I try again. “Did you follow me here? Are you stalking me? I’ll get the authorities involved if need be. This is highly unprofessional. What on earth are you after? You can’t just invade my life like this. Don’t you get it? I don’t want you here.”
A little more aggressive than needed, perhaps, but I’m not practiced in handling conflict constructively. Dr. Joseph would be impressed I attempted to handle it at all.
Hendrix’s brow furrows. “I, uh. Didn’t know you’d be here, honestly.”
Which has to be a load of bullshit because obviously. “You expect me to believe out of all the bars you could find yourself at in this city you end up at the one I’m at?”
His lip works itself up into a smile, and I have to remind myself not to be charmed. “Well. You did recommend Nightsky in class today.”
My momentary courage deflates like Fred’s inflatable plastic microphone, the one I bought him on a whim the last time we were perusing the shops in Covent Garden thinking he’d like to use it to play rap star as he’s been fond of playing recently. He loved it instantly, but it only took two days before the sharp edge of a Lego poked a hole in the material and leaked all the air out.
That’s me, right now. My confidence seeping out as I realize he’s exactly right.
And in case I am about to try to save myself with a rant about how, just because I recommended the place doesn’t mean he should go—I mean, who does that? Who actually takes someone else’s unsolicited advice, on the very day the advice was given no less?—he nods his chin toward something behind him. “A few of them thought it would be fun to check it out. Get to know each other in the process. They convinced me to tag along.”
My face feels hot as I turn to look, my stomach sinking as I suspect I know what I’ll find. Sure enough, there’s six of them, sitting round a large table on the other side of the room. Including Hendrix, that’s over half the class that came out to Nightsky tonight, simply because I said I loved the place. In another situation, I’d be startled by the power of my words.
At this particular moment, however, I’m nothing short of mortified.
I turn back to the bar and press my hands to my face. They’re cool against my hot skin and smell like orange since I still have the peel tucked under my thumb, out of Hendrix’s sight. I’m already humiliated. He doesn’t need to realize what I was drinking as well.
“Yes, right,” I say because I surely need to say something. “Of course.” Of course he isn’t here for me. How self-centered to think otherwise. How narcissistic.
Though, he did come to this spot at the bar to order. And as the bartender sets down two negronis on the counter, my embarrassment lessens. “You came to London,” I accuse. “You took my class.”
“I did.” He doesn’t offer more. Just that twinkle in his eye and that half smile. He nods again to the table of his classmates. “Care to join us?”
I’m hit with a vivid memory of that night in Paris, the two of us sneaking away from the crowd of fellow conference-goers to debate about the best wide-angle lens, which quickly led to a discourse on the purpose of art and an instruction on how to react to a tiger in the wild. He introduced me to negronis and we’d thrown back more than a couple when he leaned in and whispered, “My recipe is better. Come to my room, and I’ll show you?”
He never did make me that drink.
“I shouldn’t,” I say, declining his invitation. Even if there’s a part of me that longs to sit among the bunch of them, drinking and laughing with ease, I can’t begin to imagine how it would work. I wouldn’t know how to be around them. I barely know how to be around myself.
“Shouldn’t doesn’t mean no.” He’s as much a tease now as he was then.
“But I’m saying no.” It’s with regret, knowing that my response will mean he leaves, and while I don’t want him to stay, I don’t want him to go either.
“Okay, then.”
He pays the bartender, and, against my better judgement, just when he’s about to grab his drink, I ask, “What happened to wildflowers in the countryside?”
It’s probably telling that I remember his agenda. Winter in the savannahs, spring wildflowers, Iceland in July.
He turns toward me, leaning his elbow on the bar. “I had a better option.”
My chest feels tight and my eyes prick suddenly. I pick up my glass and throw back the remains, which is just melted ice now. His better option is me, right? That’s surely what he’s saying. I’m not obtuse.
But, if he means me or if he doesn’t, I don’t know what to make of the statement. I don’t know what to make of him. Or men in general, if I’m honest. It’s why I stick to string-free sex and random hook-ups rather than relationships.
Speaking of string-free sex…
Dylan, the Thrashheads’ bassist, steps up to the end of the bar and flags down the server.
“The usual?” the bartender asks, already filling up a pitcher of beer from the tap.
“The usual.” Dylan notices me, and since our gaze catches, he has to acknowledge me. “Camilla,” he says with that awkward sort of grin that ex-lovers share.
Could we be called lovers? “Shaggers” seems a more appropriate term to describe the quick, sordid romps we had in the back room, neither of us ever taking off more clothing than necessary, each of us rushing to orgasm like it was a race.
It’s silly for him to be uncomfortable around me. We were never awkward between encounters before. Does he feel guilty for falling in love with a woman half his age and getting married, putting an end to our trysts? He shouldn’t. Good for him. I hadn’t expected he and I were going to turn into anything. That was the whole reason I shagged him on more than one occasion.
“You sound good tonight,” I say, hoping that will ease whatever tension he’s feeling.
“That’s a relief. I barely can think straight with the lack of sleep.”
Well, that was your fault for having twins, I want to say. But I’m polite, and so all I say is, “I’ll bet.”
Despite the casual air of the interaction, I’m still well aware of Hendrix and his invitations and his declarations of better options.
I’m definitely aware when he’s suddenly closer, his voice low. “Are you together? Are you the cause of his lack of sleep?”
“What? No.” I’m so taken aback that I’m honest without thinking. “No. Definitely not.”
“But you have fucked him.”
I twist my head to pin him with a scowl. “That’s none of your—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “I’m jealous.”
I have to take a deep breath to settle the racing of my heart. To let the little lift it gives subside. To swallow the smile that very nearly surfaces, unbidden, at the thought that Hendrix is thinking about sex and me right now. What does he want from me? Am I capable of giving it? Do I want it too?
Dylan and I had a good arrangement, both of us understanding it was just sex. Could it be possible to have that with Hendrix? The bathrooms here are singles with doors that shut. We could sneak in and be out before the band started their next set. Get it out of our system, whatever this is. Would that be enough to get him to forget me and take off in search of wildflowers?
Before I can make a decision about how to respond, there’s another body between us, tugging at Hendrix in a way that has spikes shooting from my skin.
“We need you, Hendrix,” she says. “I have no chance at getting the history trivia without you.”
She picks up the extra negroni, the one that I was sure had been ordered for me, and takes a sip. “You’re right! It is good.”
It’s only then that she really looks at me. “Oh, it’s you! I didn’t realize. Of course you’d be here, since you’re the one who recommended it. Still, always strange to see your teacher out in the real world.”
“Just as strange to see your students,” I say, though strange is a mild way of characterizing my current emotions. “Kaila, was it?”
She nods.
I only remember because of the unusual spelling of her name. She’d made sure everyone knew in her introduction. “Kaila with an i,” an odd bit of trivia to share, in my opinion, since if I hadn’t seen it on the enrollment form, I’m pretty sure I would have wondered where exactly the i was supposed to go.
It’s a fitting name, I have to admit. Creative and bubbly like she is. Based on her looks, her actions, and her resume, she’s the youngest in the class. She’s already working in the business, but I’m guessing she went straight from high school to an internship. She climbed the ranks quickly at the international fashion blog she works for, and I can’t help being petty and wondering if she’s really got talent or if she had nepotism behind her.
Hypocritical, since I only have my cushy job because of my brother. Takes one to know one, I suppose. I might not even hate her if she wasn’t so obnoxiously pawing at Hendrix.
Or maybe I hate her because he ordered the negroni for her.
Or maybe I hate him for it.
Or maybe the only one I hate is me.
She takes another swallow of the bloody drink—I swear she’s bragging about it—then fans herself with a flat hand. “I don’t know how you’re wearing a sweater. It’s hot as Hades in here.”
Self-consciously I tug at the cuff of my black sleeve. It’s been years since I’ve worn anything shorter than a full-length sleeve, and I’ve grown used to always feeling like I’m being roasted, but I am ever aware that my outfits come across as odd at certain times of year and in certain situations.
“My temperature runs cold,” I say, practiced in the excuse.
“God, I wish. I’m always a sweaty Betty. My makeup has probably melted into a mess of goo under my eyes.” She glances at Hendrix, as if inviting him to say otherwise.
When he doesn’t, I pick up the cue. “You look fine.” I don’t manage to sound very convincing. Granted, I don’t really try.
It’s a good enough attempt for Kaila with an i. “You should come sit with us,” she offers. Her eyes are hooded, though, and as dark as her skin, and I know the only one she wants to be sitting with is Hendrix.
Yes, I’ve been there. And of course, the one who is jealous now is me.
“Actually, I’m leaving.” I dig into my purse and find a ten pound note that I leave on the counter. It’s a tip. I rarely keep a tab open, paying out after every order. I tend not to like things that keep me anchored to a place, and I avoid them at every turn.
“Oh, then.” To her credit, she sounds disappointed. “We’ll see you in class.”
The “we” feels barbed, and I hate that I wonder about it. Wonder if Hendrix is as keen for that “we” as she is. Wonder if it’s a standard routine for him to charm female photographers with negronis and his American dialect. I wonder if he’ll strip her from her sleeveless romper later, if he’ll bury his face between her thighs, if he’ll say she tastes like tangerines, and if she’ll swear it’s from all the citrus drinks.
And when he moves above her in a slow, languid dance that surely mimics the stealth it takes to capture a leopard in the wild, I wonder if she’ll let him keep the lights on.
“Camilla...” he says, some sort of apology in his tone, and with that single word, I’m sure he knows the color of my thoughts.
It’s a relief, almost. Worrying so long about remaining hidden, to be on the brink of being seen. It’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, so fearful that you’ll fall that you consider just taking a step and getting it over with.
It felt like that last time with Hendrix, too.
I take a breath, and the air clears.
“See you next week,” I say, blatantly shutting down whatever point he meant to make. Then I push past them both, relinquishing the space that had always been mine.
Relinquishing the man who was never mine at all.
Chapter Three
Angular: An object, outline, or shape having sharp corners, or angles.- MoMA Glossary of Art Terms
I dump a package of pasta in the boiling water and make a mental note to take it off the burner in ten minutes. Vegetables are strewn over the cutting board, but I haven’t yet got to the chopping, which means the pasta will definitely be done before the sauce. And if Freddie continues to need to show me every single one of his robot drawings with an expectation of a full art critique, there’s no way I’ll be getting to a salad.
Of course that’s when my mobile begins to ring. A glance at the screen shows it’s my brother, Edward, and God I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail.
It’s not always this hard.
Or I tell myself it isn’t always this hard. I’m spoiled, to be truthful. I was born into privilege and have spent most of my life basking in its advantages, but I also spent several years of my youth in a foster home where my guardians lived very much payday to payday. It was a household as short on love as it was on money, and the suffocating awfulness of those poverties is not only vivid in my memory but also branded on my skin.
So I recognize what I have is luxury. A cook and a nanny on the weekdays. Another nanny who does the cooking on Saturdays. But employees take holidays and Anwar certainly didn’t plan to get sick, which is why I’m stuck both caring for my child and cooking on a Wednesday. When you add the burdens of my job and preparation for a photography course I shouldn’t be teaching and the distraction of a too handsome, too charming man from my past, the tasks start to become overwhelming.
I should have ordered take away.
But I’d planned the menu when I’d given the cook the week off. I’d been very domestic about the whole thing, making sure I had the right ingredients and that each meal was well-rounded with a variety of food groups the way that responsible caretakers do all the time, all over the world, imagining Freddie’s delight that I prepared something myself instead of from a ready meal, and the idea of abandoning that plan tonight made me feel inadequate. So I set out the vegetables, and I boiled the water because I am a good mother. I am a responsible caretaker.
It’s being alone that’s the hardest. Being the only parent. The one person who is ultimately in charge of not fucking up the most important being in my life. The task of it all would be less crushing if there was just another person to lean on every now and then. Someone to tell me I’m doing it okay. Someone to commiserate with when I’ve done it wrong. I don’t have parents of my own to turn to since mine died when I was very young. And not only has Edward extended his time in the States, but he’s also taken both his adult children with him.
I literally have no one.
Which is probably why I’ve spent every night this week fantasizing about Hendrix as I’ve fallen asleep. And it’s definitely why I don’t send Edward’s call to voicemail, why I pick up the mobile and balance it on my shoulder with my cheek so I can have both hands free to chop the onion. Because I’m desperate to have this connection, small as it is, even in the midst of my chaos.
“The internet branding,” Edward says instead of hello. Snaps, rather, and I already regret answering.
“I know, I know,” I say before he goes on.
“It was due today.”
“By the end of the day your time, though, right?” I glance at the clock which reminds me of the pasta, which is now boiling over. “That gives me five more hours.” I drop the knife, wipe my eye with the back of my hand—onions never fail to make me cry—then rush to lift the pan of pasta from the burner.
“No, not end of day my time. End of day your time. I specifically gave that deadline so that I was sure I’d have the materials for my meeting this afternoon.”
“It would have been helpful if you’d specified as such.” I curse as a splash of hot water scalds the back of my hand.
“I don’t usually need to specify. It’s usually in my hands the day before, but you said you needed the extra time.”
I had needed the extra time yesterday because a fuse had gone out on my floor at the office, and it was hours before I could even get the files loaded to examine
. When I’d finally looked at them around six pm, I’d found a mistake and had to send the art back to the designer. I’d meant to go over the files as soon as I got them today.
But then Anwar got sick, and I had to leave to pick up Fred from school, and then he’d begged for the park and there was the tussle with the neighbor’s rottweiler and the incident with the ice lolly and suddenly it was time to start dinner, and I hadn’t opened my laptop at all.
Seeing that the water is settled, I set the pan back on the burner and leave the kitchen to grab my briefcase from where I dropped it by the front door. “I had something come up,” I say as I walk, not wanting to make excuses.
“Of course. These things happen.” He’s not even trying to pretend he means it. Sarcasm is dripping from every syllable. “I’ll just tell that to Hudson Pierce and Nathan Murphy when I sit down with them today. ‘Well, I meant to have the branding graphics for the launch taking place tomorrow but, sorry. My sister said something came up.’”
He’s really on a tear tonight. A man doesn’t become the successful head of one of the largest media companies on the continent without having a slim intolerance for slack, and I get that. I don’t expect any favors as his sister. It was favor enough that he took me in when I needed it, when he gave me the job that I certainly hadn’t earned. If I have to endure his wrath for my tardiness, so be it.
Doesn’t mean his words don’t wake up the nag in my head. Just like you to drop the ball. Did you expect anything different? You always fuck it up.
My usual weapon of defense isn’t helpful at the moment. Where’s the proof? Well, the proof is that I forgot about an important deadline. That’s the fucking proof.
But I have my laptop in hand now. I awkwardly open the computer as I head back to the kitchen, well aware that the pasta could boil over again if I don’t keep an eye on it. “Give me half a second,” I say, the mobile again propped up with my cheek. “I just need to get online and look it over. It should be a quick approval.”
Unless it isn’t. There’s been more than one occasion that I’ve had to send creative back twice.
Slash: A Slay Series Novella Page 3