by Sorell Oates
“It's not about the art. It's about the socializing.”
“I'll take you for dinner then,” he said charmingly.
“That may work on your harem, brother, but it doesn't with me.”
“What harem?”
Affection swamped her as she stormed into the modern kitchen. Spick-and-span, not an item was out-of-place. Everything from the blender to the toaster was allocated a position and there they would stay until used. Watching her brother, she felt a tad homesick. As much as he loved living in America, Rupert was unable to sacrifice many of the simple things in life the British enjoyed. Kettle on, tea bags in tea cups, Imogen knew he was hoping a discussion over a brew would buy him the minutes needed to conjure an excuse as to why he couldn’t go.
“Rupert, we are going. This is Jonathan Radmacker's first exhibition in fifteen years. It's history. You need to be part of it.”
“What kind of a name is Radmacker? That in itself is putting me off. He sounds mad. If he's not, he'll definitely be pretentious or his pictures will.”
“Art isn't limited to painting, Rupert. Don't be bloody-minded. He's a conceptual artist. Uses a lot of sculpture.”
Rupert repressed a laugh. “I'm seeing abstract bronze busts then?”
“I said conceptual, not abstract. And sculpture isn't bronze busts. There are loads of materials he'll have spent years assembling and constructing, carving and modeling, depending on what he's chosen to incorporate in the exhibit,” she said, informed from her online browsing.
“You're not selling it to me.” He placed her tea-cup and saucer on the glass table, alongside a plate or biscuits. Rupert sniffed at the term cookies. Tea and biscuits was a civilized affair.
Imogen sat down on the expensive steel chair, the seat and back rest made of thick perspex, a look-alike of glass. She'd never mention it to Rupert but while stylistic at this precise time, they would age swiftly in terms of interior decoration. Often referring to his kitchen as the “spaceship” because of its sparse, modern high-tech design, she knew within less than eighteen months he'd have to employ someone to update the room to deter people from referring to it as retro or, even worse, gauche.
“Why can't you ever get in something nice like chocolate chip cookies?” sniffed Imogen, dunking the plain rich tea finger biscuit in her tea.
“I do, but cookies aren't served with tea, Imogen.”
“Don't be ridiculous. Why have you got that weird look in your eyes?”
“No reason,” said Rupert amiably, sitting next to her to sip his own tea.
Remembering when he'd last eaten cookies, he certainly hadn't been civilized. If memory served correct, the last time he served hot chocolate and cookies was to a female companion on the sofa in the living room. They'd ended up back at this very table, but not to dine on.
“Rupert, it's important to me that you come.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” she huffed.
“If you don't have a date, I can set you up with a friend,” he proposed.
“How dare you?” They both cracked up at her shrill indignation.
Squeezing her hand fondly, Rupert had only adoration for his sister. A few years younger than him, his family adopted her after losing twin toddler brothers in a fatal accident. Merely a child, the devastating loss nearly tore his family apart. Billions in the bank, Rupert's father insisted on adopting within weeks of the tragedy. Remembering massive rows between his parents over his alleged insensitivity, Imogen's inclusion in the family unit bought them together. No one could every replace the lost twins. His father wasn't compensating for their absence. A three-year old girl appearing in their house, rejected from an unknown reason by her own parents, touched everybody’s heart. Grief was unable to ruin the family with a tiny, fragile angel in the house needing love and protection. Gone but never forgotten, even Imogen referred to the twins as her brothers taken too abruptly. Respectfully, they continued paying tribute on the twin’s shared birthday and the day of the accident. Rupert knew his little sister saved his family and parent's marriage. Fully occupied raising her, his mother, father, and even himself found the love that Imogen radiated inescapable. She united the fractured parts to rebuild the Locke-Smythes. Rupert was eternally grateful for her. His sister was not only a sibling, but his best friend.
“If you have a date, why is my presence a necessity?”
“When did you last go out?”
“Sunday,” answered Rupert instantly.
“What did you do?”
“Had brunch with a friend, then went home to chill out.”
“Who'd you have brunch with?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Did she accompany you home to 'chill out'?” Imogen gesticulated the quotation marks for “chill out, letting her brother know she was aware it was a code word.
“Are you fishing for details on my sex life, Imogen?”
“Are you avoiding the question, Rupert?”
“Yes, she chilled out with me on Sunday.”
“Before Sunday when did you go out?”
“What is this, the Spanish inquisition?” Rupert glared.
“Answer,” said Imogen. Her tone suggested she could have been a valuable asset to the Spanish inquisition.
“Saturday night. I was clubbing.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“With who?”
Any normal woman would assume it was Elizabeth if I had breakfast with her on Sunday morning, thought Rupert. Only Imogen was daring enough to force him to face the truth of his not always conservative lifestyle choices.
“No one,” he finally answered
“You met someone in the club and you planned to.”
Admiring her interrogation techniques, Rupert was unable to refuse. “Yes, I did. I met up with Mikaylah.”
“And took her here after, no doubt.”
“A gentleman never tells,” smirked Rupert.
“You did, I know. What about Friday night?”
“Drinks after work. You were there.”
“I was there alright,” agreed Imogen. “There to watch you whisk your PA's sister from the bar to somewhere else. I'm guessing this flat.”
“Imogen, I can't conduct an affair within the workplace. My PA is stunning. If I can't have Judith, why not indulge the fantasy and play with Jacqui?”
“Jacqueline and Judith. Who names their daughters that?”
“Now you're just being catty,” observed Rupert.
“Dare I ask what you did on Saturday, during the day?”
“Hit the gym. Went to New Jersey to take in an American football game. Saw the Giants.”
“We've been here longer than five years. Are you ever going to call it football?” chided an exasperated Imogen.
“If I was to do that, I'd have to start calling proper football soccer. Football involves playing with your feet, which is what we do in England. Catching a ball, throwing, running and occasionally kicking it does not scream foot and ball to me.”
“You head the ball in English football.”
“Yes, because you can't touch it with your hands. English football focuses on feet and balls, hence the name of the sport. There are no hands involved, otherwise it'd be handball or hand-and-foot ball.”
“You're a pedant. I call it soccer.”
“That's because you're a girl and you don't understand the beautiful game,” Rupert taunted in the manner he did as an eight-year-old to his five-year-old sister.
“Rupert, dad carted me to Chelsea for games at Stanford Bridge as well.”
“Yes, but you loathed it. I thoroughly enjoyed them.”
“It's not the point. I call it soccer because that's what the Americans call it, and that's where we live. Why be obtuse and make language a cultural barrier?”
“You're right, it's not the point. The point is I went to the game with the British lads,” stated Rupert to defer Imogen's imminent lecture.
“And?”
“And what?”
“And who else?” growled Imogen.
“I met Jasmine at the gym. It was manners to invite her to tag along.”
“You use that gym regularly. Don't pretend to me Jasmine was the only person you chatted with on Saturday's session. Something compelled you to invite her.”
“Aaaaahhhhh,” Rupert threw his head back to laugh at her intimate knowledge of him.
“Dirty antics in the gym. I'd have thought better of you Rupert Locke-Smythe,” she chastised.
“I didn't disappoint you. You'll be proud to hear we took a shower here.”
“Rupert you're thirty-three. I'm not going to dictate your life to you.”
“And yet you are,” he corrected.
“No. I'd like you to take my sisterly advice and think about finding a special woman to complete you.”
“Imogen. I love you. But this America. We aren't in Four Weddings and a Funeral or Notting Hill. We certainly aren't in Jerry Maguire. This is real life.”
“I know you get lonely,” said Imogen, leaning over to squash his cheeks between her palms.
“How can I be lonely when you live two floors down and are up here harassing me every single day?” Imogen contorting his face was muffling Rupert's question.
“Don't you want to settle?”
“The concept is great, but the execution isn't uncomplicated,” he admitted seriously, seeing her concerns for him were genuine. “You think I'm a Playboy.”
“I'd have said male slut. I know it's vulgar but sleeping with a harem of women verges on vulgarity.”
“Not that you're judgmental,” retorted Rupert, stung by the bite of her brutal words.
“I'm not. What I see is a guy with a different girl for every occasion. It must leave you feeling unstable.”
“I've got you as my anchor,” he said winningly.
“I have my own life, Rupert. When I'm married, who will you rely on for emotional support and constant companionship?”
“Are you engaged?” he asked incredulously.
“NO!”
“I'll come to the gallery open,” he conceded in defeat.
“Come because you want to, not because it pleases me.”
“Making you chipper makes me want to come.”
Standing, she embraced him. “Will you bring someone?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Why her?”
“Imo, you're wearing me out with the persistent analysis.”
“I'm trying to understand you, Rupert.”
“No one understands me better than you. We grew up together. We immigrated together.”
“Just tell me why Elizabeth?”
“Liz is British. She appreciates arts and literature. That's why Sunday brunch is shared with her. We can eat, read the papers in companionable silence, watch a foreign film and hit the sack. I like clubbing; Liz hates it. I can't force her there. Mikaylah is younger and understands no-strings. She's an aspiring Play-bunny. She can deliver whatever we need for the evening and never fails me. Jasmine is a gym junkie and into sports. Mikaylah is nocturnal. Her bodily work outs don't involve conventional exercise.”
“Too much information, brother.”
“You wanted to know. Jasmine is company for me at the gym and relaxing afterward. I couldn't throw her out the door on Saturday without asking her to come to the game. I had hoped she'd say no, if I'm honest. I wanted it to be lads only. I wasn't particularly popular with my mates by bringing her. Jacqui is there. It's rare, but I do have to socialize with work colleagues. It's managerial etiquette. My understanding is Jacqui is employed near our offices and regularly joins in work functions. It's fun to flirt.”
“Do they know they're mere accessories in your fabulous life?”
“I don't think of them as accessories. I certainly don't interact with any of them with that attitude.”
“I don't know if that's better or worse, Rupert. Have you lead any of them to believe they're your girlfriend?”
“No,” he snapped at last. “I treat them with respect. I contact them regularly because I like them and care for them and it's important not to neglect friends. But never have I given any signal that we're anything more than that.”
“Can you put your hand on your heart and tell me not one of those girls love you?” asked Imogen subdued.
“Couldn't say. It's never been spoken of,” he said, munching a biscuit thoughtfully.
“Men aren't known for spotting the signs women emit when in love. I'm not having a go, Rupert, but I think they're probably all a bit in love with you. Any woman in her right mind would question why they only date at a particular place or are restricted to participating in a selected activity with you.”
“Are you suggesting the women I go out with are mentally deranged?” he softened his tone.
Imogen knew his anger abated as hastily as it rose. “Personally yes, if they're dating a cold creature such as you. Objectively, of course not. The fact they put up with it makes me think there are at least four women experiencing unrequited love.”
Rolling his eyes, he took his sister's rant in the spirit of its well-meaning delivery. “I don't have a black-book full of names. Liz is culture and arts. Mikaylah for clubbing. Jasmine for sports. Jacqui for work.”
“What about home?”
“Home? Here is for me and you. Family time.”
“Wouldn't you like a woman who shared your interests?”
“I don't think she exists and I'm not willing to compromise. As for my losing you after you undoubtedly marry a cad that's nowhere near deserving of you, I'll live my life as bachelor. It can't be that bad. It wasn't for Uncle Robert Locke-Smythe senior. He did magnificent things while alive,” reasoned Rupert
“It didn't stop him having a son!”
“True, but I was raised in an informed age. I'm always safe,” said Rupert, knowingly tapping the side of his nose with a finger.
“What did I say about too much information?”
“I'll come to your gallery opening. You never know, I might fall for Mr. Radmacker.”
“And break a million girls' hearts? Never.”
“You're right. I shouldn't deprive the female population of the delectable Rupert Locke-Smythe.”
“Why not go solo? You might meet the girl of your dreams there.”
“I'm taking Liz and going there to be with you. End of. I don't need you setting me up, Imogen. I like stability and that's exactly what I have.”
He drained his tea. The conversation had finished.
CHAPTER 3
“Nervous about rehearsals?” inquired co-star David, walking into the theater with Susan.
His voice and familiarity was exactly what she needed, preparing to meet and greet a new cast, in a theater she'd never performed at previously. In turquoise cargo pants with chunky pockets, Susan had a black singlet under her zip-up yellow hoody. Urban dance-wear made her feel younger and more in tune with the chorus line. Seeing the lithe youths strolling into the theater, supple and toned, Susan couldn't quite shake the saying “mutton dressed as lamb” from her mind.
“Nervous about meeting the rest of the cast and gelling with them so the show is right, to be honest,” she answered.
“Least we have our own dressing rooms.”
“True. Do you remember having to share when you were in the chorus line?”
“Horrendous. Sweaty, sticky and steamy from the energy exerted from the dance. Wrestling to find a mirror to apply make-up. Squabbling over anyone getting a fraction extra of the limelight than yourself. Thank God those days are over.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Yes!” asserted David.
“Until you met Jem.”
“Yes. Meeting Jeremy while sharing a dressing room did compensate for the years I fought it out with every other wanna-be in there.”