Having a Ball

by Rhoda Baxter

  Stevie hauled herself out of the comfortable cocoon of the chair and joined him, taking care not to get too close. He was pointing to a row of books that seemed to be of random shapes and sizes.

  "Look at the authors," he said.

  Stevie knelt on the floor and looked. Every single one had the name 'Blackwood' on the spine.

  "All of those are Dads. These are Mums." He pointed out economics and politics text books and academic discourses. "These," he said pointing to a slim volume and a fat binder, "are Dan's. He writes mainly papers, but he's co-authored some texts."

  So his family wrote a lot of books. "And?"

  "And I'm the only Blackwood who isn't an expert on something." Tom sat down on the floor, his back against a bookcase, his legs stretching out in front of him. "When I was young, my parents said they didn't mind what I did, so long as I did it well." He sighed. "I've been trying to live up to that."

  "I'm sure they didn't mean--"

  "Yes, they did. They were both brilliant in their fields. Even after they supposedly retired, were still asked to give talks and lectures. Or chair seminars, like Mum's doing next week. Dan's pretty much the same. To them, being good means being the best."

  He rubbed his palms over his eyes. "I don't think I'm cut out to be the best. I'm damned good at what I do, but I'm not the best." He looked up, not really seeing her. "Not yet."

  For a moment Stevie didn't know what to say. A dozen responses went through her head, most of them involving pointing out that he was just being pig-headed and self-centred. None of them seemed the sort of thing that would give him comfort.

  "Perhaps," she said, while feeling her way to the end of the sentence, "you're judging yourself too harshly." She eyed the assorted books. "You say you're good at what you do. You've still got years to climb the corporate ladder. You're still relatively young."

  "Relatively?" There was a trace of something in his voice. Was it amusement? She risked a glance at him. He was staring at her.

  "You're the same age as my brother. Thirty isn't that old."

  "No," he said quietly, "I suppose not."

  Stevie shifted position so that she was kneeling more comfortably on the floor. "Besides, your mother loves you. I'm sure your parents didn't think their request that you be good at what you do would make you drive yourself to the point of a nervous breakdown."

  "Who said anything about a nervous breakdown?" The sharpness of his reply made her look at him again. Something akin to fear crossed his face before he got his expression under control.

  Oh dear. That meant that something had happened. Something he hadn't told Evelyn about. Come to think of it, it was very unlikely that someone so driven as Tom would suddenly decide to take a two week holiday with no plans whatsoever as to what to do with that time.

  "Tom," she said gently. "Why do you really have two weeks off?"

  "I was owed the time and it seemed a shame to waste it--"

  She continued to stare at him, not believing a word.

  His mouth became a firm line. He looked like a petulant child. "You look as though you don't believe me."

  "I don't." She smiled. "I know a stressed person when I see one. You've got persistent headaches, your hands shake periodically. You look like you haven't slept in weeks. If I were to make a guess as to why you were taking time off..." She wondered if she'd gone too far.

  His mouth was still pressed into a line and he was glowering. He indicated she should go on.

  "I'd say you'd been signed off for stress."

  He opened his mouth as though to protest, and then shut it again. He gave a huge sigh and something in him seemed to deflate. He stared at his feet.

  For a moment Stevie forgot that Tom was annoying, or even that he was a sexy man she was trying her best not to be attracted to, and wondered whether she should give him a hug. He seemed lost and sad and in need of comfort. For some reason, her argument with Marsh popped into her head. She looked away. With the remnants of her nightmare still fresh in her mind, it was hard to be angry with Marsh. She wondered what he would say if he could see her now.

  "Don't tell Mum," Tom said, suddenly.

  "Of course I won't." She resisted the urge to pat his hand. "Although, you might find she's more helpful than you think."

  Tom shook his head. "No, I don't want her to think I'm a failure."

  "Why would she think that? So you're stressed. People get stressed. Especially in high pressure jobs like yours. Evelyn might be able to help you relax. Maybe even help you get over this rod you seem to have made for your own back."

  Tom gave a snort. "You've only just met my mother. You don't know her like I do. She's always seen me as the inferior one. Dan was always the one who won prizes at school and got top grades for his exams. I was always the other one, who did okay, but nothing special. It was always..." He sighed again. "Oh, you wouldn't understand."

  "Wouldn't I? I've got Marsh for a brother. He does everything and does it well. He did his finals, bought a house and fought to be my guardian, all in the same year our parents died. If he were a woman, they'd call him SuperMum of the Year."

  Tom's gaze moved over her face, as though he were seeing her properly for the first time. "Yes," he said slowly. "I see what you mean." He looked down at his hands. "You think I'm being childish."

  Well, yes, she did, but she couldn't very well say that without hurting his feelings further. "No, I think you've chosen to take your parents' comments in a very negative light. You think they wanted you to outshine everyone, when they probably just wanted give you the freedom to do whatever you wanted."

  He considered it for a while. When he looked at her again, he seemed less annoyed.

  "You know," he said, and gave her a small smile, "for someone so young, you actually talk a lot of sense."

  She smiled back. "I do my best." They stared at each other for a long moment.

  When he wasn't scowling, Tom's face was remarkably open and attractive. His eyes, which were so blue in the daytime, were dark as midnight ink in the lamplight. His hair was tumbling over his forehead, making her want to push it back.

  Suddenly, Stevie was very much aware that she was wearing very little underneath her dressing gown and that she sitting on the floor of her client's house, having a fairly intimate conversation with her client's son. She was supposed to be proving she could be professional.

  She tore her gaze away from him and back to the books. The brilliance of the Blackwoods took up a whole shelf in front of her. The father, the mother, the son. She remembered the photo in Evelyn's office of a family--two parents, two grown up sons.

  She thought of the photo of her own family, hidden behind a postcard of an archaeologist with a bullwhip. Stevie had never known what her parents expected from her. They may have told her, but she didn't remember. All her memories of them were now reduced to a few fractured images, and she was having trouble separating things she'd actually seen from things Marsh had told her. Would Tom ever realise how lucky he was to know what his parents wanted for him, even if he had let it screw him up?

  She cast a quick glance at him. He was staring into space. Sitting there in silence was nice, but she felt somehow it was safer to be talking to each other.

  "So, if you could have anything or do anything in the world," she said, "what would it be?"

  "Pardon?"

  "If you could do anything you wanted, what would it be?"

  He looked surprised, then smiled. "Haven't you psychoanalysed me enough for one night?"

  She turned back to the books, which managed to appear slightly accusing. "Sorry."

  "Actually," he said. "It's rather nice to talk to someone about it."

  She was becoming more and more aware of how close he was. It was making her skin tingle. This wasn't a good thing. She should go back to bed right now. Alone, she added quickly to her thoughts. Definitely alone.

  Tom shifted position slightly. "What about you? What do you want?"

  Stevie thought
of her nightmare and the tugging loneliness that still hadn't left her. She thought back to her teenage years, of Marsh trying to be a parent and her not wanting to be a child. Of well-meaning youth workers who asked strange questions. Of the new school she'd moved to where she was no longer the poor girl who lost her parents, but the weird girl who lived with her brother. Of all the things she missed about having her parents. Of the flat she'd called home that she'd watched Marsh sell.

  When she considered all that, the answer was easy. "I want to have a normal life. A home, a family, a pet. All that stuff. Just something nice. And normal."

  She took in that he was now marginally closer to her than he had been, that his hand was halfway into the space between them, paused en route to hers, that his eyes were wide with surprise and something else she couldn't place. Too late she realised she'd misunderstood the question.

  "I should be going." She scrambled to her feet. "I'm never going to get back to sleep if I don't even try." She went over to the window and retrieved her Ovaltine, which was now tepid. When she turned Tom was on his feet, leaning against the bookcase, his arms crossed. "Goodnight, Tom."

  "Goodnight Stevie."

  She almost ran from the library. It took a few minutes for her to retrace her steps back to her room. She drained the Ovaltine and lay on the bed. The encounter had taken her mind off her dream, but it was going to take a long time before she got back to sleep.

  * * * *

  From: Tom Blackwood

  To: Olivia Gornall

  Og. I know it's the middle of the night and I hope that this doesn't wake you. I just have to talk to someone.

  I've just had a weird conversation with Stevie. I told you how she's very young. Well, she's also had a very hard life. When their parents died Marsh was pretty cut up, but that was nothing compared to the impact it had on his sister. Yet here she is, nine years later, a perfectly normal, functioning human being. And here's me, who's had nothing but comfort and normality all my life, and all I can do is feel sorry for myself. She made me feel like a child.

  But that's not the weird part. The weird part is that she asked me what I wanted from my life and I realised I have no idea where I'm heading. All I can see is the next promotion, the next bonus, until I retire and then what? I've never thought beyond that. Life has just been all about work. No wonder it's been making me ill.

  Is that strange to you, Og? You love your job and you work hard. I know you have a better work life balance than me with your crazy holidays. Do you know what you want in the end?

  Does everyone? Is it just me who doesn't?

  T

  ##

  From: Olivia Gornall

  To: Tom Blackwood

  Jesus. That must have been some conversation to bring this midlife crisis on!

  Don't worry about me, I'm awake. And sober, more's the pity.

  I'm not sure what to say, Tom. Yes, you work too hard. Yes, you've got a weird hang up about never being good enough to please your parents (you KNOW what I think about that). As for knowing what you want in the end... well that rather depends on the way things pan out, doesn't it? If you meet the right woman, your ideas of what you want from life might change completely. Unless you've already met her, of course. ;-)

  ##

  From: Tom Blackwood

  To: Olivia Gornall

  What do you want from life? Have you thought about it?

  ##

  From: Olivia Gornall

  To: Tom Blackwood

  Of course I've thought about it you bonehead, everyone thinks about it. I'd like to be swept off my feet by someone tall, dark, handsome and loaded, please. While I'm waiting, I intend to have as much fun as possible from my life as it is.

  I work hard enough to keep my job. My job pays for my fun. I'm going to keep at it for a while, then become a consultant so that I can work for 6 months of the year and be a ski-bunny for the rest.

  Do I want kids? Not particularly. House with the picket fence, no thanks. Give me a life of champagne and caviar and I'll grow old a happy hedonist. Unless said tall, dark, handsome millionaire turns up, of course.

  See. I've thought about it. The dream is within my grasp.

  ##

  From: Tom Blackwood

  To: Olivia Gornall

  Really? That's it? You just want life to carry on just like it is now?

  Don't all girls have the whole marriage, home, kids thing programmed into them.

  ##

  From: Olivia Gornall

  To: Tom Blackwood

  Is that why you never settle with one girl for more than a few months? You're afraid they'll want to marry you?

  I hate to break it to you, but you're not that great a catch. I'll tell you why if you want me to.

  ##

  From: Tom Blackwood

  To: Olivia Gornall

  No spare me the details. I think my ego has taken enough of a kicking tonight.

  I'm not afraid they'll want to marry me. I just... get bored. Apart from Vienna, none of my girlfriends have been that interesting. Vienna and I were a disaster as a couple, but at least she's intelligent and good company.

  ##

  From: Olivia Gornall

  To: Tom Blackwood

  That's because you always go for women who are long on leg and short on brains.

  Why has your ego taken a kicking tonight? Don't tell me you made a pass at the Stevie girl and she turned you down?

  ##

  From: Tom Blackwood

  To: Olivia Gornall

  Well...

  ##

  From: Olivia Gornall

  To: Tom Blackwood

  You are unbelievable Tom Blackwood. Unbelievable.

  Chapter 11

  It was hot outside, but inside the kitchen was sweltering. Under Priya's careful instructions, Stevie, Alice and Evelyn were busy making Sri Lankan nibbles. Evelyn and Alice were carefully wrapping lamb filling and lightly curried vegetables in pastry, while Stevie and Priya stood next to the stove, deep-frying them until golden brown. The little patties looked delicious, but the heat near the stove was making Stevie sweat. Even the little cotton vest she was wearing seemed like too much clothing.

  Priya, dressed in white cotton and linen, seemed to be suffering the heat with much more grace, although Stevie noticed her wiping the odd bead of sweat off her face using a hanky.

  "Last batch." Alice handed Stevie a plate of neatly pinched triangles full of vegetable filling.

  "Thanks." Stevie pulled out the current batch and dropped them gently onto paper towel to drain before easing the fresh ones in.

  "Do you need a hand Gran?" Without waiting for an answer, Alice returned to the table to help Evelyn with the circular ones that contained meat.

  Through the open windows came the chimes of an ice cream van. In the simmering kitchen, the idea of ice cream sounded unbelievably welcoming.

  "Ooh. Ice cream," said Alice.

  Priya looked up from her frying. "Why don't I treat us all?" She nodded towards her coat, which was hanging off the back of a chair. "Can you get them Alice, please? My purse is in the right hand pocket. I'll have a Magnum."

  "Priya, you don't have to do that." Evelyn passed her friend a stacked plate.

  "After all this hard work you're doing, it's the least I can do."

  Alice grinned and skipped off. Evelyn watched her leave, smiling. "She thinks she's so grown up," said Evelyn. "But show her an ice cream van and she's ten years old again."

  Stevie laughed. "Isn't everyone?"

  * * * *

  They took thei
r ice creams to the garden, Alice carrying a spare one. As they clattered down the metal steps, Stevie could see Tom, who was supposed to be sorting out the rose garden, lying on the grass underneath one of the magnolia trees, his arms folded underneath his head and his eyes shut. His t-shirt had lifted up to reveal a small stretch of toned stomach. A few wisps of hair lead to the waistband of his jeans. She looked away, seeking out the rose garden instead.

  Tom thought she was too young to do this job. Drooling over him like a lovesick teenager was not going to help her change his mind. No, Tom was out of bounds until well after this job was over. Any consideration of his attractions had to be squashed quickly and efficiently.

  Alice skipped across and laid the packet on the exposed skin of Tom's stomach. "Hi Uncle Tom, we brought you an ice cream."

  Tom yelped and sat up. He made a lunge to grab Alice, who jumped nimbly out of the way.

  "Cheeky mare." He gave his niece a mock frown before picking up the ice cream. "White chocolate. Nice. Where did these come from?"

  "Present from Priya." Alice flopped onto the ground next to him.

  Stevie smiled at the picture of family familiarity. She turned back toward the rose garden. The plants had been cut back and tied up so that the pathways were clear. It must have been hard work getting all that done. At this rate at least the rose garden would be useable come the night of the ball.

  "Does it meet with your approval?"

  Stevie turned round to find Tom watching her.

  "I was just thinking it looked lovely. You've got through much more than I expected."

  Tom seemed pleased. "That's me. A regular He-man when I put my mind to it." He tore the wrapper off his ice cream.

  "What's a He-man?" Alice pulled out her phone. With her ice cream held in one hand, she checked her email with the other.

  "He-Man," said Tom. "Like the cartoon."

  Alice looked at him blankly. They both turned to Stevie, who shrugged. "Before my time. Although I think Marsh had some toys. There was a tiger and some sort of skeleton thing."