The church bells sound a hundred feet above my head, signifying that it is three o’clock. With the rain slowing to a mere sprinkle, I step out into the crowded path and make my way toward the gallery entrance. It takes me less than a minute to cross the street and cover the short distance, and as I approach the main stairs, I see Matthew leaning against the iron railing, looking out over Trafalgar Square. The butterflies in my stomach start to dance in celebration, and something inside me leaps at the sight of him. I feel a sensation of pure contentment, relief that I have found him again.
Once more, his arms are crossed against his chest; he is sporting dark jeans and a black V-neck wool sweater, the sleeves casually pushed up his forearms, exposing a gold wrist watch. Brown tortoiseshell sunglasses hide his beautiful brown eyes. He looks relaxed as he stares out onto the square over the fountains below, and I have the advantage of coming up the staircase to his left so he doesn’t see me. The heels of my boots click loudly, echoing on the nineteenth century stone steps as I move toward him. As if sensing my presence, he turns his head toward me as I get about halfway across the black and white mosaic floor of the Portico Entrance. He smiles that dazzling smile, and in three strides he is standing before me, meeting me halfway.
His cologne smells amazing, and it invades my senses even with him at a safe distance from me. His hair is shiny, his face clean shaven and soft. The midnight shade of his sweater emphasizes his olive-toned skin, and I can see a gold chain peeking out around his neck.
“You came,” he says, his steady voice revealing a hint of doubt as he leans in, kissing me on the cheek, a look of relief on his face.
“I came,” I softly reply, blushing slightly as I smile at him. I can feel a burning mark where his lips gently grazed my skin. My heart flutters.
“Shall we?” He motions toward the gallery, and I walk ahead of him through the doors and into the entrance hall. Matthew catches up and walks beside me, and I see him drop a twenty pound note into the donation box before we climb the steps to the Central Hall. I have always loved the National Gallery, and I have spent half a day here with Allie. Of course the masterpieces are amazing, but I enjoy the physical building almost as much. There is so much for the eye to appreciate.
For a brief moment, the sun shines brightly through the magnificent glass ceiling of the Central Hall as people of all nationalities shuffle through the room, most of them holding audio tour devices to their ears, intensely listening and learning. Matthew casually takes my hand in his, linking his fingers with mine as if it is something we do every day. Once again I am overpowered by a sense of unity. I don’t know what it is about him, but I feel so at ease, so at home in his presence.
“I don’t wish to lose you in these crowds,” he says, smiling. It’s a lame excuse for holding my hand, as the art gallery is not that busy. “Let’s go this way.” He guides me to the right toward the next room. We pass the impressive rotunda and the British portraits, and he steers me to the right once more, into a less crowded room filled with beautiful Italian art.
Our pace slows, and we walk around the room in time with each other, my heels softly clicking on the glossy, polished flooring.
“So, did everything go okay at your appointment this morning?” I inquire while Matthew and I are stopped in front of a Venetian masterpiece. The painting is The Allegory with Venus and Time by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, and Matthew seems to be studying it.
“Yes, thank you. Everything went well,” he answers. Redirecting his attention to me, he continues, “I signed everything, and if anything else comes up, it can probably be handled via email or fax. So I’m free to go.”
“And you leave tomorrow?” I resume my questioning as we move toward the next painting.
“Yes. I fly out late tomorrow afternoon.”
“Me too,” I add quietly.
I’m irritated at the thought of having to leave already, and as I’m incapable of controlling time, I feel frustrated that every moment that slips by means I am one second closer to saying goodbye to Matthew forever. A part of me is struggling with the question of what we are doing here, wasting valuable time strolling through these rooms, behaving as if we have all the time in the world. Matthew’s note implied that he wanted to talk things out, but now persuading him to say anything is a challenge. As we enter yet another room, I spot Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the far wall. Releasing Matthew’s hand, I walk toward it and sit on the wooden viewing bench directly opposite. When Matthew sits beside me, I attempt to talk to him.
“Why are we here?” I ask, staring at the masterpiece. A print of it hangs in my home, which makes me think of Allie, and Dave.
“We’re admiring fine art,” he replies lightheartedly. “In fact,” he says, leaning toward me, “I’m admiring a masterpiece right now.”
Matthew reaches over and places my hand into his possessively, raising it to his lips and placing a deep kiss inside my palm. His hot breath caresses my skin as he exhales. I feel the fullness of his lips as they taste the tender skin of my palm, and the slight roughness of his shaven face beneath my fingertips. I turn to look at him, my face flushing, the heat creeping over my skin. He smiles, his eyes smoldering, and I am mesmerized, held captive under his spell.
What game are we playing? What is he doing to me? I can’t seem to resist this man. I have a husband at home, and I have never once considered being unfaithful, yet here I am hand in hand with a former lover. I feel no guilt or sense of dishonesty—in truth, all I feel is a desire to be swept up in Matthew’s arms. I feel sadness that our story didn’t end the way it should have. Fate robbed me of being with this man, marrying this man, spending my life with this man.
Perhaps the universe is trying to make amends. Maybe we get our happy ending in another lifetime, but not in this one. In a short time, we will part ways again, probably for the final time, and I can only try to be thankful for this opportunity to say goodbye properly. Whatever frustration I felt a moment ago has vanished; his kiss has washed it away, erased it from my mind. When I am with him, I am consumed by him. I feel as though I belong to him, have always belonged to him.
“You look so beautiful when you blush, Kate.” Matthew’s index finger gently rubs my cheek. “Come, let’s go,” he orders, and with that, he pulls me from the bench, and we exit the gallery back onto Trafalgar Square.
“What about a drink?” Matthew suggests. Perhaps having a drink and sitting face to face will make for a better environment for us to chat.
“That sounds great,” I say. “In fact, there’s a wonderful pub down the road over there.” I point down through the square to the opposite corner toward Whitehall, across from Admiralty Arch. “My daughter and I grabbed dinner in there a couple months ago when we were here, and it was pretty good.”
“Oh, a regular are you?” Matthew teases. “Katherine Roman, please lead the way.” He catches me off guard by using my maiden name.
“Katherine Jacobs, actually,” I correct him, waiting for his response.
“Ah yes, Katherine Jacobs,” he mutters under his breath. “So, how old is your daughter?” He changes the subject as we stroll toward the pub.
“Allie?” I smile at the mention of her name. “She’s thirteen but acts like she’s twenty sometimes. She is an absolute firecracker and is surely going to be the death of me. She’s already almost as tall as me with legs up to here.” I abruptly stop by the fountains, letting go of Matthew’s hand so I can motion toward my ears with both of mine. I laugh. “Drop dead gorgeous and smart.” We continue walking, and he takes my hand again.
“Sounds like her mother,” he replies, and I roll my eyes at him.
“What about you?” I ask. “You mentioned the other night that you had kids.”
“I do. Two girls, actually.” His face lights up, his smile beams. “Emma is eleven and Rosie is seven. Both are the absolute center of my world. It’s been difficult being away from them. I’ve never left them before.”
I’m glad that he is ope
ning up to me a little. I can tell that he is fiercely protective of his girls, and he probably is a very loving, hands-on dad. My heart sinks for a moment as I see a flash of Matthew playing with his girls. Part of me, deep down, knows that I should have had his children. He locks eyes with me for a second, and I can’t help but feel that he is thinking the same thing.
The Silver Compass is a quaint, traditional English tavern, and the pub dates back to the seventeenth century, although the building has been rebuilt several times over the centuries. Allie and I loved it here, especially when our waitress told us about the rumored resident ghost. Apparently, a murdered prostitute haunts the place. It is dark inside, with flagstone floors and dark wood wainscoting—it’s soaked in character and charm. The smell of rich leather and beer immediately engages you upon entry, and then slowly you are welcomed by the fragrance of cooking wafting from the kitchen. It is spacious and has plenty of private seating. Matthew and I secure a quiet spot in the corner toward the rear.
“Nice choice,” Matthew announces, looking around. “So, what can I get you to drink?”
I settle into the red leather seat and put my purse down, enjoying a break from walking. “I’ll take a glass of Pinot Grigio, please.” I hope that maybe a glass of wine will help me relax a little.
“I’ll be right back.” Matthew disappears around the corner toward the bar.
The pub is not crowded at all; there seems to be a mixture of tourists and businessmen scattered throughout. Music plays in the background, and large television screens hang throughout the main bar area, showing Sky TV. I grab my old-fashioned flip phone from my purse. No surprise, I have no text messages from Dave. I check the time: It’s just after four o’clock, so at least Matthew and I should be able to spend a couple more hours together, if he doesn’t have any other plans. I slide the phone back into my purse and watch Matthew walk toward me holding a pint of beer in one hand and my wine glass in the other. His smile is dashing, and his sunglasses sit atop his head, pinning his hair back off his forehead. He looks like a model or a movie star—completely gorgeous.
“Can you believe the man behind the bar asked if I’m an Aussie?” He feigns insult while setting down our drinks and sliding into the seat opposite me. I laugh as he continues his rant. “You know, it wouldn’t bother me so much if the man who was insulting me was an Englishman, but he’s a young kid from Eastern Europe or someplace, with an accent so strong I can barely understand him myself,” he exclaims. “Do I sound Australian to you?”
“Yes, a little. Most of the time there’s a hint of an Australian twang, except an English word escapes you now and then.” I break the news to him honestly.
“I’ve been there a long time; I suppose it was bound to happen eventually.” He shrugs his shoulders.
I empathize, as I too have this problem with my accent.
“Do you miss this, Kate? Miss England?” he quickly clarifies.
“Sometimes.” I sip my wine, thinking of how to answer. “I miss certain things about England, but after being gone for so long, you get accustomed to a different way of life. I don’t know if I could ever fully adapt to life back here; it’s not the place where we grew up. It’s changed. I’m lucky, I suppose. I get to come back every year, and after a couple of weeks, I’m usually content to go back to my California lifestyle. Why didn’t you ever come back?”
Matthew sits back in his chair, staring at me, obviously thinking about his words.
“I never had a reason to come back,” he replies. “Eventually, I moved my mum out to Sydney to be with us, removing my final link to England. I made a clean break, and although it was rough going at first, I don’t regret it. Or, at least, I’ve never had a reason to regret it.”
“And your mum, she’s happy in Australia? She settled in all right out there?” I try to keep the conversation casual.
“Yes, she loves it. The weather is fantastic for her arthritis, and the girls have brought her immense joy. I don’t think she’ll ever return here. We live in a small community; she has an abundance of English friends and a very comfortable life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happier.” Matthew smiles as he speaks about his mum. I can see the deep affection he has for her, and for that I am glad. I remember her being such a hard-working single mum, working two jobs to make ends meet. It appears now she is relaxing and enjoying her senior years. I honestly cannot be happier for her.
“What about your parents? Are they still in California?” He switches the line of questioning to me, and I feel awkward as I consider how to answer.
“Yes, completely settled in California. They still live in the same house. Peter, my stepdad, is now retired, but they’re content playing golf, and they appear quite happy. Same situation with the sunshine—it’s good for the old age, and I don’t think my mother will ever live back here.” I pause, nervously fingering my wine glass. “We’re not that close. Things were never the same after I went away to college.” I hope he understands what I mean.
“You mean after they forced you to go back home and leave me without saying goodbye, and then had their friends embellish a story to get me to leave you alone forever?” Matthew bluntly spits it out. The truthfulness of his statement slaps me in the face. I guess he did understand.
“Yes, something along those lines,” I agree in a whisper.
We both sit quietly for a moment, sipping our drinks in awkward silence. I reach over and grab the menu, hoping to redirect our thoughts.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, looking at the little chalkboard menu on the table with its simple bar food choices.
“No.” He perks up. “Actually, I’m famished. Would you care to join me for dinner? I know this fantastic place,” he teases, waving his hand around the pub.
“I would love fish and chips; I can’t possibly go home without having some authentic fish and chips!” I reply.
“Then that makes two of us. I’ll go order, be right back.” Once more he jumps up, the previous mood forgotten, and heads off to place our order at the bar.
Matthew is gone for a while, stuck at the bar behind a rush of patrons who have come in at the end of the business day. The pub is starting to fill up with fewer tourists and more locals, mostly men in business suits. Conversations are growing louder, adding a lively feel to the atmosphere.
When he returns, he has another round of drinks for us and a little wicker basket with silverware and condiments in it, with a round number nine on the top. He sets everything down on the table, but this time he sits next to me on the bench seat, his thigh sliding against mine, our jeans rubbing together. I freeze in my seat as his touch sends an electrical current through me, temporarily paralyzing me. He is behaving as though sitting like this is simply natural.
“I think I got a French person this time when I ordered,” he jokes. “Madam, voulez-vous un verre de vin?” Matthew says in bad French and hands me the fresh glass of pinot, smiling seductively.
“Merci beaucoup,” I attempt in response, trying to recall what little I can of my high school French classes.
My eyes scrutinize his, searching for a motive behind his invasion of my personal space. I am met with a flirtatious smirk as Matthew reaches past me with his right arm, deliberately leaning in toward me as he brushes his upper arm against my left breast and very carefully slides my empty wine glass to the farthest edge of the table. I am shocked that he is so brazen, and I wonder if perhaps it is accidental. I feel my nipple harden as the soft cashmere of his sweater rubs against my thin cotton shirt. Pulses radiate deep into my groin.
When he repeats the action with his empty beer glass a second later, I realize that he is aware of what he is doing. I feel my pulse quicken and my stomach tighten; the throbbing between my legs is insane. My logical mind tries to rationalize his conduct; meanwhile, something deep inside me is celebrating. Is he flirting? I casually sip my wine, trying to ground the electrical impulses in my body. To everyone else in the room, it appears he is clearing the table for our
meal.
Matthew is grinning as he settles back into his seat, picking up his fresh pint of beer. He brings it to his smiling lips, causally takes a gulp, and sets it back down on the table in front of us. I am convinced he knows full well the havoc he is wreaking inside my body, and I am not sure I like this game he is playing. Each moment is one closer to us going our separate ways, most likely for the rest of our lives, so I decide there are some things I’d like to talk about while I still have the opportunity.
“So, Saturday night,” I begin. “How long did you stay?”
I’ve caught him off guard with my line of questioning; the confident grin from a moment ago slips away. “Uh, three hours, or maybe four,” he stutters. “Do you know you snore?” His change of direction throws me for a loop. Damn him!
“No, I don’t,” I reply, slightly embarrassed but taken aback imagining him sitting for three hours watching me snore.
“Yes, you do, but it’s not loud or anything. It’s gentle little sounds.” He is grinning at me again. “Honestly quite sweet, I found it delightful to watch.”
“And why were you watching me sleep for three or four hours?” I’m still trying to get over the shock that he sat watching me while I slept. That is either creepy or romantic.
“Well, to be honest, Kate, I was hoping you were going to wake up. I didn’t even realize you were asleep until I heard those funny sounds.”
I smack him on the arm.
“Ouch!” Dramatically, he fakes injury. “I was astounded that you fell asleep, especially considering the circumstances. I sat there quite angry at first. But as I watched you, my anger slowly subsided. I went back to our past and relived those moments, this time inserting the missing pieces of the puzzle that you had shared. I was able to see the picture a little clearer, and for the first time, I was able to see your side of the story, not just my own.”
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