Miss Match

by Leslie Carroll

  Walker, in stockinged feet, answered the door himself. He broke into a broad grin when he saw Kathryn, and extended his paw. “Hey there, Kitty Lamb.”

  There it was again. That warmth when they shook hands. The warmth that spread all over her like a cozy fire in an Adirondack cabin on a snowy February weekend. Kathryn’s gaze shifted from their joined hands up his torso to his pale eyes, and she drew in her breath. His collar was open, exposing a glimpse of honey-colored chest hair. “I came here to check out Barnaby’s tape. He called me this afternoon.”

  Walker stroked his jaw. “Barnaby . . . ?”

  “You’ve got more than one client with that name? You’re limping by the way.”

  “I just stubbed my toe on the metal wastebasket. It hurts like a mother. I don’t remember Barnaby seeing your tape.”

  “Well, I got a phone call from a guy identifying himself as ‘Barnaby’ with a British accent to cream over. Oh. Sorry. A British accent—and he said he’s a musician, and wants to take me out on Saturday, so I want to see his video.”

  Kathryn felt as though she were watching a list of clients scroll past Walker’s eyeballs. Finally, a look of recognition dawned on his face. “Oh, yeah. I know who you’re talking about. Why don’t you go inside to the screening room, and I’ll get you set up. Want some coffee or anything?”

  She was willing to prolong her visit as much as possible. “Are you having any?”

  “I will if you will.”

  “Then I will. Black please.”

  “I’ve got a cappuccino machine,” Walker said with a provocative look.

  “I’m sure you do wonderful things with steamed milk. Sounds terrific. Hey, if I keep coming here and having cappuccino, which costs about three bucks in a restaurant, maybe I’ll finally get my money’s worth.”

  Walker seated Kathryn in a generously proportioned leather swivel chair, and retrieved a videotape. He turned on the VCR and handed Kathryn the remote.

  “I wish I could bottle this moment,” she said, and he looked at her quizzically. “A man handing me custody of a remote control. Shall I alert the media?” She started channel surfing on the TV just because she could. “Wow, such power,” she crowed. “Now I know what a sexual thrill you men get out of wielding one of these things.”

  “Okay,” Walker said curtly, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I get the point.”

  “Good. Now let me experience thirty private seconds with Barnaby, while you get the cappuccino.” Kathryn felt awkward looking at a “husband prospect” with Walker in the room. She felt like she was somehow cheating on him, by even entertaining the notion of dating someone. It was ridiculous as well as absurd, but at least she admitted to herself that she had those feelings about Walker Hart. Of course, he had removed himself as a possible choice because he would be The Last Bachelor Standing when the apocalypse eventually rocked Manhattan. And Kathryn had agreed to pursue this whole matchmaking scheme because she wanted to settle down, truly sick of the will-we-won’t-we mating dance. She knew what she wanted: total romantic I-want-to-wake-up-in-your-arms-for-the-rest-of-my-natural-life commitment. But Walker Hart did not fit the mold. Yet, she felt so comfortable in his presence. They had spent only a few minutes in each other’s company, but they had such an easy rapport. This was a guy she could go on talking to for hours on end, teasing him, baiting him. He was fun.

  Walker slipped the ceramic cup under the steamed milk nozzle. Kitty Lamb is a fun person to banter with, he thought as he topped off the coffee cup. He really had been trying to remember which client Barnaby was; and after he did, his mind flew to comparisons with himself. The dark-haired client did have the kind of accent that made ordinarily sane women from New York swoon. Walker gave Kathryn her privacy, but secretly hoped that she would find something wrong with Barnaby just from viewing the tape. He’d never before felt this way about a client. Then he kicked himself for (a) potentially sabotaging his mother’s business; and (b) still trying to keep Kitty in a compartment reserved for himself, even though the last thing he ever wanted to do was get hitched.

  Barnaby was pretty impressive. He had a face the camera loved, and Kathryn was well aware that video flattered very few people. The musician had those smoldering, bad-boy, dangerous sort of looks, and a soft-looking mouth that curled into a sort of sneer. Kathryn played the tape a third consecutive time, this time listening with her eyes closed. He could make the yellow pages sound good, she thought. I’ve had worse Saturday nights.

  Bachelor Number One’s sex appeal almost eclipsed her thoughts of Bear Hart. In fact, she was fantasizing about showing the Brit her new lingerie, when the door to the screening room opened, and Bear popped his head in.

  “Well . . . ?” he asked.

  “He’ll do,” Kathryn heard herself say, self-consciously, tugging at the sleeves of her hunter green velvet tunic. Funny, how neither she nor Bear seemed genuinely enthusiastic. Barnaby was cute, but Bear was . . . well . . . Bear was unavailable, that’s what he was. “Yes! I give Barnaby Street the thumbs-up,” she said with self-conscious cheeriness.

  “Well, then, I’ll add his name to your file. And, Ms. Lamb? You’re bound by your contract with Six in the City to let me know how the date went.”

  “How voyeuristic. Shall I hire a photographer? How down and dirty would you like me to get?” She grinned at him, and thought she saw his throat constrict.

  “What my clients do on their dates is none of my business. General feedback though is a part of my marketing strategy. I need to track how many matches are successful, in terms of the date going well.”

  “So you have a ‘good date’ and a ‘date from hell’ category? Column A and column B?”

  “Something like that. Both you and Barnaby will phone me sometime within a week after your first date, and let me know some basic stuff.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  “Like: ‘she was fun, but I wouldn’t want to date her again’; ‘she’s a babe, and we’re going out three more times this week’; ‘she made Cruella D’Evil look like Mother Teresa on Prozac.’ That sort of thing.”

  “Gotcha.” Kathryn stood up and retied her right boot, which had somehow come unlaced.

  “Don’t you want your cappuccino?” Walker offered her the steaming mug of coffee.

  Kathryn accepted the cup, which felt almost as warm as his touch had. She blew on the foam, watching it eddy across the top of the mug. “You sprinkled cinnamon on top,” she noticed. “I’m impressed.”

  He nodded in the direction of the cup. “Actually, that’s more or less the extent of my culinary expertise. The directions that come with the machine can be understood by a trained monkey, so I’m very proud to be in company with the higher primates.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can find more things you have in common with the chimps,” Kathryn teased.

  Walker laughed. “The cinnamon was my own idea, though.”

  “Well, you certainly knew what to do with the nozzle,” Kathryn said, making herself blush as she sipped the coffee through the foam.

  “You look pretty in pink, Ms. Lamb.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “If I’m going to blush at my own jokes, then maybe I shouldn’t be making those kind of jokes in your presence.” She handed back the mug. “You make a mean cappuccino, Mr. Hart.”

  They shook hands to say good-bye, and Kathryn felt that flush of heat spread through her again. She was sure that he felt it, too, this time, because he was screwing up his mouth, looking like he was about to say something; then changed his mind before he opened his mouth, then was about to say something different; then decided, for whatever reason, to keep his own counsel.

  “Good luck with Barnaby,” he said flatly, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  “I’ll make sure to get double prints so you can have your own copies,” Kathryn said slyly, giving him a provocative parting pout. God, he was such fun to tease. Too much fun.

  Chapter 5

  Anxious ab
out having a total stranger come up to her apartment, Kathryn agreed to meet Barnaby downstairs in the lobby. As hunky and adorable as he looked on camera, if her date turned out to be a masher, at least Carlos, the night doorman, was there to protect her, although one of the reasons Kathryn was drawn to the swarthy-looking Barnaby was because he had an air of danger about him.

  At ten P.M. on Saturday night, Carlos rang her on the intercom and announced her visitor. Kathryn threw a denim jacket over her velvet bodysuit and black leggings and tossed a brown leather saddlebag-style purse over her head and across her chest. She checked her image in the hall mirror—a wrought-iron fantasy creation of ivy and quince intertwined in an oval shape around the perimeter of the glass. She looked sort of like Morgaine Le Fay meets downtown rocker chick. Except that Kathryn’s ears were the only body parts that were pierced. Satisfied with her appearance, she headed for the elevator.

  Barnaby was waiting for her in the lobby, shifting his weight back and forth from leg to leg. She caught a glimpse of him in the mirrored pillars before he had the chance to see her. His purple-and-black vertical-striped jeans must have been spray painted on his body, making it hard for her to concentrate on his face.

  Kathryn sort of swaggered over to him. She wasn’t sure why. “Hi, I’m Kathryn.”

  “Barnaby Street.” He extended his hand and pumped hers vigorously. “I’ve got another helmet for you on the bike, if you don’t mind mussing that gorgeous hair.” He moved his hand to scrunch her long curls as though they were some sort of experiment. “Kinky. I like that.” He grinned. The British rock and roller turned to Carlos as though he were Mr. Lamb. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll have her back by dawn.” He grinned again, pleased with his joke. Kathryn noticed that he had remarkably good teeth for a Brit.

  Barnaby turned and headed for his bike, which he had left by a Department of Transportation “No Parking— Loading Zone” sign just outside the high-rise. Kathryn smiled when she saw that the back of his well-worn leather bomber jacket was entirely covered with a peeling and cracking handpainted Union Jack.

  Carlos pursed his lips, pointing with them in the direction of the departing rocker. It was Latino doorman-speak for “Keep your eye on him. He’s very full of himself.”

  Kathryn shrugged. “It’s a first date. He looked good on camera,” she added, then walked out of the building into the street.

  Barnaby handed Kathryn a shiny black helmet and adjusted the chinstrap for her. “Barnaby Street,” she said, discovering something. “ That’s why your name sounded simultaneously strange and familiar. I take it you want people to think of Carnaby Street when they meet you.”

  “You’re a smart bird,” he said, chucking her on the chin. “My real name’s Merton. But Merton Street sounds like where you go for haberdashery, and I needed a rocker name for when I’m gigging out, y’know?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And when I tell people my name’s Barnaby Street, they all think they’ve heard of me.”

  Kathryn nodded. “Makes sense to me.” She climbed on the bike, sliding her back against the sissy bar. The custom-tooled leather seat was pretty comfortable, actually, and the bar supported her lower back and added an extra measure of security, however psychological.

  Barnaby hopped on the Honda and revved up the engine. Kathryn liked bikes. She loved the feeling of the wind all around her, combined with the element of danger involved. Aggressive New York motorists were legendary for hating motorcyclists, and she was riding for the first time with a stranger. “Where are we going?” she asked, as she wrapped her arms around his back. That felt good, hugging him to her chest. Sort of like safe sex, assuming a taxi didn’t blindside them enroute to their destination.

  “Hades.”

  “What?” Kathryn screamed into the wind.

  “Hades. It’s a club on East First Street.”

  Kathryn nodded her head into his back, acknowledging that she heard him. The ride across the winding Bleecker Street was exhilarating. Barnaby fully obeyed all the rules of the road, even stopping for red lights, but he had a tendency to floor it as soon as the light changed, and to brake at the last possible minute. Good thing she hadn’t eaten any dinner. It was fun, though, she admitted.

  They disembarked in front of Hades, Kathryn handed back her helmet, and shook her head like a wet dog, then rescrunched her curls. “Helmet head,” she said to her date, smiling apologetically, as Barnaby chained the bike next to several others parked on the sidewalk in front of the East Village nightclub.

  “You’re very game, Kate,” he said, moving to one side to allow her to precede him into the club. She decided not to correct his choice of nickname. She’d always liked ‘Kate’ anyway. Besides, he might be tempted to get physical—and corny—later in the evening, and demand, “C’mon and kiss me, Kate,” at which time she intended to award him undeserved points for originality and give in.

  No wonder Barnaby had let her go inside first. It wasn’t that he was a gentleman. He just didn’t want to be the rottweiler’s dinner. The dog was black as a moonless night in a mole hole and looked as hungry as a wolf pack during a famine, judging from the slobber dripping from its jaws. So far, the club was earning its name. A deadly black canine guarding its entry, and the interior was barely illuminated at all. The only lights in the place, apart from a votive candle or two on a couple of the tables, were some red and blue Lekos focused on a tiny stage at the far end of the room.

  The din was unbearable. “So this is Hades,” Kathryn yelled to her date.

  “Great place, isn’t it?” Barnaby grinned and steered her by the elbow, through the packed crowd at the bar. “Hey, mate,” he said, punching the muscled tricep of a heavily tattooed man wearing a nose ring.

  “Great to see you, man,” Tattoo responded hazily. “Really great. Are you here for The Torykillers?”

  “Yeh. I thought Kate here might enjoy them. She’s really into music.” Barnaby steered Kathryn toward the stoned man being held up by the bar. “This here is Kate. Kate, this is Mick.”

  “Hi, Mick,” she yelled, blinking away his cigarette smoke. “Great to meet you. Really great.” She regarded the man’s body art. Mick’s tricep bore a detailed depiction of a toothy dragon with a puppy caught in its blood-dripping jaws. “Nice tattoo. Interesting choice. Really interesting.” She heard herself falling into their speech rhythms and vernacular. Actually, hearing herself do anything was a minor miracle. Her ears were already ringing from the industrial-strength blare of the band, and they had probably not been in Hades for upwards of two minutes.

  Mick just nodded his head with the music. Kathryn figured it was his way of acknowledging her greeting.

  “Do you know The Torykillers?” Barnaby asked as he steered Kathryn to one of the tiny tables.

  “Not personally, no,” she yelled.

  “Super band from Birmingham. Really super. Have you heard of The Smiths? They were sort of a forerunner of this kind of music, back in the ’80s.”

  “The Smiths? Oh, yeah, sure,” Kathryn answered truthfully.

  “Well, The Torykillers are a bit like them, but a lot less twee.”

  “Twee?”

  “Something twee is a bit treacly. I guess you Yanks would say ‘cutesy’.”

  Kathryn nodded in recognition. “Oh, I see. In that case, I had never thought of The Smiths as being twee. To me, Laura Ashley is twee.”

  “I don’t know their music at all,” Barnaby responded. “What are you drinking?”

  “GT?”

  “Any particular brand of gin?”

  “Top shelf. Tanqueray is fine. Boodles is better. And ask them please not to go too light on the tonic. I’d rather have a shorter drink that I can actually consume without feeling like I’m drinking straight rubbing alcohol.”

  “Twist?”

  “Please.”

  Barnaby muscled his way toward the bar. He got points for being solicitous about her choice of cocktail. He hadn’t tried to change her mind and for
ce beer on her, for instance. But this club?! And the band! And her date considered The Smiths too precious or cutesy. To Kathryn, their iconoclastic lyrics were cutting-edge, and their music was just melodic enough for her to keep listening. The Torykillers seemed totally tone-deaf to her, and with the volume on their speakers turned up past ten, the lyrics were almost indistinguishable from the sound of a 747 at takeoff if you were standing on the tarmac without earplugs. Kathryn picked out a few lines here and there.

  Eat my vomit, righteous bitch.

  Slit your wrists, but it’s a waste of time.

  I was only joking when I said I loved you.

  Give a bloke a hit of cocaine.

  Foolish mule, dizzy cow,

  Believe me baby, it’s over.

  I’m doing your granny’s fanny,

  I’m screwing your granny’s fanny.

  Barnaby returned with her drink and Kathryn thirstily slurped down half of its contents. She realized right away that she was drinking her cocktail too quickly, as though the glass contained only tonic water.

  “Great band, aren’t they?”

  “What?” Kathryn yelled, leaning in to Barnaby, cupping her ear forward, hoping it would help her understand his question.

  “I said, great band. Alternative music.”

  “I always wanted to ask what that really meant.”

  “What what meant, Kate?”

  “Alternative music. What is it alternative to?”

  “Music!” He grinned.

  Kathryn was trying to put a brave face on it. Such a glorious accent, and he had brought her to a venue where they couldn’t hear themselves think, let alone hear each other talk. Maybe this was the rocker’s idea of a good first date. Take her someplace where it’s impossible to get to know each other.

  Mick sidled up to the table, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. “Are you in on Tuesday, mate?”

  “Yeh. I switched with Ian, since he’s covering for me tonight.”