The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

He stood up and I was a little amused to see he had to rearrange his pants. He picked up his jacket and I realized he was leaving. I was surprised to feel a pang of disappointment.

  “Why did you come here last night, Sebastian?”

  He frowned, then shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  He strolled toward the door and glanced over his shoulder once.

  “See you around, Caro.”

  And then he was gone.

  I sat there for several minutes, trying to process what had just happened. He’d always been so easy to read, but now I didn’t have a clue what was going on with him.

  I shook my head and made a mental note not to open my door to strange men in the middle of the night, no matter how hot they were or how well they filled a pair of jeans.

  After my unusually stimulating wake-up call, the day dragged. My editor had emailed during the night to say that my travel documents had definitely been delayed, but that he was hoping to get hold of someone who could help as soon as possible. The small print was: expect to be stuck in Geneva for at least a few days.

  Liz commiserated with me over breakfast.

  “Sorry to hear that, Lee. I got my papers couriered over from the Embassy first thing. My flight leaves in a couple of hours. Maybe see you out there.”

  “Maybe,” I said, wearily. “Look after yourself. Keep your head down and watch your back.”

  “You know me, Lee, I wear brass knickers—utterly indestructible.”

  We hugged briefly, and she was off again.

  I texted Marc to see if he was free: I couldn’t face a day wandering around pointlessly by myself. I much preferred pointless wandering with company. I was relieved when Marc said he’d be happy to meet up. We spent a peaceful day examining a photography exhibition in the Sonia Zannettacci gallery, and strolling along the Quai de Seujet toward the lake.

  By early evening, I was starting to feel hungry and Marc offered to keep me company over a plate of pasta in a small, family run bistro that I’d discovered just around the corner from my hotel. I was digging into a very tasty Pizzoccheri, a tagliatelle-type pasta made from buckwheat flour and cooked with asparagus and diced potatoes—a local specialty—when Marc’s phone beeped to tell him he had a message.

  “I am afraid, chère Lee, that I will be leaving you alone after this night: my papers and assignment have come through.”

  I was pleased for him but a feeling of despondency washed over me. How could the British and French governments expedite visas for their nationals, while my own was so inept?

  As we discussed his imminent departure to Fayzabad in the north of Afghanistan, we made vague arrangements to meet up, should we find ourselves within spitting distance.

  We’d nearly finished a carafe of house red, when I became aware that someone was hovering over us. To my astonishment, and more than a little dismay, I saw it was Sebastian.

  He looked as though he was barely managing to rein in his temper, his eyes blazing.

  “We need to talk,” he said from between gritted teeth.

  Before I could frame a reply, he grabbed my arm to pull me up.

  Marc stood immediately. “Let go of her, m’sieur, or you and I will have a problem.”

  Sebastian scowled at him and for a moment I thought I was going to be breaking up a fight, but then he dropped my arm.

  I wanted to know what the hell Sebastian was playing at. Whatever his problem, I’d had enough of this game of hide and seek where he was the only one who understood the rules.

  “It’s okay, Marc,” I said, quietly.

  He raised his eyebrows, stared at Sebastian, then back at me. “Very well, but I will be phoning your mobile in 15 minutes to check on you, chérie.”

  I smiled and blew him a kiss.

  “Who the fuck does he think he is?” snarled Sebastian as I left the bistro with him.

  I stared at him in amazement. “A friend! What’s it to you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I trailed along beside him as he marched down the street in furious silence. I didn’t know whether to be amused at his petulance, angry at his rudeness, or wary of his apparent temper. All three, probably.

  He ducked into a small bierkeller, holding open the door for me. Well, that was a small improvement in manners. The barman nodded at him in recognition, and Liz’s words came back to me: they say he drinks.

  He ordered without asking my preference.

  “Deux whiskies.”

  He had a damn nerve!

  “Non merci, je préfère du vin rouge, monsieur.” I’d always preferred red wine to whiskey.

  Sebastian looked enraged. Well, fuck him.

  The barman poured our drinks, then wandered off to serve a couple of tourists at the other end of the bar.

  Sebastian tossed the whiskey down his throat, and turned to face me.

  “What are you doing here, Caro?” he said, a scowl marring his lovely face.

  “That’s a good question, Sebastian,” I replied calmly. “Right now, I’m wondering why the hell I’m listening to you order me around.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

  His reply was almost amusing. Almost.

  “Seriously, what is it to you?” I asked, genuinely interested in an honest answer.

  He ran his hands over his hair; a gesture, I remembered, that expressed extreme frustration.

  “It’s dangerous out there, Caro. In Afghanistan, I mean. I know that’s where you’re going—obviously.”

  What?!

  I took a deep breath.

  “Sebastian, apart from the fact that I’ve already had assignments reporting from Iraq and Darfur—which weren’t exactly summer camps—it’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business!”

  He really was unbelievable.

  “Based on what?”

  He was silent.

  “You know, Sebastian,” I said, my voice rising with anger, “I spent 11 years being told what to do by my ex-husband—I don’t need you to do it as well. You of all people should understand that.”

  He blanched, his expression wounded. It was the first time either of us had referred to the past or what had happened between us.

  “Caro, that’s not it, I…”

  But I’d had enough. If these were the pearls of wisdom that I’d come to hear, thereby screwing up my last evening with Marc, I’d had enough. I stood up to leave.

  “Caro! Don’t … don’t go.”

  His expression and voice were pleading.

  “Why did you bring me here, Sebastian? And I’d really like to know why you assaulted me last night.”

  He gaped at me.

  “Assaulted? I didn’t! I’d never…” his words trailed off and he stared at me in anguish, as he saw the anger on my face.

  “Actually you did—you were just too drunk to remember it. You’re damn lucky I didn’t report you. Although I’m fairly sure you can work out the reason why I didn’t—why I couldn’t. Good night, Sebastian.”

  I took a step away, then turned and looked back at him. “I hope you have a nice life, I really do. And while you’re at it—quit your drinking before you really do something stupid. More stupid.”

  And then I turned on my heel and left.

  CHAPTER 3

  I was fuming as I strode back to my hotel. Whether it was the chill night air or the memory of his hurt expression as I walked out, my anger began to cool.

  And no matter how inappropriate his behavior, I realized it was because he was concerned about my well-being. I shook my head: I really couldn’t figure him out. One minute he was either ignoring me or just plain rude, the next trying to sleep with me, then acting like a jealous boyfriend when he found me with Marc. And how the hell did he find me in the first place? Twice.

  I wished we could have talked like two normal human beings. That seemed unlikely. There was too much history, too much turbulent water under the bridge.

  By the time I slid the keycard into the door of
my hotel room, my ire had leached away. Instead, I felt restless and irritable. I checked my cell to see if I’d had an email from my editor, but although he’d written to say he was still chasing his contacts in the Defense Department, there was no other news. Worse still, it was beginning to look like the delay would be numbered in weeks, not days.

  I threw the phone onto my bed in disgust, and decided a hot shower might relax me. It was a futile hope.

  I’d just wrapped myself in a towel when I heard a knock at my door. My instincts told me it wasn’t going to be room service.

  “Yes?”

  “Caro, it’s me. Can we talk?”

  “I think we’ve said everything, Sebastian.”

  “Can I come in? Just to talk.”

  “Is that a joke? No, you can’t.”

  There was a pause, then his voice became quieter and more strained.

  “Caro, please. I won’t … try anything. I just want to talk to you. Please.”

  His voice sounded so desolate, my resolution began to waver, buckle, and give way entirely.

  “Okay,” I sighed. “Listen, I’ll meet you in the lobby in five minutes. That’s my best offer.”

  “You … you don’t trust me?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Okay,” he said, softly, “I’ll be waiting.”

  I ran a comb through my wet hair and pulled on a pair of jeans, t-shirt and jacket.

  I half expected him to be waiting outside my door, but the corridor was silent and empty.

  The elevator slid to the ground floor, exhaling with a soft hiss as the doors opened. My eyes scanned the room and I saw him at once. He was sitting on a long, low sofa, his head in his hands.

  When he looked up and saw me, his expression cleared, a small smile appearing on his face. He stood up politely as I approached, but my own gaze, I’m sure, was wary.

  I sat on a chair next to the sofa, and waited for him to speak.

  “You came,” he said, quietly.

  “Evidently. What do you want now, Sebastian?”

  My voice was cool and distant, although inside I felt anything but.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “No … I…”

  He looked longingly toward the bar, then dropped his gaze to his hands.

  I crossed my arms and waited for him to speak.

  “What you said earlier…” He took a deep breath, and that simple action seemed to raise some sort of emotional barricade.

  “I didn’t really assault you, did I,” he said, confidently. “You were just saying that to get back at me.”

  Is that why he’d begged me to come here? To call me a liar? A fantasist?

  “No, Sebastian, you really did,” I replied with some heat. “You were drunk … I couldn’t … couldn’t stop you.”

  I closed my eyes, and shivered at the memory.

  “If you hadn’t passed out when you did … you scared me,” I said, looking him in the eye. “It reminded me of your…”

  I bit my lip to stem the flood of my hasty words, but it was too late. He gasped.

  “I reminded you of … of my father?”

  I nodded, and his expression was stricken.

  “You were really afraid to let me in your room just now? I scared you that much?”

  I didn’t reply, leaving an appalled silence hanging in the air.

  “Oh God! Caro … I never … I couldn’t…”

  I stared at him doubtfully. The boy I’d known would never have hurt me—but he was long gone. I didn’t know who Sebastian was anymore—he was a stranger.

  “Fuck, Caro! I’m so sorry.”

  He dropped his head into his hands again.

  I beat back a long-dormant urge to comfort him, to hold him and tell him it would be okay. Instead I continued to stare at him, tracing the memories of ten, long years in the past.

  My cell phone rang, which was a very welcome interruption.

  “Chérie! I have been calling and calling you! Are you all right?”

  “Oh, shit! Sorry, Marc. Yes, I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to worry.”

  “Hmm, okay, you are still with him?”

  “We’re just sitting in the lobby at my hotel. I’m good, really.”

  “Bien, ma chère. If you say so. Call if you need me.”

  “I won’t, but thanks, Marc. Have a safe flight and look after yourself—I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Ciao.”

  Sebastian frowned. “Was that your friend?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  I laughed, but without humor.

  “Marc is a good friend. He was just … being concerned.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Actually, I think you’re more his type.”

  Sebastian looked surprised. I’d known for years that Marc was gay, but he didn’t broadcast the fact—it wouldn’t have been good for his career.

  “Did you … tell him about me?” he asked, quietly.

  “Which bit?” I sighed. “It doesn’t matter: the answer is no—it’s not anyone’s business but mine.”

  I looked pointedly at my watch.

  “Sebastian, it’s late and I’m tired. If you’ve got anything else to say to me, say it quickly. Otherwise I’m going to bed.”

  He stared at his hands again.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk,” he said, his voice quiet, almost humble. “It was just … a shock … seeing you again.”

  “For me, too,” I said, softly.

  He looked suddenly hopeful, and I regretted giving him a reason.

  “Let me make it up to you, Caro. Let me take you out tomorrow. I could show you the city. I’ve been here for months—I know my way around pretty well.”

  “I don’t think so…”

  “Caro, come on. I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise—I know your travel permit hasn’t come through.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know that?”

  “Well…” He paused. “That was just the impression I got. You’d have been packing otherwise.”

  Again, there was something off about his tone, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. On the other hand, this whole conversation had been more than usually fraught.

  “Please, Caro, I know some great Italian restaurants. It’ll be like…”

  He hesitated, so I finished the sentence for him, “…old times?”

  He gave a small smile. “Do you have anything better to do?”

  I sighed, giving in. “No, I don’t. Fine. But one false move, Hunter, and you’ll regret it.”

  He grinned hugely. “Yes, ma’am!”

  I couldn’t help smiling back.

  I was exhausted by the heated emotions that had been superabundant lately. A glass of wine sounded damn fine. I looked over toward the bar.

  Now we’d talked and he’d apologized, I was able to relax a little.

  “I think I will have that drink now.”

  Before I could stand up to go to the bar, he was on his feet.

  “I’ll get it. A red wine?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I slumped in my seat, watching him lean against the bar while waiting to be served. The last time we’d spent time together like this, he hadn’t been old enough to buy alcohol.

  I was surprised when he returned with two glasses of wine; I’d assumed he’d be hitting the whiskey again. I was very glad to see he wasn’t.

  “I got you a Barolo.”

  “Mmm, my favorite.”

  “I know. I remembered you liked it.”

  I stared at him in amazement. How on earth did he remember something like that?

  “Oh, well … thank you.”

  I suddenly felt awkward again, his gaze was too intense. I sighed. It was time to have that conversation.

  “How was it … after I left?”

  He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes, as if
in pain. When he opened them again the old wounds were raw.

  “Bad.”

  He swallowed, and I could tell he was trying to find the words.

  “Mom and Dad were … in the end Mitch went to see them—I didn’t know what he said at the time but he and Shirley took me to live with them. Later, I found out that Mitch had threatened to go to my dad’s CO and tell him that he’d been … beating up on me.”

  My hand fluttered to my mouth, trying to block the rising nausea.

  “On my eighteenth birthday, I enlisted in the Marines.” He looked up. “That’s pretty much it.”

  “And Mitch and Shirley? Ches?”

  “Mitch and Shirley got posted to Germany soon after that. Ches was studying at UCSD so when I had leave, I used to hang with him and his college buddies.” He smiled briefly. “He’s married with two kids now.”

  “You’re kidding me? Really?”

  I tried to imagine happy-go-lucky Ches as a responsible father of two. And then I remembered a time when Sebastian and I had thought about having children. An impossible dream.

  “Did he enlist?”

  “He was going to, but then he met Amy at college and she talked him out of it. He’s the manager at La Jolla Country Club now.”

  I had memories of the country club, the brief few weeks of my membership while Sebastian had worked there as a lifeguard. In particular I remembered one very steamy session of illicit sex in a changing room storage closet, of all places.

  From the heat in Sebastian’s eyes, he was currently on the same page. I had to look away.

  “Are Shirley and Mitch still out in Germany?”

  “No. Mitch got sent to Parris Island as an instructor. But last time I saw them, they were talking about going back to San Diego. I guess they want to be near their grandkids.”

  “Where did Donna and Johan go?”

  An odd expression crossed Sebastian’s face. “How did you know they went away?”

  I hesitated, wondering if an honest answer was in anyone’s best interest after so many years. But, perhaps, after all, it needed to be said.

  “I wrote to them.”

  He leaned forward, staring at me.

  “When?”

  “Around the time of your 21st birthday, Sebastian. And to Shirley and Mitch. My letters were returned to sender, unopened. I assumed they’d either gone away or…”

  I didn’t need to finish the sentence. He let out a lungful of air in a long sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath for a very long time.