Outside once more, I crunched biscotti and walked.
I was going to sort myself out. Annie-the-indecisive, could, as my Yankee colleague would say, ‘take a hike’. I was going to work out exactly what I’d done to make myself miserable, and I was going to work like hell to fix it.
Step One – Talk to Dorian. Work out what we were missing, what had us both drifting around separately in our apartment full of hoarded junk.
Step Two – Throw out all of said junk. I was tired of tripping over/into Dorian’s ‘collection’.
Step Three – Calmly and cleverly suggest moving back to England. Where the taxis were black and rare, and where tea was just a drink and not a fashion choice.
Each time I had these steps fixed in my mind, I’d remind myself glumly that it was all very well wanting these things, but in reality I was too scared to talk to Dorian about our relationship (or, as I was starting to think of it, our lack thereof) in case there was a problem, and I was causing it. I couldn’t ask him to throw away all his things, I didn’t feel I had the right after only a few months. And asking him to uproot his life and take it all the way to England? Forget it.
My thoughts went around and around until I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed a cup of tea and a rest.
I paused and looked around me, I’d been walking for a very long time, and I had no idea where I was. A sign on my right informed me that I was by the East River Promenade. Wherever that was.
I walked around a large enclosed space that held trees and benches, and found myself on a concrete walkway, fronted by a short, metal fence, that looked out over the water. The river was slate grey and lapped gloomily at the concrete under my feet.
One question remained in my mind, and I spoke it aloud to the wheeling gulls and the grey water.
“What the hell am I going to do?”
I don’t know what I was looking for, some sort of sign I suppose. I know, it sounds cheesy, but that’s what people do in films and things isn’t it? The desperate man, having exhausted all avenues of saving the ranch (or temple, shopping mall, family owned pizzeria etc etc) shouts (from a cliff top or other lofty surface) ‘give me a sign!’ at which point a billboard or newspaper on the street gives him the idea/realisation/coupon that he so desperately needs.
But in this case, though a sign came, it was not a sign from chance, fate, Buddha or any other supernatural or eerie force.
This was a sign meant for me.
And I knew this, because it had my name on it, in massive pink letters.
The pink letters were on a massive, canary yellow background, and they said – Annie Bea, where the fuck are you?
For a moment all I could do was stare at the words in utter confusion, as if another meaning might emerge. Maybe it was a family of Moroccan river gypsies looking for Anniebea, their lost daughter? Perhaps it was a hipster joke, but the words ‘Scooby Doo’ had somehow been washed partly away?
But no, there was my name.
More than that, it was my name, on the flat, yellow roof, of a barge.
A barge with an eye wateringly painted, two storey shack on it, and brightly coloured tables and chairs set out all over the remainder of its surface.
My name, on the roof of a floating café.
My heart was in my throat, knowing what my brain was already telling me was impossible.
I ran along the rail, sprinting and looking all the while at where the café was. To my relief, it slowed by a set of stairs and two men on the gangway below tied it up with heavy chains. They propped a wooden walkway up against its side, and a woman came out of the little lemon coloured building and stood at the top of the ramp.
There were already people queuing when I got there, and my skin was twitchy with irritation and impatience. I had to get onto the barge. I had to know.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly to the woman in front of me, “but I think I’m-”
She shushed me. “Wait your turn,” she groused.
“But I think I know the person who-”
The woman scowled, “Now hang on a minute, don’t you go trying to queue jump me – I’ve waited all day for Annie Bea’s to turn up.”
It was the sound of my name in a stranger’s mouth that did it. I had to speak up, or else, who was I?
“I’m Annie Bea!” I shouted, and the dozen or so people in front of me all turned to stare, including the young woman from the café. She was tall and skinny, dressed in sleek black and had her blonde, streaked brown hair up in a pony tail.
“Ignore her!” shouted the woman in front of me, who was thin and spiky as an anemone on a crash diet, “she’s obviously a tourist!”
“I’m not a tourist! I’m Annie Bea, and I can prove it,” I struggled through the line of people, most of whom were so baffled that they didn’t protest (though I did get a few elbows to my ribs which I chose to ignore). I pulled out my purse and showed the woman my old student ID. Annie Bea, with the perm and the winged eyeliner of my sixth-form days still in evidence.
The woman (her name badge identified her as ‘Cherry’) peered at the picture, then squinted at me. She was only about nineteen, but she had the cool demeanour of someone who has seen it all, and won’t hesitate in the face of trouble. Her ears were both pierced three times, and she wore pearls and pink diamante studs. This woman held my fate in her cheerfully nail polished hands.
Her face suddenly brightened, and she looked at me in awe (I was not used to people looking at me in awe, only in confusion or annoyance, so I blushed ferociously).
“You’re Annie?”
I nodded.
Cherry sucked in a breath and raised her eyebrows. “You don’t look like how I pictured you,” then she smiled, “but I’m so glad you’re here! God, this is wild huh? I thought it was crazy,” she grabbed my hand, “come on in.”
In a daze I allowed her to drag me over the concrete of the slab that formed the hull of the barge. It was covered in glued down sections of mosaic, made of buttons, bottle caps, tiles and polished glass. The door of the café was painted to look like a desert, red sand, blue sky and a massive lime green cactus that took up most of the space. Cherry pushed it open and pulled me into the café.
I blinked. Suddenly I was right where I should have been.
I was home.
It looked nothing like Raspberry Bs, but then, nothing ever could. This was entirely new and different, the product of a whole new place and state of mind.
The tiny café had only six tables inside, and a long bar that stretched the length of the room, behind which was a basic kitchen, half shielded from view by a blind decoupaged with pictures of cakes and pies cut from magazines. The bar itself was studded around the edges with nineties fridge magnets (the kind that are shaped like things – cocktail glasses, fruit, genitalia etc) and across the front of the bar was the menu, written in pink chalk on a huge blackboard. What really caught my eye though, were the specials.
Specials
Water’s French toast (with custard).
The Hangover Cure (now with complimentary paper bag and mouthwash).
The Indecisive Idiot Omelette (plain, with cheese and ham on the side).
A Raspberry B (mint green cheesecake with raspberry compote).
Annie’s Breakfast Bagel (smoked salmon and paprika cream cheese).
I was so transfixed by the sight of my name that I hadn’t noticed Cherry darting into the kitchen. I heard her shout, “Will! It’s her, it’s Annie, she’s here!”
Then feet thudded somewhere overhead.
My heart, still lodged in my throat like a hot stone, started to beat painfully hard. Will was here, Will was coming down to see me, Will was...
“Annie?”
He came out from under the blind, wearing a plain black t-shirt with a blue checked shirt and jeans, looking almost exactly how I remembered him. Only his hair had changed, now it was blue tipped, the bright blue of the desert sky painted on the door.
The word ‘Will’ stuck in my
throat. I hadn’t thought about what I’d say when I first saw him again. I didn’t know how I felt about him telling Stephen to chuck me, and then never letting me know. I didn’t know what in the world he was doing in New York, floating on the East River on a barge/café...and I suddenly realised that I didn’t care.
I took a furtive step across the space between us, and so did Will, then another, and another. Quite without meaning to I wound up in his arms, with mine clutching wildly at his back. He felt heavy and warm, and I buried my face in the space between his neck and his shoulder, breathing him in. Will pressed his face to the top of my head and let out a breath. I realised that I was shaking. I looked up, about to say something, to say ‘sorry’ or ‘how could you leave’ or ‘I missed you’ but he kissed me, and after that I couldn’t do anything but hold on to him and kiss back.
I lost track of where we were, and what Cherry was doing, I was only aware that Will was moving us, stepping back and leading me. I went without a thought. Into the kitchen, where he guided me up a blue ladder into the semi-darkness of a small, square apartment, no bigger than my bedroom in Bristol. We kissed again and then Will broke away from me, looking down at the mattress on the floor, a small lamp next to it casting out a yellow light over a tangled green sheet and a tatty GoodFood magazine.
“Is this OK...?”
“Fine,” I said, pulling him in for another kiss, newly addicted to the way he felt against me (or maybe I’d been a lost cause since that first kiss), “it’s perfect.”
We tumbled onto the mattress, I lost a welly boot, then my coat, I tore Will’s shirt off and he managed to get the zip on my skirt stuck. I got his jeans open, my knickers got tangled around my remaining welly, and Will slid on top of me. There was a moment, after I’d lost myself to the sheer gorgeousness of feeling him inside of me, pressure and heat in all the right places, when we paused, breathing unsteadily. Will kissed me gently, and I reached up and tangled my fingers in his ludicrous hair.
Halfway through (you know through what, I’d not going to paint you a picture) I rolled Will onto his back, and moved on top of him. His hands clutched my hips, and I leaned down until we were nose to nose. He kissed me, and felt my orgasm hit me like a feather-covered two-by-four to the stomach.
As we lay on his mattress, it occurred to me that Will already knew everything I wanted to say to him. Because he knew me, and had known me, for years.
Wrapped in a sheet on a bare mattress, it also occurred to me that a can of Fosters might actually hit the spot.
(And that maybe I didn’t have to be so gung ho about being grown up, if it meant I could have moments like that one.)
Chapter Twenty-Three
I woke up alone, and for a moment I panicked. I sat up, wrapping the green sheet around my naked body (well, I still had a welly on) and peered into the gloom. The lamp was on its side, illuminating the wall over the floor hatch. The walls were covered in posters, Lady Gaga, Ke$ha and various intricate cakes. A mobile of scratched CDs hung from the ceiling, and on the other side of the room was a six pack of beer (two cans missing), a collapsible wardrobe and a scattering of shoes, magazines and books.
No sign of Will.
I was starting to question the reality of last hour when his blue crest of hair appeared in the hatchway, followed by the rest of him. He was wearing electric blue boxers and his black shirt, and carrying a flask of tea and a massive piece of pie on a plate.
He realised that I was awake and smiled, one of his honest to God ‘the world is my casual fuck-buddy’ smiles.
“I brought you some tea.”
“So I see,” I croaked, sitting up and realising belatedly that only one of my legs was covered by the sheet, and everything from collar bone up was still exposed. Will looked at my welly and snickered fondly, kneeling down he tugged it off, then pulled me down onto the mattress and kissed me.
Again, something inside of me just couldn’t bear letting him go, I pulled Will close, shed my sheet, and we rolled around on the dusty floor, fighting for the privilege of being on top and not getting arse splinters (though, as a result we both ended up with so many fragments of wood in our respective bums, that it looked like we’d just visited an Amish water park).
Afterwards I drank warm tea, wearing Will’s discarded over-shirt and sitting with my back to his chest. We shared the wedge of pumpkin pie, and all the while, Will stroked my hair, my thigh and my side as if he was afraid I’d evaporate. After a while his hand drifted to mine, lightly touching my wedding ring, and bringing me back to reality with a burst of guilty nausea.
“What are you going to do about him?” Will asked.
I turned around to face him. I had no idea, I didn’t even know if I could do anything. I’d betrayed Dorian and I still didn’t have any idea what for.
“That depends...what are we doing?” I asked Will.
“Well, at the moment I’m working on regaining feeling in my thighs,” Will said, “and then-”
“I’m being serious.”
“Now look, I’ve told you about that.”
“Will,” I warned.
“OK,” he sighed, “what are we doing? What I think is, we’re doing whatever we want. I don’t know about you, but I’m in love, and I’d like to spend as much time as possible with you, in bed, outside, here at the café, wherever. I want to live with you and wake up with you every morning...but you’re married, so, that complicates things.” He looked at me, eyes cautiously hopeful, “but only if you let it,” he finished.
If I hadn’t known him as well as I did, I’d have thought he was suggesting an affair. But Will was just being Will, trying to untangle a mess by shearing straight through it with scissors.
“I should talk to Dorian,” I said quietly. “I should...I have to tell him that I made a mistake,” I looked at Will, “I made a mistake.”
Will looked visibly stung.
“I mean getting married,” I said, taking his hand in mine, “this...whatever this was. It wasn’t a mistake...I was just being stupid, not seeing it.”
“Me too,” Will said, “I should have asked you out way back when I could’ve, and...” he rubbed a hand over his face, “shit, Annie, I should have told you this a long time ago. I should never have done it, I should have talked to you first, but I knew I’d sound like the jealous bastard that I was, so I-”
“You told Stephen to break it off with me.”
That seemed to take the wind out of Will’s sails, and his guilt sat dead in the water as he gawped at me.
“I met Stephen when I went back to Bath a few days ago. He told me. He’s hooked up with Stick now,” I shook my head, “why didn’t you just tell me? I would have listened.”
Will just raised his eyebrows.
“OK, so I would have thrown you out on your arse,” I admitted, “but eventually I would have listened.”
“Because I’m a coward,” Will said, as if I should have known this just from looking at him when we’d first met, “I was too scared to go for you, and too scared to tell you that you were making a mistake.”
“But you followed me all the way to New York.”
“Yeah, and then what did I do? I didn’t phone, or write, or come and see you. I was too nervous.”
“You painted my name in neon letters on your roof, that doesn’t really say ‘nervous’.”
“Well, I knew where you and Dorian were living, not exactly riverside property...I just thought if you saw it, you could choose whether you wanted to see me or not. I didn’t think I’d be exactly welcome if I just turned up at your door.”
I put my hands on his shoulders, then wrapped my arms around him and hugged him. “Of course you would’ve been,” I kissed the side of his face, “I missed you so much, if you’d shown up, I would have gone with you.”
Will groaned, “Don’t say that, I can’t take knowing I could have had this for the last month.”
“Month!?” I pulled back and glared at him, “you’ve been here a month?”
Again, Will looked sheepish. “Yes.”
I gave an exasperated growl.
“I told you, I’m a cowardly dipshit,” Will said.
“And while we’re talking about your miraculous relocation, Mister” I said, poking him lightly in the chest, “how could you afford this? How are you even allowed to work in the US?”
“I’m not...technically,” Will explained, with a shifty look that was usually reserved for filling in tax forms, “I’m just setting the café up as a favour to a friend.”
“Who?”
“Felicity Foffaney,” he told me, “she called my parents, where I went after I closed the café and, she seemed to know an awful lot about me for someone I’ve never even heard of-”
“She’s rogering my mother,” I said.
Will gaped at me.
“Not even joking,” I sighed, “please continue.”
“Anyway, she told me she had ‘stacks of cash’ and wanted to set herself up a little business close to her brother Dorian’s place, and that she wanted me to do it, because then we’d probably bump into each other.”
“Meddling freak,” I said, “it’s like she escaped from an Enid Blyton relationship manual.”
Will sniggered. “And so she got me over here, forked out for the barge, and left me to it. She said it was only a matter of time before her and ‘the elite Annie badgering squad’ persuaded you that Dorian was never going to be the perfect guy for you, and that when that happened, I should be around to look after you.”
“I take it this squad was my mum, Fifi and Yvonne.”
“Yes.”
“Bunch of mad slags.”
“They had a point though, I’m glad I was here, otherwise, what would you be doing right now?”
I thought about it. “I’d have probably tried taking a taxi back to the apartment, then bought milk, and settled in for an evening with Dorian.” The idea that I could have spent my evening like that, while Will was a whole ocean away, stuck in Brighton or somewhere else, made me feel cold inside.
“I’m so glad you were here,” I told him, and we lay back down on the mattress (which smelt of coffee and baking from the warm kitchen air that flowed through the floorboards). Will cuddled me, and I patted my hands over his arms and back, smoothing the soft cotton of his shirt. I was so, incredibly happy to be with him, to have my best friend back. I never wanted to leave the warm little camp he’d made there, but I knew I had to.
Prior Engagements Page 26