True Love (and Other Lies)

by Whitney Gaskell

  “It’s not a cab. It’s a private car service that my company uses,” Jack said, as if this were no big thing, and that all Londoners have luxury cars complete with drivers given to them as a job perk. I tried—and failed—to imagine Sassy Seniors springing for a car service for its employees. Hell, on what the magazine paid me, even taxis were a luxury.

  “Do you like Indian food?” Jack asked.

  “Love it.”

  “Good, because I know a great place,” he said, and again took my hand in his.

  The restaurant was not at all like any other Indian place I’d been to. For one thing, the interior was not dark and dreary, but hip and youthful. The walls were a bright, lipstick red, with funky, chrome wall sculptures hanging on them, and the tables and chairs looked like they came straight from a spaceship. But despite the bright colors and modern furnishings, the soft glow of candlelight and the jazz music coming from the speakers gave the restaurant an ambiance of quiet glamour.

  When we entered, the hostess asked if she could take my coat, which Jack helped me out of. I handed it to her, and then felt self-conscious as I realized that Jack was staring at me.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You look amazing,” he said. “That dress is just . . . wow.” His voice trailed off, and he just stood there gazing at me, with a look of frank admiration on his face. I know that I’m not a troll, and it’s not like I feel the need to cover my head with a sack when I venture forth into the world. But I’m also not used to getting ogled, and under this close scrutiny, I could feel myself blush. Jack seemed oblivious to my discomfort, as well as to the fact that the hostess, who was thin, blonde, and about a thousand times prettier than me, had returned from depositing my coat and was waiting to escort us to our table.

  I’m genetically incapable of accepting a compliment, and had to fight back a nearly irrepressible urge to snort, and say, “Yeah, right.” But I managed to swallow hard and say “Thanks” with a tight-lipped smile, and was glad when we were finally seated.

  It had just been such an unexpected day, and dinner was the perfect conclusion. I’ve always enjoyed Indian food, but this was a gourmet feast. We wolfed down potato turnovers, Tandoori chicken, lamb in a cream sauce, saag paneer, and naan, all washed down with a crisp, cold white wine. It was so good, I forgot to be concerned about pigging out in front of my date, and even sopped up every last bit of the delicious cream sauce with a piece of the bread. Jack and I didn’t talk about anything important—no in-depth discussions about life choices or lost loves—but we couldn’t seem to stop laughing. I don’t know if it was the wine or the exhaustion after a day of sightseeing, but everything the other said struck us both as hysterically funny.

  It wasn’t until we’d polished off the meal and the plates had been cleared that we grew quiet. The flickering candlelight caused shadows to dance over Jack’s face, and before I could stop myself, my hand reached out, as if acting on its own accord, and my fingers brushed softly over his cheek and then lightly touched the end of his crooked nose.

  “How did you break it?” I asked.

  “Do you want the official story or the truth?” Jack asked.

  I started to withdraw my hand, embarrassed to find myself petting him, but Jack was too fast for me, and he reached up and lightly gripped my hand in his.

  “Officially, I always tell people that it was broken in a bar fight, and that the other guy didn’t get off so well,” Jack said. He spoke slowly, a laid-back cadence that had sounded a little strange to me at first, especially since I talk so quickly that the words sometimes trip over one another in their haste to leave my mouth. But now that I’d gotten used to his easygoing drawl, I liked it. It matched his personality.

  “What really happened?”

  “A car accident. A truck hit some black ice, spun out of control and into me, and this happened”—he pointed to his nose—“when the air bags went off. I know it isn’t pretty.”

  “No, I like it,” I said simply, and then turned crimson. This was starting to get ridiculous—holding hands, incessant blushing, a searing new crush. I was thirty-two going on fourteen.

  The car was waiting for us when we came out of the restaurant, and Jack held the back door open for me. I was a little tipsy—the food had been very spicy and the wine was the only cold drink on the table—but mostly I felt warm and relaxed, not out-of-control drunk. Apparently the British treat ice as though it were a commodity as precious as gold, and I’d already learned during the few meals I’d had here that no matter how many times I asked for ice water, the most I could hope for would be a lukewarm glass with one tiny ice chip floating in it.

  “Did you like dinner?” Jack asked as he settled comfortably into his seat, his long legs sprawling out before him.

  “It was wonderful. Thank you so much,” I said, annoyed at how prim I sounded. I’ve seen those reality television shows where groups of single, gold-digging women are set up to compete for the heart of a wealthy bachelor, and it always amazes me how at ease these women are with just throwing themselves at the guy in question. They purr and flirt and stroke his ego, and all without the least bit of shame. Was I somehow born without the minx gene? Because here I was on a romantic date with a sexy man, and I was channeling Miss Manners.

  “Are you in a rush to get back? Because I thought we could take a turn around the city, so you can see London when it’s all lit up,” Jack said.

  “I’d love to,” I said, delighted at the charming idea, and wondered, not for the first time, how it was that this guy was single. He was funny, and obviously very smart and thoughtful (and not in a smarmy, ingratiating way). Jack asked the driver to take us past Westminster, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, South Kensington, Mayfair—everything was lit up, giving it a dreamy, unreal quality.

  I’d often heard Paris being described as the world’s most romantic city, but seeing London as I did that night, sitting comfortably next to Jack, I doubted it could get any better than this, particularly when Jack pulled me toward him, cuddling me against his chest. His camel hair overcoat felt soft against my cheek, and as I breathed in his now-familiar clean scent, I felt ridiculously happy. The interest that had been percolating within me all day, particularly when Jack smiled down at me or when our hands touched, had now erupted into full-blown lust. I wanted Jack, and if it meant swatting away the little voice of concern echoing in my head, then so be it.

  Still, it was strange—through a few of his comments, and particularly his anxiety that I might stand him up, I gleaned that Jack seemed to have the completely moronic idea that I was less interested in him than he was in me. Ha! Yes, it happens all the time that Amazon-sized single women in their thirties see a single, successful, attractive, and—most important—non-freakish man, and think, Oh, no, not another night of being wined and dined! Either Jack had criminally low self-esteem—and that didn’t seem to be the case—or he was completely ignorant of the power shift that occurs between men and women in their thirties. I knew this guy had just broken up with his girlfriend and all, but . . .

  And then it hit me.

  I was so shocked that I actually audibly gulped and sat straight up, pulling away from Jack’s embrace. He gave me a strange look, but now that I knew what was going on, why Jack was paying so much attention to me, I was too startled to care. There was only one possible explanation for what was going on. Jack was a Chaser . . . the kind of guy who’s only interested in a woman when he’s pursuing her. I’d met his type before. They’re engaging, romantic, seemingly without flaws . . . but only as long as you appear to be unavailable. As soon as you relax even slightly into the relationship, as soon as you call them out of the blue, or suggest that you get together, then away they run like gazelles fleeing a lioness on the hunt. I couldn’t believe I’d allowed myself to miss it. The signs were all there—out of nowhere a guy who has just gotten out of a relationship suddenly starts showing interest in me, keeps asking me out, activel
y pursues me. Clearly this was not normal behavior. There was just no way a guy this great—well, apparently this great—would appear out of nowhere and start romancing me. Not unless he had a twisted agenda of his own.

  Of course, Jack would never admit it if I confronted him. What Chaser would? They have nothing to gain through honesty. And just running away would probably encourage him even more—playing hard-to-get was the ploy advocated in those stupid books on how to attract men (but ensured that all you’d ever get would be the immature, moronic ones who’d bolt the minute you showed the least bit of interest in them). In fact, there was only one way that I could think of to prove what Jack was up to, one way to find out for certain if he was just pursuing me for the sake of the hunt.

  As the car pulled up in front of my hotel, I looked over at Jack. The streetlights softly illuminated his face, and he seemed to be unsure of what to say, his expression a question mark. His unruly blond hair had flopped down over his forehead again, his face pale and vulnerable, and for a minute I wavered. One-night stands might not be my thing, but for my own sanity I needed to know once and for all what Jack was really after, and there was only one way to do that—I’d let him catch me.

  Before I could lose my nerve, I inhaled a deep, shaky breath and bluntly said:

  “Would you like to come up?”

  Chapter 4

  I woke up with no idea where I was or what time it was. It wasn’t that I was hungover—I hadn’t had very much to drink the night before—but between the strange hotel room and my jet lag, it took me a few long moments to remember where I was, and . . .

  Oh my God.

  Jack.

  Where was he?

  For a long, dreadful moment, I thought that he had sneaked out of my room in the middle of the night, but . . . no, I definitely heard splashing sounds in the bathroom. I grabbed for my watch and saw that it was seven in the morning. And—oh God—I was naked. I shouldn’t have been surprised, not after . . . well, not after the rather spectacular night Jack and I had just spent together. But I never sleep in the nude. I’m not comfortable with anyone seeing me naked, including myself. I wondered if I had time to hop out of bed and throw on some pajamas before Jack emerged from the bathroom, but then I heard the door opening, so I just pushed my hair out of my face and sank back under the covers, hoping that I could find a modest way of emerging from the bed without letting him catch sight of my bottom.

  “You’re awake,” Jack said, smiling, and leaning over to kiss me. He was wearing the hotel-issued terry cloth bathrobe, and had the minty breath of someone who had recently brushed his teeth. He must have used my toothbrush (an image I found oddly charming), and I prayed that my morning breath didn’t smell too foul. Just to make sure, I pulled the sheet up to my nose. Jack perched on the edge of my bed, smiling down at me, and I couldn’t help but beam back up at him from under the sheet. If he was a Chaser—and I still couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t—then he at least had some manners, and didn’t abandon me in the middle of the night.

  “So are you,” I said. “Why are you up so early? I think it’s about two a.m. New York time.”

  “I know—you must be exhausted. What are your plans for the day?” he asked.

  I hesitated. I knew I should try to spend some time with Maddy . . . or at least make sure that she was alive. I looked over at the phone, but the message light was off. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed that she hadn’t called me back or frightened that something might have happened to her.

  “I have one more hotel and a few more restaurants to check out while I’m here,” I said cautiously.

  “Are you busy later on? I have an errand to run today, something I have to do, but I could come get you after. You were talking about going to the British Museum yesterday. We could go this afternoon? And maybe get dinner tonight?”

  Jack looked so earnest, his hair rising in untidy blond tufts around his head, the white terry robe a little skimpy on his long frame. On impulse, I reached out and gently touched his rough, unshaven cheek.

  “Okay,” I said happily, although even as I said it, I felt a twinge of anxiety at how endearing I found Jack in his sleep-rumpled state. Despite my best intentions to stay detached, the whole postcoital imprinting process had been activated. It was incredibly stupid, because even if Jack did have the best motives possible, even if we were somehow destined to be soul mates—if I believed in destiny or in soul mates, which I don’t—then there was still a large, rather obvious obstacle to any kind of a relationship developing between us: I lived in New York, he lived in London. End of story. This was a vacation fling, that’s all, and there was no room to get attached. I withdrew my hand.

  But Jack grabbed my hand and held it back up against his cheek for a minute, and then smiled with a wicked glint in his eye. “So, about last night . . .” he said.

  And then he dove back into the bed, leaving the robe behind.

  It wasn’t until two hours later, not long after Jack had left, and as I was just getting out of the shower, humming happily, that I realized I’d failed to obtain a fairly important piece of information: I didn’t know Jack’s last name. Oh. My. God. How could I not have asked him? My mind raced over the previous two days—when he introduced himself to me on the plane, when we arrived at the restaurant, when I saw a credit card . . . but no. The hostess had known him on sight at the Indian restaurant, and I think he paid for everything in cash. I tried—and failed—not to feel like a complete slut. What’s more trashy than sleeping with a man with whom you’re only on a first-name basis? It was one step away from picking someone up in a bar, or being featured on a Jerry Springer show about women impregnated by their boyfriend’s father.

  Had he done it on purpose? I wondered. Was he a Chaser after all? Was he just after a quickie, planning to extricate himself from the situation with as little fuss and leaving as few tracks as possible? No, I couldn’t believe that. There are easier ways to pick up women than taking an entire day off of work to go sightseeing with them. And the night before, when we were in bed afterward, lying close together, Jack had suddenly turned onto his side, so that he was propped up on one elbow, looking down at me, and said, “You know I’m not playing you, right?”

  “No,” I said, and laughed. We’d been joking all night, and I thought he was still kidding around.

  But Jack hadn’t laughed. Instead, he looked at me with somber interest, and said simply, “I don’t normally do this. And I don’t think you do either. I just want you to know that.”

  And not long after that, I’d fallen asleep, feeling strangely safe for one sleeping naked so close to a man she barely knows. It wasn’t until now that I remembered those words, and thought—no, knew—that he meant them, even if only at the moment he said them. And so what if I didn’t know his last name? I’d just ask him today, when he called me at three o’clock before picking me up, as we’d planned. Surely it was just an oversight on his part that he didn’t tell me. Surely.

  The phone rang, sparing me from further obsession.

  I reached for the phone. “Hello,” I said.

  “Claire?” The voice was muffled, but unmistakable.

  “Maddy? God, where have you been? I’ve been calling you for two days, haven’t you gotten my messages? You’re never going to believe what happened, and . . . what’s wrong?” I asked, puzzled by the sniffling at the other end of the line. “Are you sick?”

  And then Maddy burst into tears.

  Normally when Maddy and I haven’t seen each other in a while, our greeting is punctuated with hugs and squeals and we begin the ancient female bonding ritual of exchanging compliments along the lines of “I love your hair!” or “Where did you get those shoes?” But not this time. When Maddy opened the door, she looked horrible. She’s never been much of a crier; unlike me, she’s one of those eternally cheerful people. But now her eyes were dull, her nose red, and her skin blotchy . . . it was the worst I’d ever seen her look, at least since the night in college when
she went a little nuts on tequila shooters and ended up hunched over the industrial dormitory toilet, puking uncontrollably.

  Maddy let me into her apartment, although she referred to it as her “flat,” and as I entered I tripped over a white fluffy throw rug that looked like a skinned white sheepdog lying in the center of the hallway. When I recovered and had a chance to look around, I wasn’t surprised to see that Maddy’s apartment looked like it belonged in a magazine spread. It was very modern and very white, and furnished with an immaculate white sofa, black leather and chrome side chairs, groovy lamps, and carefully placed orange-popsicle-colored vases and pillows. An entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the apartment flooded the space with light, filtered through frothy white curtains. It was the kind of place that made me feel entirely inadequate and underdressed to even be there.

  “Come on in,” Maddy said. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Do you want a glass of wine? I know I need one.”

  “Wow,” I said, looking around. “This is . . . incredible.”

  Maddy, wan and upset, looked around and shrugged. “I think the white thing is over. I’m thinking about changing everything, maybe doing a retro-eighties design.”

  “Isn’t it too soon for the eighties to be retro?” I asked, and Maddy, despite her obvious distress, managed to muster up a pitying look for me.

  Maddy’s terribly hip and stylish, and always has the hottest new thing, whatever it is, and in whatever category—clothing, shoes, home decor. It was no wonder that she was employed as a trend watcher, and she excelled at it. In fact, she was so effortlessly cool, it would be easy to hate her. I certainly tried when we first met during our freshman year at Boston College. The last thing that I needed was a petite, flawlessly beautiful sidekick, whose very presence only served to highlight my every flaw. Maddy had done some catalogue modeling as a teenager, and was even one of the runner-ups in the Seventeen magazine cover-model contest. When she told me this, it made it even harder for me to be friends with her, since I hate all fashion models on general principle. I can’t stand the way they pout and toss their hair around and announce in thick South American accents that they just adore french fries, preferably smeared with mayonnaise, and then titter that their only exercise is daily bouts of sex with their French photographer boyfriends. Not that Maddy’s anything like that, but still.