teach you that? Where do you put all the junk you eat anyway?”

  “In a very comfortable place.” He rubbed his mid-section.

  “Seriously. How do you burn it off?”

  “Hyperactive metabolism for the most part. Climbing and running keep my heart rate high, sort of like a perpetual burn. But there is one activity in particular that burns calories and works my body like no other,” he said then offered nothing else. Instead he placed a spoonful of the custard in his mouth.

  “Go on. What is it?” she said, then paused as soon as she asked.

  “It’s not proper to talk about in public.” Andre leaned in and whispered, “Some consider it inappropriate to discuss; taboo. I’d be happy to demonstrate in private if you like.”

  Her face went slack. She blushed and her ears burnt. “Are you serious?”

  “Yup–full contact mixed martial arts,” he said, scooping more custard.

  “You bastard.” She pinched his arm.

  “Ouch. What was that for?” He put on a badly rehearsed innocent face. “You didn’t think I meant–Gem. Shame on you.” He covered his ears. “Get your head out of the gutter. I’m way too civilized for you savage Brits.”

  “Why you bloody Yank!”

  “Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”

  ~Aristotle

  hey left the Hurlingham Club shortly after dessert. “Where to, ma’am?” Glen asked once they sat.

  “Can I recommend something?” Andre asked.

  “By all means, go ahead,” she said.

  “Glen, take us to Soho. South end of Wardour Street, near Piccadilly Circus.”

  “Soho?” she asked. “Why there?”

  “Trust me.”

  Thirty minutes later, they arrived.

  “Perfect. Right here,” Andre told Glen.

  “Here?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Outside? With all those people? I can’t go out there. The paparazzi will be all over me. And then there’s the little issue with the rain.”

  “Anything else?” he asked. “Air out all your reasons.”

  “Those should do.”

  “Good. Look at the people walking. What do you see? Observe them.”

  She shrugged impatiently. “I don’t know. They’re walking… holding umbrellas… getting wet.”

  “What else? Look.”

  She searched then she got it. “They’re looking down.”

  “Right. The rain makes others invisible. The focus changes from who may be in front of you, to where you’re going. No one will notice you.”

  “Brilliant,” Glen said.

  They both turned to him.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Glen turned beet red.

  “Okay,” she said, “so you may be right. But why here?”

  “Stop questioning everything. Let’s walk and enjoy your anonymity. When was the last time you walked the streets of London?”

  She thought for a moment. “Five bloody years ago.”

  “Isn’t it about time?”

  She nodded then opened the door.

  “Ma’am,” Glen called out through the open window, “some of these streets are blocked off, or one way.”

  “Glen, don’t worry,” Andre said. “If we need anything, we’ll call you.”

  Glen glanced at Gemma, who nodded. “Very well.” He rolled up the window then drove away.

  “Wait. We didn’t take an umbrella. I’ll call him back.”

  Andre held her shoulders. “Feel it, live it.”

  Andre’s arm across Gemma’s back and her head on his shoulder, they strolled through Soho toward Oxford Circus. People sped right by her, not noticing, nor caring. This was a freedom she was not used to.

  “Every time I visit London, I make a point to end up here,” he said as he guided her through the narrow roads. “I stroll the streets and imagine what it was like thirty or forty or four hundred years ago. There—” he pointed to a bu
ilding “—the Beatles and the Rolling Stones recorded a few songs up there. Can you imagine the energy generated by the musical genius of the twentieth century? What it must have felt like to be in the same room with them?”

  She listened to Andre’s stories and absorbed the world around her. It seemed improbable that she was strolling the streets of Central London with so much freedom. Her hair was damp, and the air cold, but with her body pressed into his, her arm wrapped around his waist, she had never experienced warmth like this. Their bodies connected, and their heartbeats thundered through thin layers of clothing. Their synchronized breathing and body heat purred.

  They turned onto Kensington Street and strolled westward to Hayden Park. They wandered into the empty park and approached the pond. Hundreds of coins lay inside, most covered in algae.

  “I made a wish at this pond years ago,” she said.

  “And here I am. Your wish come true.”

  She glanced at him. “It’s your humility above all else that makes you lovable.”

  She studied the pond. Their reflection gave her pause. In all the pictures she had seen of herself with other men, she didn’t think she had ever looked as complete as she did in Andre’s embrace right now. She appeared free, unencumbered.

  “There’s something about this part of town, an energy, that makes me wonder if one day I’ll make London home,” he said.

  Her heartbeat picked up. “You’ve thought of living here?”

  He spun her around to face him. She slid her arms through the inside of his coat, around his waist. He brought her body into his, tight. Her breath caught momentarily.

  “I was looking for a good reason to live in London.”

  She blinked.

  “I think I have one now.” His eyes bore deep into hers. “If I had a place here, maybe we could make time to see each other more often. Or all the time.”

  Her mouth opened slightly, as the drizzle picked up in intensity. His hair, face, and lips beaded with raindrops.

  He drew her closer, and when he spoke, his voice was solid, unwavering. “I want to be near you. I need to be with you. When we’re apart, I feel empty. Like something important is missing. I realize we’ve just started, but I know what I feel. And I know what I want. I want you in my life.”

  Her eyes stung, and her heart threatened to explode out of her chest. As if the words had been plucked out of her mind and spoken through him. He understood her completely. A tear fell from her eyelash and rolled down her cheek.

  With both hands, he cupped her face delicately. In the clasp of his strong hands, she felt precious, yet protected. He drew her face into his. When their lips met, air swooshed out. She was flying, gliding in the ecstasy of the moment. The scent of his cologne, the scraping of his stubble on her chin, she wanted and accepted all of him with greed, wanting to hold onto the moment. Her body merged into his. Coursing through her was release and freedom. A certainty that she would never believe life was meaningless. In this moment, her life overflowed with meaning and joy.

  When their lips parted, his dark eyes burned into hers. She was unable to stand properly. Her heart and body raced with heat, the type of warmth she had only ever dreamt of. A burn roiled within.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  She uttered a sound, her throat unable to form words. Another tear rolled down her cheek. He wiped the tear track with his thumb then kissed the corner of her eye. Her eyelashes fluttered.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered as he placed another gentle kiss on her brow. “Just be here, right here, right now.”

  “But I am worried. Look at us. How can we make this work? Your life is… and my life…”

  “Don’t fight it. Let it roll. Like the surfer in Malibu. He didn’t fight the wave. He understood the wave would decide where he’d end up.”

  He gazed into her eyes.

  “I used to be one of those other guys. The ones who chased every wave. I was after more, faster, better. Then, when Rob died, I understood. I got that life is about living; you never know when it’ll end. Let the wave we’re on guide us. We’ll figure out the rest, together.”

  She eventually whispered, “Okay, together.”

  They walked silently for a few minutes, holding each other tight. Gemma never expected the day to take this turn. Walking the streets of London, talking, laughing, crying, acting like kids, and of course the blissful moments under the rain in his arms. What did that make them now? A couple? Was he serious about getting a flat in London? She ran her hand over her wet face and dared to smile.

  “What’s your story, Gem? Do you have a sordid family story like mine?”

  “Well, as you know, I’m adopted.”

  “What?” He stopped. “No, I didn’t know.”

  She studied him. “Everyone knows that. It’s part of my aura. You haven’t read about that?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t read anything about you or researched you. Why would I when I can just ask you?”

  She froze. He continued to find ways to surprise her. She slipped her hand around his waist and proceeded walking.

  “My birth mum, Ginger, passed away during the delivery. My father, Javier, freaked, didn’t know what to do, so he abandoned a newly-born me. Very little is known about him. I know he was from Spain and by some accounts he may have been a professional soccer player training with Liverpool. But that’s about it.”

  “Have you tried to find him?”

  “I’ve tried. I placed adverts, hired PIs, even went on TV, anything I could think of. Eventually, we found a couple who knew my mother. Through them I was able to track her parents. By then, only my grandfather survived. Unfortunately, I have nothing on my father. Only a name and one picture. An old-school selfie with my mum. A portion of his face is cut off. He had longish black hair and wore sunglasses. So all I know of him is his smile. They looked happy. Complete.” For a moment she thought of her reflection with Andre in the fountain.

  “Have you kept in touch with the couple who knew your parents?”

  “Yes. In fact, Xavi and Mari live in my Malibu home.”

  “The guy who gave me the evil eye?”

  “Exactly. We grew very close. They’d tell me stories about my mum. Stories I would not have known otherwise. They told me in the eighth month of her pregnancy, she used to rub her belly and call me her black bird.”

  “Your tattoo.”

  She nodded. “The best bit is that Xavi’s been like a father to me and also quite the guru. Few people know this, but after the Australian Open, I had decided to quit tennis. For weeks I sulked in LA, but one day he explained being sad changes nothing. He told me life was about choices and action.”

  “Choices and action,” Andre repeated in a soft whisper.

  “He told me to choose the future I wanted and then be in action. So I did.”

  “Do Xavi and Mari know what happened to your father?”

  She sighed. “They barely knew him, but Mari tells me weeks after Ginger’s death, Javier returned, trying to find me, but the hospital and adoption agency refused to provide him the information. For all I know, he may still be trying to find me.”

  “How do you feel about him?”

  “I’d do anything to find him. Before I knew his story, I resented both my parents. I assumed the worst. But the situation, the way things unfolded… I could see how a young man would make that decision.”

  “You must show me the picture. I need to see their faces. The curiosity is killing me.”

  “Next time we’re in LA. It’s in my Malibu home.”

  Suddenly, the innocent drizzle converted into a torrential storm, and rain drops the size of nickels pelted them. They ran for shelter. Visibility approached zero. Their shoes, coats, and hair were drenched. When she thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

  They slid under a bookseller’s canopy.

  “That’s some rain.” Andre shook his hair, spraying water everywhere. “I told you we’d need
an umbrella.”

  “Your attempt at humor is tempting me to hurt you. For your sake, I’ll call Glen instead.” She dialed, but the connection dropped.

  “Look over there. Three blocks west–my hotel. Let’s make a run for it. We’ll dry up while Glen comes to your rescue.”

  “Right, good plan.” She dialed one more time. “Glen, if you can hear me, we’re heading to the Kensington Hilton.” She glanced at her phone and disconnected in exasperation.

  Andre grabbed her hand, and they ran. The impact of their feet on the overflowed streets kicked up more water. They were drenched and getting cold, but she giggled like a schoolgirl.

  They crossed the street toward the main lobby. The porter opened the door, concern carved on his face. “Are you okay? Can I get you something?”

  They were still laughing. “No, thank you. All’s under control,” he said.

  A handful of guests and hotel staff spun and gaped at the couple. Then directly at Gemma.

  “When you have the opportunity, you strike.”

  ~Rod Lever

  emma and Andre stepped off the lift and found their way to his suite. “Try Glen now,” he said as he opened the door and stepped in. Gemma moved slowly, observing his movements.

  He threw the card key on the table, then removed his wet jacket and marched through the spacious suite.

  He was always in action; never a wasted moment.

  “I’ll get you towels. I bet my sweatpants and shirt could fit you.” He found articles of clothing and took them to the large bathroom.

  No matter what he was up to he was always the same person–no different personas. He was the same guy on the beach as when he spoke to the British aristocracy.

  “We should call for tea and soup.” He added towels to the clothing then walked toward her with an oversized towel.

  Choices and action.

  “Your hair is drenched,” he said, as he placed the towel on her head. She said nothing while he towel dried her hair. “We’ll need a blow dryer. This won’t do.” His eyes dropped to hers. “Do you know if Glen got your message? Did you try him again?”

  She shook her head, not losing eye contact.