by Brogan, Kim
“Really? How can you have your pudding if you don’t eat your meat?”
He chuckled and nodded.
“I didn’t know Pink Floyd went to sixth form college here in Cambridge! How cool.” I was still curious about the shift in his demeanor, “I have to ask. Why are you so cheery?”
“We won. Forty-eight to thirty-nine. I managed to bowl a few wickets and I scored twelve runs.”
“I guess that’s good?”
He nodded and smiled again. I could have melted in that smile. It was disarming in its genuineness. He really was “chuffed” as they said in England.
We reached the hostel, and once again we said our goodbyes in the car. I realized that, for a large town, Cambridge could be rather small and, with Professor Adair living in close proximity to Downing College, I’d probably run into him from time to time. I got out and dragged the luggage towards the door, waving at him in the hopes that he would leave. But it was obvious he was waiting to see if they would let me in.
I rang the doorbell and a man about my age answered, “Hello?”
“I called a few hours ago about the bed?”
“Sorry, it went about half an hour after you rang.”
My heart fell along with my spirits. I didn’t want Professor Adair seeing me homeless again. I turned back to the guy, “Do you think I could just bring my stuff inside for a minute until that guy leaves? I want him to think that I’m staying here. Okay?”
“Is he bothering you Miss?”
“No, he’s not bothering me. I just don’t want him to know that I don’t have any accommodations.”
He peered over my head at the car and driver. “Oh, it’s Professor Adair!” Much to my chagrin, he closed the door and walked down to the street to talk to the doctor.
“Professor, good to see you!” The man reached in the window to shake the Professor’s hand. I wandered down to the sidewalk to listen to the conversation.
“Martin, I see you’ve recovered. You’re looking healthy.” Professor Adair smiled as he shook the landlord’s hand. “Do you have a bed for my friend?”
Martin turned and looked at me standing on the sidewalk. Shaking his head, he grimaced. “I won’t have room until Tuesday night. The rooms go fast in the summer.” He turned and spoke to me, “If you leave me a number where I can reach you, I’ll hold it for you. I didn’t know you were the Professor’s friend when you called earlier.”
“Thanks. But I don’t have a number.”
Professor Adair pulled out a card and wrote something on the back. “That’s my number; ring it when the room is available. She’ll be at my place until space comes up.”
“Righty.” He gestured to me. “Didn’t you say you wanted to rent a bed by the week?”
“Yes, if possible.” I answered.
“Alright, well if I don’t ring you by Tuesday, you ring me.”
“Maggie, get your luggage.” Professor Adair said to me like a child who had left her bike out in the rain.
“Yes, of course.” I pulled the luggage over, and Martin loaded it for me. I was deeply depressed. I didn’t want to be with Professor Adair, no matter how nice he was trying to be. I knew he could barely tolerate my presence.
We rode the rest of the way to his townhouse in silence. I couldn’t help but think of how beautiful it was outside. Compared to San Diego, it was breathtakingly green with lovely color-drenched flowers blossoming everywhere. The trees had their full summer foliage and the grass on Parker’s Piece was a deep emerald green. We pulled into the alley behind his house and parked in the garage. He took the large case and carry-on out of the back and carried it for me. I grabbed my backpack and slung it over one shoulder. We went inside, and he took my luggage back up to the guest room.
I followed him into the guest room, putting my backpack down I sighed, “I feel like a leach. I know you don’t want me here. I promise, as soon as something comes up, I’m outta here.”
He shook his head, “You don’t have a job, you’re broke, and you don’t have lodgings until… when? Late August?”
I nodded.
“You might as well make yourself at home. You can cook and clean for me while you’re here. You do know how to do that?”
“Yes and no. I cook a lot of Mexican food and spicy things. I’ve been known to get bleach on everything and, despite all my best efforts, my white bras often come out pink.”
He laughed. “Well, try your best. I’m going to get a shower.”
He left me standing in the bedroom as he walked down the hall, disappearing into his bedroom. I would have loved to have caught a little glimpse of him in the shower, just to tide me over, but I didn’t want to press my luck.
I only unpacked a few things. I didn’t want him to think I had moved in. The doorbell downstairs rang, but I knew that with the shower on he couldn’t hear it. Shuffling down the stairs in my clam diggers and blue top that showed a little of my cleavage, I opened the locked front door. There was a woman standing in the doorway, taller than me with black hair, deep green eyes, black eyelashes and perfect red lips. She was gorgeous in her tight jeans and low-cut red t-shirt.
“Oh!” She actually jumped back a foot. “I hadn’t expected a woman.” She looked around me and up the stairs, “Is Campbell home?”
Her condescending gaze told me that she had sized me up and decided I was no threat. It was infuriating and humiliating. She looked through me as if I didn’t even exist.
“He’s in the shower.”
She looked at me again as if something hadn’t registered and then I could see she remembered. “Right…cricket. I forgot it was cricket season. Well, I’ll just run up and see him.”
She rushed past me and up the stairs and straight into his bedroom. I couldn’t help it, I was curious as to who the beautiful, mysterious woman was, so I tiptoed upstairs and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t hear anything through the bedroom door because they were in the bathroom. I ran back to my guest room and could hear voices coming from the far corner where the bathroom backed up to the guest room. I cupped my hand between the wall and my ear. At first it was muffled, but then his voice rolled into a roar.
“Damn it, Gemma. I’ve told you before that I don’t have your damn pearls.”
She was livid, her voice dripping with contempt, “But they were in your glove box. I put them in there when we decided to skinny dip after the party. They couldn’t have just opened the latch and rolled away.”
“This is the last time I’m having this conversation.”
“I doubt it. I know you have them. It’s your way of staying connected to me. As long as you have my Grandmother’s pearls, I have to come and scream at you!”
“Screw you! Go back to your stock boy.” Professor Adair’s voice was equally livid.
“That’s lovely. You’re really a fop aren’t you? You won’t even give him the respect that he deserves. And I see you’ve lowered your standards, resorting to picking up American tourists. What? Won’t a nice English girl have anything to do with you? Can you blame them, you’re about as warmhearted as the Queen.”
“Get the hell out of here!”
“My pleasure.”
I heard a lot of door slamming and heavy footsteps down the hall and stairs, followed by the grand slamming of the front door. I stayed in my room for fifteen minutes until I thought it was safe. It was mid-afternoon and I was very hungry. I tied my hoodie around my waist, grabbed my purse, stepped into the hall and crossed to the stairs. His door opened.
Glancing at me, he seemed startled and then embarrassed. He looked down, not connecting with my eyes, “Did you hear any of that?”
I raised my eyebrows and shoulders and then shook my head, pretending to be ignorant.
“Sorry, she’s my ex.” he said sullenly.
“Ex?” I said it with such shock he laughed.
Looking a little flushed, he walked over to the stairs and we both began to descend. “We lived together for four years, but she decided the b
loke with the big stock portfolio and the condo in the Seychelles was a better fit.”
I nodded respectfully. Now the decor in the guest room made sense. “I have an ex like that. Only the better fit was a Bay Watch wannabe. She was younger, bigger tits, and apparently a gymnast when it came to sex. I had a crisis of confidence after that, not to mention a few aches from taking gymnastics at the local community college.”
His eyes sparkled, and he let out a short, but hearty laugh. I felt rather pleased with myself for lifting his mood.
Pausing, he looked a little uncomfortable, “Maggie, I’m curious, how old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
He smiled, “Not fair. Anything I say could end up being an insult.”
“Thirty-four.”
He took in sharp breath, “Really? Thirty-four? I thought you were twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight.”
“I get that a lot.” I put my purse over my shoulder and started towards the front door.
“So, are you off?” he asked.
“I thought I’d walk around and get something to eat. Are you going to be here...uh, I don’t have a key?”
“Come along, let me show you.” We went out to the back garden and under the gnome was a skeleton key that opened the back door. It amazed me that anyone still carried keys that large. “Do you know where you’re going?” he asked.
“Not really, I thought I’d just walk around.”
He pointed, “There’s a Kentucky Fried Chicken that way, a hamburger take-out in that direction called Mudruckers, and a fish and chip shop on the corner three blocks down.”
“What do you suggest?” I watched him as he pondered my question.
“Kentucky Fried Chicken. I’m never quite sure about what they serve at the other places.” He snickered a little.
“Want me to bring you back something?” I asked as we walked back inside.
“No, I’m going out with Henry and Fiona. We’re going to grab some Chinese.” He paused as if he reluctantly remembered his manners. “Would you like to come with us?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m already a carbuncle. I think I’ll try to stay low-key and let you have fun with your friends.”
“Have it your way. I won’t be back until late; we’ll probably go to the pub afterwards. I have satellite on the telly and there’s plenty to read.”
“Sounds like a good way to spend a Saturday evening. Thanks for the tip.” I watched him grab his keys and walk toward the back French door off the parlor. I took off out the front, making my way to Kentucky Fried Chicken where I found a rowdy group of teenage boys making all sorts of noise as they waited in line for dinner. Most of them were wearing England soccer shirts. After buying a chicken breast dinner and a diet coke, I took my dinner, which looked nothing like the fried chicken I got at home, back to the house to eat. Taking up residence in the kitchen downstairs, I ate my meal and then made my way up to the parlor where the television was. I turned it on and watched a little of Dr. Who before going into the library to look at the books.
I was surprised at the variety of books he owned, including some authors I would have bet that he’d never read. He had a selection of Dean Koontz and Stephen King, John Grisham, Michael Connally, Terry Pratchett, Ian McEwan, James Patterson and hundreds more. I looked through and picked out a Terry Pratchett novel and sat down to read. I watched Billy Elliot while I snuck in a couple of chapters.
Around 9:30 pm, when all the channels seemed to be televising either soccer or reruns of the Sopranos, I decided to go up and get a shower. After getting my shower, I once again put on my pajamas and went back down stairs to the kitchen, making a cup of tea. Once I had steeped it for four minutes, I took it upstairs to the parlor and started sipping.
The couch was comfortable, so I took advantage of it and stretched out. As I did, the tea spilt on my bottoms leaving a huge stain. I pulled them off and took them down to the laundry and threw them on the floor to wash when I had a full load.
Back in the parlor, I watched the rest of Billy Elliot, falling asleep on the long overstuffed sofa. I woke up as a hand started shaking my shoulder.
“Maggie.”
“Aahhhhgggg.” I screamed bloody murder.
He let out a screech and jumped back in response, his eyebrows arched high and his eyes wide with anticipation.
I was flailing my arm, cast and legs, as if I was trying to defend myself, landing a few blows on him, including one with my cast which caused him to fall back on his butt. I jumped up and looked down at his angular face. He looked up at me and his eyes fell below my waist to my panties. My heart went through my feet when I realized that I was laying on this man’s sofa with just a pink tank top and pink flimsy bikini panties with little black bows down the front.
“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,” I babbled as I tried to put a hand strategically in front of my panties. “I spilt something on my pajama bottoms and I didn’t think you would be home so early.”
“It’s midnight.”
“Oh, damn! I must have fallen asleep. I’m so sorry. Uh...I’ll go to bed now. Can I help you up from the floor?”
He shook his head violently. “No, I quite like the view from down here, thank you.”
I blushed bright red and ran.
I heard him laughing.
*********************
Waking up Sunday morning, I dressed and went down to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. The summer garden was so inviting, that I stepped out to enjoy it. There was a light dew and haze hanging over the garden. I sat down in the wooden chair and looked around, enjoying the cornucopia of flowers and small patch of lawn. The cotton lavender, with its cream flowers was sweetly fragrant. My favorite though was the English Cornflower and its lovely blue flower, growing abundantly in Campbell’s garden. I wondered if Gemma had planted the flowers.
My mind wandered as I sat, enjoying it all. The French doors to the parlor opened. Campbell walked out in a bathrobe, opened in Tony Soprano style, with boxers and t-shirt underneath. His hair was sticking out in places, the Independent under his arm and he was yawning.
He looked at me, “Good morning, Ms. McGee. Is there a reason you’re outside? Are you taking a smoke?”
“Oh no. I hate smoking with a passion. I’m from California.”
He took a deep breath, looked at me, and, without any expression said, “Well come in and make yourself useful. I’ll have breakfast. It’s the least you can do to pay me back.”
I pulled my head back a little and froze, not expecting a demand from him. Of course I quickly realized that I did owe him so I jumped up and joined him as he walked down the steps from the garden into the kitchen below. As he walked through the door, I realized that he was much taller than me, even though I had my sneakers on.
“What would you like?” I asked, poised and ready to do his bidding.
“Coddled egg, bacon and toast.” He sat down at the table with the paper and proceeded to ignore me.
Slightly embarrassed by my ignorance, I admitted, “I can do the bacon and toast, but I have no clue how to coddle an egg.”
He looked up at me and narrowed his forehead and wrinkled his nose. “You’ve never coddled an egg?” He said it as if I had just admitted that I had never learned to tie my shoes.
“Sorry.”
There was a look in his eyes—amusement. He stood up and went to the cabinet, pulled down a ceramic jar decorated with a blue schooner and a silver lid. Pulling open the refrigerator door, I was handed the butter. “Butter the inside of the coddler.” He pulled out a small pan and filled it with water, put it over the fire and then turned back to me. The guy with the bedhead handed me an egg, “Crack it and let the egg slip into the coddler.”
The egg slid unceremoniously into the coddler. He was very serious, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. Gesturing at the coddler, he said, “Add some pepper and garlic salt,” as if he were guiding me through a complicated surgery.
While I shook the p
epper, I watched him until he gave a short nod to let me know it was enough. I did the same with the garlic salt and received the same nod. I wondered if I should have scrubbed my hands longer before starting.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now you screw.”
I quickly looked up to see if I had actually heard him. The look on his face was confused. Why wasn’t I doing what he said?
“Uh, excuse me?”
“Are you daft or just deaf? Screw the lid on...but not too tight.”
I relaxed, “Oh, I see. I thought you wanted to screw.” He was mortified, turning a glowing pink. “It’s okay; I knew you didn’t actually mean it. Alright, I’ve screwed, now what?”
He stepped away from me as if I was radioactive. “Sit the coddler in the pan of water, making sure the water comes up just below the lid. The water around the coddler shouldn’t boil; it should just simmer for seven to eight minutes.”
“Okie dokie. I better start the bacon.” I quickly pulled out a skillet and started the rest of the meal. After I pulled the coddler out, it had to sit while the bacon finished. Opening the lid, I wasn’t sure exactly what was different about it, but slipped the egg onto his plate along with the bacon and toast. Walking quickly to the table, I placed the plate before him.
Eating without comment, when he was done he folded the newspaper, knocked back the rest of the orange juice and stood up. “Ta,” he said before bounding up the stairs. I heard the pipes running, indicating he was taking a shower.
I cleaned up and loaded the dishes, then went upstairs to brush my teeth. He was coming out of the bedroom just as I was coming out of the bathroom. Looking very handsome, he was well groomed and apparently ready to go somewhere important.
“Are you going to church?” I asked.