by Anna Premoli
“Glad to hear today's a good day for someone, at least,” I groan, as I limp towards my office.
Colin's smile disappears immediately. “Are you ok?” he asks, offering his arm.
“I could say that I am, but why bother lying?” I answer through gritted teeth as I accept his help. I'd even accept a crutch, should anyone offer me one.
When we’re in the office, Colin shuts the door quickly and stands in front of me, blocking my way. “What the hell happened to you at the weekend?” he asks.
“Nothing much, except for falling off a horse,” I answer calmly. Colin’s expression becomes gloomy. “It wasn’t Ian’s fault, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I re-assure him. For a moment, I had the impression he actually suspected Ian of having pushed me off. He moves aside, relieved. “Glad to hear it—”.
But then he remembers something. “So how come Ian's not here yet?” he asks.
“How would I know? I’m not his baby sitter!” I snap. “I've already told him, but I’ll tell you too: I don’t get paid enough to look after him as well as put up with him!”
I guess Ian didn’t feel too great when he woke up this morning, if the state he was in yesterday is anything to go by. But this is confidential info, and I’m not planning to divulge it. I walk over to my desk and wonder: should I sit down or not? This is a real dilemma. Colin’s expression is so funny that I almost crack a smile despite the pain. Apparently he really is worried about Ian.
“I didn’t murder him! I swear! He’ll turn up eventually, alive, maybe looking a little green in his face. At least, that's how he looked yesterday when I dropped him off at home”.
“Did you poison him?” he asks, sounding serious.
I burst out laughing. Does my boss really think I’m some sort of psychopath?
“I swear I didn’t,” I answer while laughing.
Colin finally relaxes. “Ok. Can we please forget I even asked?” he asks, looking almost ashamed.
“Of course we can,” I say generously.
I’m tired of standing, so I slowly lower myself into my chair, but as soon as my bottom makes contact I can't hold back a moan of pain. That’s when George rushes in.
“Hi, boss!” George says to Colin. “So we’re all in here, then.”
“Apparently I had a meeting this morning,” I say.
“Ian just arrived!” he informs me happily. “I’ve never seen him in this state—” That’s because you didn’t see him yesterday, I think to myself.
George is sweet: he'd rushed in, hoping to bring me good news. Of course, under other circumstances, seeing Ian arriving in such a state would have been big news, but today I’m feeling generous. Today we’re both sharing this deeply painful situation.
“I’ll go check on him,” says Colin immediately upon hearing George’s words, “Bye!” And he rapidly disappears.
“What’s the matter with Colin?” George asks, as he approaches my desk.
“Nothing. He was scared I'd murdered Ian and hidden the body somewhere on his grandfather’s estate.”
“Well, judging from the face he has today, I’d say you got pretty close,” my young colleague teases me.
I shoot him a nasty look. “As I've already told Colin, Ian did it all by himself. And, in fact, if you want to know the details, it’s his fault that I’m limping today. By the way, have we got any cushions I could use to make this damn chair any softer?” I ask with a pained expression.
“I’ll see what I can find,” he says gallantly. “Thanks,” I whisper, as I watch him leave.
“Oh, one more thing, Jenny,” he says from the doorway, “You do know that people will start making up the weirdest possible explanations for why both of you are sick today, right?”
“Nothing could be weirder than the reality. But I'd be grateful if you didn’t encourage any betting about it,” I warn him.
“Who, me?” he asks in the most innocent tone he can, before disappearing.
Fine, I can start working now. If I can think of anything else but this unbearable pain I feel all over, that is. I will never ride a horse again, I swear.
I'm going through the e-mails that arrived over the weekend when my telephone starts ringing. It’s an internal number, Ian’s to be precise. Not that he's called me recently, but I remember his number quite well. “Know your enemy,” always a good tip.
“Yes?” I answer, trying to sound neutral.
“Hi, Jenny,” he says, sounding very rough.
“Are you feeling ok, Ian?”
“Better than yesterday,” he admits, “which is already something. How are you?”
“My bottom's had better days,” I say, disconsolately.
A few moments of embarrassing silence follow. I can tell Ian is trying to find a way to apologise, but he’s so unused to it that he doesn’t even know where to begin. I hear a sigh coming from the other end.
“Did you want to tell me anything else?” I ask abruptly, after waiting for a considerable amount of time.
“Do you want to come round for dinner one evening?” he asks. A question I really wasn’t expecting.
“Can you say that again, please?” I must have misunderstood.
“Yes, I'd like to apologise to you,” he says. “I admit everything that's happened in the last few days is at least partly my fault.”
Well, you don't say? It’s not quite an admission of guilt yet, but it’s getting there.
“You don't need to invite me to dinner – I accept your apologies. Let’s just say that last weekend was pretty hard on both of us.” But Ian doesn’t want to give up so easily, apparently.
“I insist, really,” he says, “I'd feel much better if I could apologise properly. And I would like to do it far from indiscreet eyes.”
He's got a point – this office is turning into an episode of Gossip Girl.
“Ok then,” I say grudgingly, “but nothing fancy, please. I’ve had enough of you aristocrats and your formalities.” I’ve softened, I think to myself in annoyance. In the past I'd have just hung up on him without a second thought. I definitely wouldn’t have accepted an invitation just to help him feel less guilty… I must have caught some virus that makes me feel compassionate towards those who really don’t deserve it.
“Ok,” he answers laughing. “One last thing, though: is my car still in one piece?” I’m really starting to think this car is the thing he cares most about in the world, but I do appreciate the fact that he managed to talk for over two minutes before asking about it. I guess I shouldn’t ask more of a man.
“It was still parked outside my house this morning. Which makes me think nobody tried to steal it during the night. Happy now?”
I hear him laughing quietly. “Hugely happy. Can I come and pick it up after work?”
“You'd better, otherwise my neighbours will start getting strange ideas about me.”
“In that case, I’ll pop over this evening, if it's no bother.” His tone is still too docile for comfort.
“It is, but your car's even more of a bother, so you’d better come and fetch it,” I tease him. Another laugh.
“Who would have thought it?”
“What?” I ask, honestly curious.
“That talking to you would be almost therapeutic,” he says in a tone that sounds almost too serious.
“In that case, I’ll set a pay-to-chat service,” I answer, keeping a playful tone. “I'll call you then. Bye.” And we both hang up.
I feel the strangest sensation. For someone who has a purple bottom, this fluttering in my stomach is not normal. And I don’t like it at all.
Chapter 19
By the time Ian finally comes to fetch his beloved car it’s already 10 p.m. I'd nodded off while I was waiting for him, but I immediately wake up when he rings the bell. I force myself to go and get the door. Ian notices my bare feet and drowsy face straightaway.
“Did I wake you up?” he asks, while entering.
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter, I had
to wake up eventually anyway. I can’t sleep on the sofa with my make-up and clothes on, or I'll have a stiff neck tomorrow. And I am already in pain,” I point out while leading him to the living room.
Ian's wearing dark jeans, a black sweater and a black leather jacket. It’s not the usual formal style I’m used to and I must admit it suits him.
His eyes are still a bit dull, but I can see he is recovering from his atrocious hangover. Tomorrow he’ll be in perfect shape.
Lucky him, I have the impression my pain won’t be disappearing so quickly.
“Were you watching a film?” he asks, pretending to be interested, as he sits down on the sofa and ignores the car keys I'm holding out to him.
“I was pretending to watch a film,” I say, taking a seat next to him on the sofa.
I don’t feel like making conversation or entertaining him, but I can’t be rude either. Ian's looking at me strangely, and his eyes are glittering in an unusual way.
“I'd offer you a drink, but it’s probably not the greatest idea, after Saturday.”
“God, no, please. After yesterday, I don’t want to eat or drink anything.”
“Why did you drink so much on Saturday?” I ask abruptly, deciding that it's time I found out.
Ian keeps staring at me. I suppose he must have been expecting the question, sooner or later.
“The usual reasons. People drink to forget, don’t they?” He sounds sincere – completely different to what I’m used to.
“Maybe it'd be better to face whatever it is you're trying to forget,” I suggest. His liver would be grateful at least. “I do, but I've been listening to the same lectures for years now. On Saturday evening I just had a moment of weakness,” he confides. “Which is quite rare for me.”
I should have imagined that. We have this in common: we always need to look strong, because that's what we’ve been taught. We come from completely different families, but somehow we're carrying the same burdens on our shoulders.
“Are you feeling any better now?” I ask. We both know I’m not talking about physically.
“Yes, sure, I just needed to wallow in some self-pity,” he says sarcastically.
I'd never have thought it possible, but I really get what he’s feeling right now. I know how hard it is not to have your family’s approval. We've both worked so hard for years, we've both struggled to be independent. But all our achievements don’t seem to be matter to our families. They wanted other things for us. I don’t know why, but I instinctively lay my hand on his, as though to re-assure him. He looks at our hands in astonishment for a while, then covers my hand with his. His touch is light, but I feel a tremor run through my body again.
“I know what you’re thinking, but you mustn't let your family undermine your certainties. We’re both right, but we’re human and having to constantly have our choices called into question drives us mad sometimes,” I say, thinking of all the years of fights and recriminations in my life.
Ian lifts his eyes and looks at me almost sweetly. Still holding my hand, he very slowly starts moving his face closer to mine.
“Ian,” I stop him halfway, in a panic, “I think this is a really bad idea.”
“Why?” he asks, totally ignoring my objections.
“Ian—” I’m almost begging, because part of me knows quite well I won’t be able to resist him if he gets too close.
“I like the way you say my name, Jenny,” he says, kissing me sweetly. We stay like that for a while, our lips touching lightly.
Before I can snap out of it, Ian pulls me towards him and, after imprisoning me in an embrace, he starts really kissing me, letting himself go completely.
Out of some instinctive impulse, my arms hug him tightly and one of my hands somehow finds itself amongst his thick, soft, black hair.
Time goes by without me realising it, until his lips start moving down my neck and I’m startled by a shiver. I can’t remember even one of the presumably very good reasons why I'm supposed to be steering clear of this man.
A moment later Ian is kissing my lips again, passionately. I’ve totally lost control of my body, not to mention my tongue, which is moving autonomously now, wrapped around his in a strange dance.
His hand starts making its way under my sweater at exactly the same moment we hear the front door shutting. We barely have time to separate our mouths before Laura and Vera enter the room.
They stand there, their faces a study in confusion at the sight of us wrapped around each other on the sofa. Would somebody be kind enough to take a picture of all us right now, just so we can remember this wonderful moment?
“Hi,” an incredulous Vera greets us. Her eyes are open wide and fixed on Ian’s hand under my sweater. The hand in question doesn't move but just sits there on my belly, showing no sign of life. I see what she’s looking at and decide to break up the incriminating embrace, so I try to stand up. Unsure of how to behave, Ian lets me go.
I admit it’s quite embarrassing to be caught in such a compromising situation when you’re over thirty, especially when it's never happened to you before – not even when you were a teenager.
“Erm—” mumbles Vera, her astonished expression the double of Laura's.
Obviously Ian has more experience in dealing with these situations, because he regains his self-control immediately and decides that the best thing to do is to make a run for it.
“Great, well, I’ve got the keys so I'll be heading off, then,” he informs us, while standing up and grabbing them from the table.
If he'd taken them when I was trying to give them to him earlier, none of this would have happened, I think with some annoyance. I’m angry with myself, to be honest, but right now it’s easier to unload my tension onto Ian, who’s been the target of my aggression for at least five years. As far as I’m concerned, he can be my target for another five minutes. He must realise that my mood has changed as he looks at me from the corner of his eye, because he freezes, unsure about what to do.
“Er, do you want to see me out?” he asks, with an eloquent look. I’m almost tempted to say no, but Vera glances at me.
“Ok,” I answer, to avoid more tension. He says goodbye to my friends and we head for the door.
“So—” he starts, only to run out of words again, not sure of what to say.
“Let's just forget about it,” I suggest quickly, to help him out of this embarrassing moment. I must have surprised him – he was probably expecting a totally different answer.
“Ok,” he says simply, without conviction.
“We’re still under the effect of that awful weekend,” I add, “not to mention you’re still a bit drunk—”
“Am I?” he asks perplexed. “What, forty-eight hours later?”
Sometimes I think Ian really doesn’t get it. “Do you feel normal?” I challenge him. “Well, not really, but—” he starts.
But I cut him off with a hand gesture. “Ian, are you sure you want to talk about it?” I ask. His expression is quite uncertain. “No,” he admits through gritted teeth, “but it's usually women who want to talk over things like… like what just happened.”
Good boy, don't say the word ‘kiss’.
“This must be your lucky night then, because first of all nobody's stolen your car yet, and second I don’t have the slightest desire to talk about it.” I don't see how I could be any clearer…
“Goodnight then,” he says, turning towards me, and before I can pull away, he has kissed my cheek. His kiss is really innocent, but being near him makes me dizzy all over again. Maybe I’d better see a doctor, I might have some strange disease.
A few moments later there's no sign of him, luckily, except for the smell of his aftershave in my nose, but a couple of deep breaths clear that.
As I close the door I remember that I've probably got the Spanish Inquisition waiting for me in the living room. I’m not criticising them: if I'd seen a similar scene I'd probably have reacted even more. I must acknowledge that at least they did
n't start asking questions in front of Ian. I go back to the living room and sit down in the armchair, ready to defend myself.
“So how long has this been going on?” asks Laura, her arms folded across her chest.
“Since never,” I answer point-blank, because it’s the truth.
“Pull the other one,” says Vera, “we both saw you.”
“I know what you saw, girls. I swear it has never happened before.” I know it’s not a great explanation, but it’s the best I’ve got.
“You seemed to be quite into each other,” insists Laura.
“It was just a kiss.” I mean, they didn't actually find me naked on the sofa!
“It was not just a kiss!” blurts out Vera. “It was one of those kisses that give you goose bumps – one of those kisses that can only end in bed.”
“And judging from the way things were going, you wouldn’t even have made it that far—” Laura adds.
“Oh come on!” I moan, sounding offended.
Laura looks at me. “I’ve had the same boyfriend for ages, but I still remember how these things work, sweetheart.” Good for her.
I decide not to add anything.
“Ok, let’s not get away from the point,” says Vera. “We’re here to help Jenny realise a few things.”
“Oh, is that what this is? I thought you were here to torment me!” My sarcastic tone doesn't bother them – they know it’s my default method of self-defence.
“Do you like him, Jenny?” Vera asks. “You can tell us, you know. We’re not your mother.”
They’re right, I know, but admitting to myself I’m attracted to Ian would mean giving in to a weakness that I swore I would never give in to in my life. Never, ever, ever.
“I don’t like him, really!” I shout. “What you saw was a mistake. Ian is still a bit confused after what he went through over the weekend, and I'm just in a mess. That’s it, I swear! I'd been sleeping, and he turned up… I just wasn't psychologically prepared… it all happened in a flash.”
Laura looks at me, her eyes almost sad. “So do you usually need to get ready before meeting him? How? By repeating to yourself 'I must not like him, I must not like him'?”