She pressed her hand against his chest.
“Go, Sam. Go now. Go quickly.”
He understood. And he left. And she stared at the door after he closed it behind him, and her heart was beating, so hard—so hard.
Chapter Fourteen
She didn’t sleep well that night. How could she? She’d taken Sam’s kiss to bed with her and it remained with her, for better and for worse, through the hours till dawn brightened the curtains at the window. The “better” part felt like a gift, a sweet present wrapped up in tissue and ribbons and scented with the rarest of perfumes. That’s the part that should have lulled her into sweet dreams.
But the “worse” was the wagging finger of accusation, scolding her for cheating on Jerry.
But it’s not cheating she argued back at her conscience. Jerry and I aren’t exclusive. We never agreed to be exclusive. Not that there’s ever been anyone else. But still—
And for goodness’ sake, it was just a kiss!
Oh, but what a kiss that had been. Magical. Mystical. Mysterious. All that, and more. She had to admit to what her conscience already knew: if Sam had chosen to stay, she’d not have been able—no, would not have wanted to stop him.
Well, her conscience put it to her, isn’t that the same as cheating? Even if you didn’t do the actual deed?
And so she struggled, back and forth all night, only occasionally dozing off fitfully and waking again from confused dreams and uneasy rest. Altogether, she slept hardly a full hour through the night.
* * * *
At dawn, she gave up the effort, showered, dressed and went out into a lovely Sunday morning. She paid no attention to where her feet were taking her, hoping the early-morning quiet of the empty streets would soothe the conflict that had kept her awake through the night. But instead, the mental battle she’d created seemed to have developed an almost physical reality. She imagined Sam and Jerry walking right along with her, keeping her company, glaring across her at each other.
Stop it! she told herself. Pay attention to where you’re going, what you’re doing. This isn’t good for you. Dr. Diaz wanted you to rest, avoid stress, get yourself calmed down. At this rate, you’ll be a nervous wreck by the time you have to get back to work.
But still, her imaginary companions demanded her attention. Without realizing it, she was retracing her path from the day before, and wherever she went, she kept up a silent conversation with the two men: with Jerry, she was pointing out the sights, as though she was now an experienced guide and he was a tourist—and with Sam, she unconsciously rewound the tape of the day, re-experiencing his voice, his touch, and the feel of his presence. At Marble Arch, for Jerry’s benefit, she described the crowd and their near-riot, the arrival of the police, the reporters and news trucks, and the gaping onlookers. But to Sam, she replayed her panic, the feel of his hand on her arm when he pulled her away, cleared a space for her, made her safe. To him she expressed again her gratitude, and her astonishment at the fact that he was there at all, but to Jerry, she said only that it was a pretty hairy scene. When she came out of Hyde Park and thought to get a coffee at the McDonalds across the street, she “told” Jerry, oh, no, there’s a much nicer place further down, at the cafe near the Italian Gardens, inside the park, in Kensington Gardens. But it was her hand on Sam’s arm that she felt as she walked along Bayswater Road, and though she “showed” Jerry the gate where they could enter Kensington Gardens to get to the cafe, it was Sam’s arm that went around her shoulders again. When she ordered breakfast at the cafe, she asked for eggs, sausage and hash brown potatoes. To Jerry, who knew she usually had nothing more than coffee and maybe toast or a plain bagel for breakfast, she said that the London air must be making her unusually hungry, but to Sam, she smiled slyly and said, now I won’t steal yours.
It was a very schizophrenic experience, and it persisted all day. After breakfast, she circled back up and around Cleveland Square, walked way past Paddington Station and on up to Regent’s Park. Along the way, she pointed out to Jerry a large ice cream parlor, glass-fronted and bright, beginning to be busy this bright Sunday morning and told him that there was a super variety of flavors available here in London, at the same time that she smiled, and in memory again shared with Sam a heaping cone of peanut butter and salted caramel ice cream. At the zoo in Regent’s Park, she again visited the gorillas, where she introduced Jerry to Kumbuka and Mjukuu and their two babies and imagined mama Mjukuu asking her where’s the cute guy who was here with you yesterday? And explaining he’d had to go back to America. From the zoo, she walked all the way down past Oxford Circus, along Regent Street, paused for a long time at Hamleys—five floors of toys!—asked Jerry if he thought a Hamleys would do well in New York now that FAO Schwarz was gone, but her question to Sam was about having children, did he want kids, how many, would he care if he never had children?
* * * *
By the time she got back to the hotel, her feet were killing her again, and again she needed a bucket and some Epsom salts. And once again, the maid commiserated. But this time, there was no one to take off her shoes and massage her feet. She wondered if Jerry would think to do that. He would do it, she was sure—if she asked him. Probably. Unless he only laughed. But Jerry never seemed to think she needed any help or pampering of any kind. This was the price she paid for being so independent and competent! She tried to imagine Jerry kneeling at her feet, rolling up her jeans.
While she soaked in the Epsom salts, she thought about how she and Jerry met.
Six years ago. She’d been getting close to thirty and one of the editors at Lady Fair decided to play matchmaker. “Boy, do I have a man for you,” the colleague had said. “Good-looking, smart, up-and-coming young partner at his law firm, unattached—” It was to be nothing more than a date, but they met, they laughed together, he called her again, they got along really well, and somehow they drifted into a regular thing. Yet she’d never agreed to marry him. Why had she never said yes? He was good to her. They got along so well. There’d never been an angry word between them. Maybe—some day—maybe sometime in the future, if she were to decide that she wanted children. But in the meantime, her career had taken off big-time, she was at the top of her profession, and she couldn’t see anything beyond Lady Fair and the powerful presence she currently occupied in the fashion industry. Hadn’t that been her dream forever? Distractions were not wanted, not while things were going along nicely.
And now?
And now, there was that kiss.
But if Sam’s appearance now wasn’t a distraction—for heaven’s sake, what else could it be? Could she possibly think of him in any way except as a hiccup in her very grown-up life? A passing fling. A momentary flash of adolescence. A mysterious bit of recovered memory.
And so she went—back and forth.
Did she owe Jerry an explanation? Was she willing to explain? Could she explain? Would he understand? Did she even, herself, understand what was happening? Six years with Jerry were not, God knows, to be treated lightly.
But never, not even in the early days, the courting days, of their relationship, had he ever kissed her the way Sam did. Last night.
She ordered in a dinner, took a soothing bath, and went early to bed, determined, this night, to sleep well. And she did sleep, but tonight her dreams were filled with zoo animals, especially the big daddy gorilla and his mate and their babies, and they were all wagging their fingers at her, and laughing.
Chapter Fifteen
She woke up laughing, too. “Okay,” she said aloud. “I’ve had it with all of you! You can just stop bugging me.” She got out of bed and went into the bathroom.
While she brushed her teeth, she told the mirror, “I’m supposed to rest and recuperate. I’m supposed to avoid stress.” In the shower, she closed her eyes and held her face to the stream of water. “For one week, I’m not going to think of either of them. ‘No’ to Jerry. ‘No
’ to Sam. They can battle it out in court. And I can’t let them make me crazy.”
She knew this was a promise to herself she wasn’t going to be able to keep—not entirely. But she could make a serious effort, for the sake of her mental health. And her physical well-being. That one near-fainting episode had scared her and she knew she needed to take better care of herself.
She dressed and went downstairs to the dining room to have her breakfast there. No more retracing steps. As she ordered coffee and a bowl of berries and yogurt she wondered, momentarily, how Penny was doing. And Bridey’s next piece for her column. I liked that street food idea. We could do something nice out of that. Then put those thoughts out of her head. Nothing work-related allowed! She was determined to think only simple thoughts, solve no problems, and avoid fashion, Lady Fair, and most of all, men. She would not even read the newspapers. The world could spin along without her observations for a while. At least for a week. Then she’d reevaluate. She’d already turned her phone off, and on the way out, she gave a lavish tip to Mr. Marley, the hotel’s concierge, and told him to contact Jerry and her office and inform them from her that if they really, really needed to reach her, he was the person to call and he would forward any messages to her.
She kept her promise to herself, at least mostly. She couldn’t help it that Sam and Jerry intruded, but when they did, she’d think of Kumbuka laughing at her and wagging his finger, and then she’d laugh, too, and shut the door on them.
They both know I’m not supposed to be bothered. So they’d better leave me alone!
In the days that followed, she sat in the park and read her book, she rode buses around town to enjoy the city, impressed as always that it was a totally up-to-the-minute place, built up over a very ancient footprint. She avoided the zoo, which was now full of memories—and those teasing gorillas—and she just let the days wash over her. She spent one day riding out to Stonehenge, and walked solemnly around that remarkable place, thankful that it had been kept as desolate as it should be, five thousand years old; it deserved to be preserved with respect. Back in London, she went to a couple of movies, bought a theater ticket for one evening. On Saturday afternoon got herself lost in a tangle of streets and alleys around Middle and Inner Temples until she finally tumbled out onto Fleet Street where, just beyond the end of Chancery Lane she stopped, intrigued by a shop that made barristers’ wigs, robes, and other paraphernalia. Despite her promise to think no fashion thoughts, she couldn’t resist and she spent a fascinated hour interviewing the salesperson, learning the arcana of the making and wearing of lawyers’ and judges’ wigs. She considered buying a wig as a souvenir to take home to Jerry, but they were expensive and what in the world would he do with it? So she just thanked the clerk for his time and attention and left the shop and continued her wandering.
Just beyond the Law Courts, she passed a travel agency. On a whim, she went in, leafed through several brochures, and with no forethought at all, she booked a flight, leaving on Monday, for Vienna. She’d never been to Austria and didn’t know anyone there. She chose it out of the blue. It would be her next getaway stop where she’d surely be anonymous and could explore a city whose only meaning to her was waltzes and whipped cream. Oh, yes, and the horses. The famous white Lipizzaner horses. The agent booked a room for her in an obscure pension near the center of town. She stuck the tickets into her bag and went out into the afternoon sun, feeling like a happy thief in the night, making a great escape.
She considered taking a ride on the Eye, but she knew the giant Ferris wheel would be jammed with kids and weekend tourists, so she let that idea go, thinking she’d save that for her next trip to London. And the new zip line was too terrifying even to consider trying that. So the rest of this day would be just for lazy wandering around. In her bag, along with the airline ticket to Vienna and the room reservation, she also had a ticket for the Guy Fawkes celebration that evening at Cleveland Square. That sweet Mr. Marley at the hotel had advised her not to miss the fireworks and bonfire display and had seen to it that a ticket was waiting for her at the desk when she came down to the lobby that morning. There’d be a barbecue at the celebration and drinks—mulled wine, beer, soft drinks—so she didn’t stop for dinner, and just needed to be sure to be there by six when the gates to the private park would be opened to ticket holders.
The November days were becoming chillier, so she stopped at her hotel room and picked up a sweater, then went on to Cleveland Square. People were already milling about when she arrived, holding their drinks and plates of food and chatting each other up, and someone put a glass in her hand and gave her a plate of beans and ribs. It was much like Halloween, with children running around in Guy Fawkes masks and a sense of deliberate mischief in the air. By the time the traditional bonfire was ablaze, Marge was feeling a little bit prosecco-buzzed and she wondered if she’d made a mistake, deciding to leave London and go on to Vienna. With only one day left, she was now feeling very affectionate toward this city that had been her home for these last two weeks; the anonymity it had allowed her had been a new and delightful experience. But she also wished she could be experiencing this party with a friend. With Bridey? With Bridey and Mack? That would be fun. To share this noisy, giddy, fire-filled, uproar of a celebration, one piece of England’s so-often violent history.
And then, in a rush, her imaginary conversations with Sam and Jerry returned.
I wish you were here with me.
But who was she talking to? She had no idea. It was as though her wish went out into the London night, willing either one of them to be there at her side.
Maybe I’m not used to being at a party where I don’t know anyone, where no one knows me, or even knows who I am.
But that’s what I wanted, isn’t it? To be unknown for a few weeks?
She went back to the buffet table and put some more baked beans on her plate along with another couple of ribs. She was surprised that the menu included such typically American barbecue fare. She had her glass filled again—more prosecco. And by seven fifteen, when the fireworks began, she was eating ribs and feeling nostalgic and happy and lonely, all at the same time.
Her gaze was skyward, the night was filled with corkscrew flares and shooting lights and noise and rock music and the scatter of screaming, excited kids and all the ooh and aahs that go with a fireworks display.
And through the racket, a quiet voice next to her said, “Some display, isn’t it, Marge?”
She closed her eyes.
Sam?
She turned, and there he was, smiling at her. It was as though she’d wished him there, out of thin air. As though she’d conjured him out of the fireworks. Into the midst of this crowd.
And this time, he didn’t ask for permission. He took the glass out of her hand, and right in the middle of all those people, all those strangers, in the dark and lit by fire and shooting stars, he put his arms around her and he kissed her, fully, thoroughly, and with great authority.
Then he smiled, licked his lips, and said, “Mmm. Barbecue. Delicious.”
She was staring at him. Her heart was going so fast, and she couldn’t breathe. He pulled her close and laughed. He had to shout over the noise of the fireworks.
“Yes, it’s really me. I tried to stay away. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.” Then he kissed her again, lightly this time, and said, “You’d better breathe. You look so spooked.”
She managed to inhale slowly, and then she gasped.
“I’m not supposed to get stressed.”
He gave her glass back to her. “I can’t hear you,” he shouted. “Here, you better drink this.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” She barely got the words out.
“I can’t hear you.” Still shouting.
She tried to shout at him. “What are you doing here?”
He shouted back at her. “You know what I’m doing here. I couldn’t leave it
where we were last week.”
“What?”
“I’ve had a rotten week. It’s been hell.”
“I can’t hear you!”
He made a face up at the shooting lights. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t hear anything.”
He took the plate and glass from her, put them on a nearby table, and took her hand to lead her through the crowd, and out to the street, where it was a tiny bit quieter.
“Where are we going?” she said.
“Where do you think? We’re going back to the hotel.” He was still holding her hand.
In the circumstance, she couldn’t think of a good alternative. She was so stunned, she wasn’t able to put up an argument. And as they left the square, and walked farther away from the noise of the celebration, they could hear each other more easily.
“Sam, I don’t understand. How did you know where to find me?”
“That nice guy at the desk, Mr. Marley. He knew where you’d be. You might want to have a talk with him. He seemed to want me to find you.”
“But you’d have needed a ticket to get into the park.”
“That was Marley again. Very resourceful guy. Like any good concierge, I guess. It’s almost like he was expecting me.”
“Oh, Sam. I don’t know what to say. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Are you sorry?” He stopped her, right there on the street. He turned her to face him. The light from the fireworks still shooting up in the sky played across his face. “If you really don’t want me to be here—” He hesitated, as though it was hard to say it. Then he continued, “If you mean it, I’ll go.”
She didn’t dare say what was in her heart and she let him read it in her eyes.
And Sam understood, and he took her in his arms and his kiss was full of fire and fireworks and music and it was magical, all over again.
“I want you to stay,” she whispered “I do want you here, Sam. I’ve tried all week to not think about you, and now you’re here, and I do want you to be here. But—” She looked into his eyes, hoped he could see into her heart. “But you shouldn’t. We shouldn’t—” She was shaking her head. “You know it isn’t right.”
Who Would You Choose? Page 11