Beyond the Pale

by E. J. Wood

  ‘Sir, yes Sir,’ I smile as I salute him and his celebrity pearly whites emerge.

  ***

  ‘THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING IN HERE’ - I scream at the wardrobe grasping items of clothing between my hands clutching into tight fists, selecting a few I place them on the bed.

  Option one: Little black dress – exists for a reason, coolness, mysterious and elegant. Definitely an option for tonight

  Option two: The white dress – White can evoke a sense of innocence and purity and it is also very versatile.

  Option three: The red one – but do I want to appear enthusiastic, sexy and wild?

  Deliberating I settle on white. It is going to be our first evening and I don’t want to appear too keen. It is my symbol of elegance. Day dates are so much easier.

  As I prepare for our evening date I'm lost in thought of the last time I went on a date – not thankful to Claire for setting me up on a blind date which lasted exactly twenty eight minutes. I knew nothing about him – a colleague of Claire’s at the hospital, I thought, can’t be that bad, a doctor? Perhaps he is a surgeon? Head surgeon! I agreed to meet Mr Blind date at a mutual venue, with having a blue rose in his lapel and a comic under his arm as the only clues as to whom he was. I entered the restaurant head held high, confident and wearing my little black dress. From all the raving Claire had done, I thought he might just be the one. Successful, attractive, softly spoken, keeps to himself and apparently fell in love with the photo she showed him. Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder? I’d like to find out who this beholder is. Could his ugliness be a reflection of my own heart and not truly who I'm looking at? His body was slumped with no natural grace, his face sour apart from his attempt to smile as I tentatively stepped towards him … eagerly I looked from side to side – please for the sake of god someone else have a blue rose beside them. My heart sank. Nope. As I drew closer it was apparent he suffered from extreme halitosis, what doesn’t make me throw up, only makes my stomach stronger, I kept telling myself. His hands out stretched were warm and clammy clasping mine, shaking them vigorously. His eyes were wide, excited he squealed;

  ‘Amelia I presume?’ We were seated after our brief introductions to one another and before I could get any further than my first name he questioned me one after the other. ‘So, what’s your favourite type of music, film, have you done this before, have you been single long?’

  I hadn’t even had a chance to answer one question let alone ask any myself. A surgeon Claire led on, successful; yes he was successful as the head of boring department. I'm sorry to say that Mr Smelly Blind date brought his work home informing me of the ins and outs of how to clean a bathroom successfully and was sorry to say we didn’t manage a second date.

  A knock sounds at the door at exactly 6.59pm and I bounce back to present day. It must be Guy!

  ‘Coming,’ I scurry to the door leaning down to fasten my shoes before the door opens.

  ‘Amelia as elegant as ever, you look stunning,’ his arm out stretched; I grab my clutch purse and follow his lead. Smiling mission accomplished.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, I thought we could dine at Morena.’ His brows arch as if asking for permission as we’re seated in the Jag.

  ‘That is fine with me I have enjoyed many meals there.’

  He presses play and again Jan Hammer fills the speakers – my sex drive is on fire.

  What a great start, I can feel my muscles clenching already. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, my subconscious whispers in my ears and Claire’s voice suddenly repeats the sentence. First boxed ticked, he isn’t Mr Smelly Blind date.

  The waitress seats us and brings over their finest Rosado without hesitation.

  ‘Pink wine?’ I smile; we know too well what pink wine does to me.

  ‘Château d’Esclans, it is a 2007 Garrus Rosé, the wine is, without question, the best Rosé I have ever had. Its aromas are intoxicating and far more complex than any of its brethren. I thought we would give it a try together,’ the French just rolling off the tip of his tongue as he gazes into the menu card. He has done this before. The waitress remains quiet with eyes locked to Guy awaiting instruction to pour a small amount, he nods in acceptance and she pours.

  ‘This is a great choice Mr Davidson,’ she smiles subtly. She knows his name? I have been coming here for years and they don’t know my name! He looks up from the menu card folding it closed, grasps the wine glass and lifts it towards me.

  ‘Amelia, cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The room is dimly lit, with very few tables, the table cloths crisp, elegant and the “Cranberries” sound off in the background.

  ‘Please excuse me one moment; I need the little girls room.’ As I stand he stands, I'm not used to this, it is a little unnerving and curiosity grabs the better of me as I detour towards the bar.

  ‘Excuse me, the wine…’ and before I can finish the waitress obviously trained begins.

  ‘Yes, Mr Davidson has pre-ordered the Rosé. Lichine’s 2007 Garrus Rosé is a blend of Grenache with a small hint of Rolle. The grapes are harvested by hand, by local pickers who carry dry ice sticks in their baskets.’

  ‘Sorry I was meant to say … how much is it if I may ask, I’d like to pay.’ This isn’t the usual cheap pink slutty wine Claire buys, I had better check. The waitress appears uneasy at my question, as by request she glides around my side of the bar leaning in close.

  ‘Only two thousand bottles were ever made, only place I've ever seen a bottle of it was onboard some millionaire’s yacht in the Riviera. Think yourself lucky you’ve got yourself that $100 bottle of rosé.’ Her head nods again like the Churchill dog, eyes widening as if saying now go away I have work to do.

  ‘Everything OK Amelia?’ Guy sips on his ridiculously expensive wine.

  ‘Ye…yes,’ I stutter, hands shaking as I grasp my glass.

  ‘You’re shaking, you have to eat something.’ The concern in his voice is comforting. It is true; I don’t look after myself quite how I should. I never have – what was the old Latin phrase? “Quod me nutrit me destruit” (what nourishes me also destroys me).

  ‘Yes actually I'm rather famished.’

  ‘Fancy anything in particular?’

  ‘I have tried the steak here and it’s exquisite.’ I suggest.

  ‘Rare?’ He beckons.

  I pause without muttering a word; he leans in close and whispers.

  ‘It’s a steak with delicate flavour, the less it’s cooked, the more flavour it has. With fillet, things like marbling and intramuscular gristle aren’t a problem.’ His gaze is incorrigible and I laugh quietly looking down at the menu card, whispering,

  ‘It’s a rare find; pardon the pun to find someone who equally enjoys a bloody steak.’

  My attention diverts for a split second noticing a man leaning against the bar drinking a Coronita with the typical lemon on the neck of the bottle. His legs are crossed and his gaze a constant. A light brown beard accentuating the curves of his jaw, I’d say a mature man of around late thirties to early forties, alone observing the waitress’s.

  ‘May I interrupt?’ Guy reverts my attention back his way.

  ‘Sorry,’ I gasp.

  ‘Never be sorry, the gentleman there you are observing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He … is a stalker, a dangerous one at that.’ I lean in close as the waitress delivers our food.

  ‘Excuse me maám, Filet Mignon with Mushroom-wine sauce?’

  ‘Yes thank you.’

  The waitress leaves and I immediately revert my attention to Guy.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I question as I place a mouthful of steak in my mouth now intrigued.

  Smiling he seems to enjoy my enthusiasm lowering his fork.

  ‘Firstly, stalking is behaviour not a mental disorder, although mental disorders do play a keen role in stalking. Watch his eyes, they follow her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The waitress, the slim athletic built
waitress, she is hurrying around, dashing from table to table unaware of his stare. Watch his face, he lights up when she faces his direction, smiles, moves his hands in and out of his pockets, he is uneasy, uncomfortable. I can guarantee when she approaches him he will look to the floor and mumble his next order.’

  I watch intently waiting for the waitress to approach the man.

  ‘He has been here every night Amelia profiling her.’

  ‘How do you know all this? Are you CIA? I chuckle.

  ‘I am in Human Resources, Recruitment to be exact; profiling is just part of my job, learning who to hire and who not to, it’s all about body language.’

  I'm intrigued.

  ‘What are his plans, what is he going to do?’ My eyes widen with interest.

  ‘Well there are several types of stalkers; from what I can see I very much doubt he is what is coined as the Rejected Stalker, purely because the waitress does not appear to have any knowledge or relationship with this man, either now or from before.’

  ‘Rejected Stalker?’

  ‘This is the official term for someone who has poor social skills; he has always been here alone from what I have seen when we have come here before, however the Rejected Stalker usually evolves from an ended relationship, seeking revenge or a reunion, he may have high levels of narcissism and or even jealousy. A history of violence within that relationship is not uncommon. Her behaviour does not signal this.’

  ‘Wow, I wasn’t even aware of different types or are they breeds of stalkers, what other types are there?’ I scoff another mouthful of food, who is this, Guy? He may very well become useful in my research!

  ‘You have a Resentful Stalker. This type of person has psychological tendencies to want to frighten or distress their victim and often stalks their victim to get revenge against someone who has upset them. This stalker will view his or sometimes her victim as being similar to those who have oppressed or humiliated them in the past and may view themselves as the victim striking back against the oppressor.’

  I interrupt, ‘I don’t think he is this type either, he seems far too calm, his body language is relaxed, the waitress is completely unaware of him,’ my hand wavering and gesturing as I combine food shovelling and interruption in the most un lady like manner.

  ‘Very good Amelia, there is hope for you yet, profiling anyway . . .’ he chuckles lifting his fork up to slice a now cold piece of fillet. ‘Does your work not evolve around this type of observation?’ He questions.

  ‘Not really, I deal more with the deceased as apposed to the living.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate, there is much to learn, carpe diem, seize the day.’

  ‘I’m learning, tell me more.’ I smile.

  ‘The Resentful Stalker is more than likely to verbally threaten but then the least likely to physically harm their victim.’

  ‘So,’ and as the words leave my mouth I am shammed by my more logical inner voice, ‘in a way if you were to have a stalker this is more than likely the best form?’

  ‘One of the most dangerous would be the Predatory Stalker hence the term Predator. This type will form a plan of attack and more than likely be motivated by the promise of sexual gratification through rape or empowerment. He or again she will have poor self esteem, poor social skills and may have lower intelligence. S/he would stalk a complete stranger, an ad hoc decision. S/he won’t try to contact the victim nor harass but may venture into voyeurism.’

  ‘VOYEURISM’ I gasp placing my hand over my mouth, eyes dashing from side to side, hoping no one heard me. Guy reaches into his pocket removing a blackberry.

  ‘Here read – Voyeurism, I would discuss it over dinner but we then might be Voyeurs discussing this over steak and wine. I will let you read.’ Taking the phone the page reads:

  Voyeurism is the sexual interest in or practice of spying on people engaged in intimate behaviours, such as undressing, sexual activity, or other actions usually considered to be of a private nature. [1]

  ‘There are a few types Amelia, I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.’

  Bore? Me? Fat chance!

  ‘In your professional opinion, how do you concur about this man?’ I smile.

  Guy tilts his head to one side, leans in sliding the plate to the side and grasps my hand. My lips part and I inhale waiting with baited breath his answer.

  ‘The Incompetent Suitor.’

  ‘And what does he do?’

  ‘Amelia you surprise me, you are so eager for information.’

  ‘I find this fascinating,’ I whisper as I sip some overtly expensive wine.

  ‘You are fascinating. The Incompetent Suitor would have a strong desire to start a romantic relationship, this could be brought on by simple flirtations, watch the waitress, she is very good at this. She is probably cut off from his thoughts if he has repeatedly asked her out on dates, even after being rejected, she may have given him her phone number innocently and he has taken this as a hint of interest. He may be calling her, trying to grab her hand to kiss.’

  ‘Should we be concerned?’

  ‘No, this type only stalks for short periods of time and usually stops when confronted with legal action if it gets out of hand.’

  The waitress wanders over, ‘is everything alright? Can I get you anything else?’

  ‘It was superb, that guy over there, is everything OK?’ I subtly point.

  ‘Oh him yes, I gave him my number stupidly last night working late after I had a few drinks after work and he hasn’t got the idea. I’m just so not interested.’ She smiles removing our plates and walks towards the kitchen.

  ‘Mr Davidson, I'm amazed.’ I smile.

  ‘Don’t be, it is I who is in awe tonight Miss Sharpe.’

  ‘But you did say he was a dangerous one.’

  ‘To spark your interest and it worked.’

  ‘Engaging your audience, a trick well played, kudos to do you,’ I nod.

  ‘Cheers,’ our glasses clink.

  The wine glasses clink against one another and the glass breaks, spilling what is left over my hand; my eyes widen with horror, shit I've just spilt about $20 bucks.

  ‘Oh no,’ I instantly grab a napkin, apologising trying to tempt the wine with my pinkie finger back into an empty glass beside me.

  ‘Amelia,’ he states with a soft voice and Guy grabs my hand, ‘stop, it is OK.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that wine is I'm sure horrendously expensive.’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself over it, I can afford it,’ he chuckles looking into his lap.

  ‘Are you laughing at me Mr Davidson; at my incompetence?’

  ‘I’m laughing with you,’ he says leaning in close, his lips plump, luscious inviting me in. I lean forward as he says, ‘my first thoughts were right! You are a dirty little Angel,’ his eyes darting towards my white and pink dress and at that my hand covers my mouth in despair, my face matching the colour of my dress. As we laugh at my incompetence, Guy pays the bill by card of course and he hands me a folded piece of paper, it's a flower; an orchid to be exact, created by his skilful hands from the bill.

  ‘Orchids can be white or pink just like your dress. Let’s take a walk along the beach and then get you home,’ he stands with a hand in front waiting for mine to join his.

  ***

  The strong mouldy seaweed scent wavers through the air as the soft sand caresses my feet; it is cold and fine with half crushed seashells of all different sizes. The air is crisp now the sun has settled and seagulls and other birds fight for the same target, fish in the shore as the last of the sun descends. The sky is ablaze with colour, a fiery orange, soaring reds, yellows and the outer edges of the sky beginning to cool with the indigo blue of the night, more beautiful than any mere words could encompass, a miracle and one I am fortunate to witness tonight. The sand glistens brightly as the last remaining sun descends and gone are the sand castles, buckets and children. The sea is now dark and turbulent as if hiding a dark secret beneath its waters. Two seagulls st
and silent ominously gazing at the ocean surf, their stillness unsettling and I remember how conniving these little pests can be squawking trying to sneak a piece of food you may have brought with you on the beach. The sea is mesmerising, turning all colours of the rainbow and is contrasted by the angry grey waters crashing into the shore by our feet. I jump back a few feet as another wave comes crashing and knocks me down and I stand rapidly clutching Guy’s hand. Winter is coming and the seagulls too are hypnotised by the dark lonely sea, one dashing two and from as the sea ebbs and flows close towards him looking like white horses galloping in unison. Dusk is an illusion neither the sun is above or below a horizon thus linking day and night unable to exist without one another, yet neither at the same time, always together but forever apart.

  ‘I don’t want this feeling to ever end,’ I smile.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ he whispers gazing intently into my eyes, ‘the most beautiful thing I have set my eyes on.’

  My mind is overwhelmed with possibilities of the things I wish to do from now onwards; the world becomes my oyster and I am no longer inhibited by heinous restrictions. I feel free, free as a bird. Morally I am myself, can toy with the rules of life and create new limits and possibilities just as I want them to be. I would empower even my muscles to embrace him securely to better absorb the meaning of his gentle words that inspire my spirit to new life - the primordial breath of God himself surrounded by a little taste of heaven.

  The adrenaline of my heart pounds as he takes my hand under the setting sun. I feel protected and secure in his presence, the scenery and surroundings exquisite and leaves me breathless. The calming waters have now engulfed the colours of the indigo night sky and the water shimmers like scales, painting a picture perfect painting. Slowly our faces begin moving towards one another and he leans down to my ear reciting one of my favourite poems and my face turns a crimson shade as I blush trying to hide the fact I think I'm falling head over heels. His words are perfectly cited with affection, don’t say it; don’t say I am yours or I will explode. The tension within me is unbearable. His eyes are deep and soulful and emphasise freshness and reflect the shimmer from the water, from the pressure of his hands I can tell he isn’t nervous at all and as he leans in close. I can feel the warmth of his breath, the sweet mint breath enchanting me. His lips draw near my jaw tracing lines to my ear and collarbone, memories come flooding back of my soft fluffy teddy and the comfort it brings. My warm blood flows rapidly and in this moment even if it lasts only this moment, I am his and he is mine. My heart flutters uncontrollably at his gentle touch, so cautious for just a moment before pulling away, not wanting to make a move without permission but I lean in close giving him all the permission he needs.