by Lesley Young
“So, do you think it is somehow inappropriate for me to take this apartment?” I asked with more emotion than intended.
“Do you mind me asking a personal question?” she answered after a moment. I fought the urge to roll my eyes at her question-answer, appreciating instead the advance warning.
“No. Not if it will help.”
She smiled at me. “Have you ever been in a relationship?”
When I stared at her, uncertain what type of relationship she meant, she added, “With a bloke? A boyfriend?”
I shook my head.
Of course, I recognized that at twenty-four, I was an anomaly. “I never had time,” I attempted to explain. “Watching my mother and working to feed us was a full-time job.” Thinking back on it, slightly removed as it were by location and time, I suppose I had not had to sacrifice quite so much, as B often pointed out. I could have carved out time to focus on a personal life despite my mother’s handicap. But . . . one cannot change the past, I decided with certainty—fed up with my doubtfulness. My caregiving had succeeded in ensuring more pink for both myself and for my mother. I would choose to believe we were both better off for my efforts.
“Yeah, I get that. But surely you went out occasionally. To root, you know. A girl’s gotta fuck.”
And people say I am blunt. I liked this Jenny, I decided. I experienced a nice bright aqua. I frowned and shook my head. “I am hoping to meet someone here who is a good match, though,” I told her. “Are you considering setting me up with someone?”
She shook her head, never taking her eyes off me, appearing to swallow hard. “So you’re not some distant niece or a mate of a mate of Mr. Knight’s he’s doing a favor for?”
I shook my head. “I assume these questions are necessary to help you provide advice?”
“Yeah. He crack onto you? You know, ah . . .” She eyed me with that skeptic look. “Touch you inappropriately, make comments about you that imply he’d like to root, that sort of thing?”
“No. Not at all. He has been nothing but professional.” I told her about telling him how the relationship would remain strictly professional.
She laughed, much the same way as Sullivan, with great mirth and disbelief, only hers came with something else—a respect, perhaps—which helped me get past the indignation of being laughed at.
“Well then. He knows where he stands. Good on ya!” She toasted my glass again. “You’re no drongo, are you? You had me a bit worried there, Charlie,” she added, smiling . . . relieved.
She winked at me.
Uh-oh, a sign of collusion. For what? I fretted.
I smiled back, as it was clearly necessary to do so.
“So, what about the apartment?” I asked. She had never answered my question.
“Crikey, keep it! You just said he knows where he stands.”
Oh. So . . . she had believed he’d given it to me for sex. It would seem Mr. Knight had not done himself any favors regarding his reputation with women. I already knew that was not his motive for providing the apartment, and so wrote off getting any clearer insight from Jenny on the matter. For now I would simply accept circumstances.
I listened politely as Jenny chatted on about people at Knight Enterprises, sharing some gossip from her department, dearly wishing she would leave so I could unpack and familiarize myself with my new home and surroundings. (I needed to pick up groceries and watch today’s episode of E!News on my phone.)
When Jenny invited me to eat lunch with her and her colleagues the next day, I accepted, rising up out of my chair. “I’m going to have to square them up about you, too.” Her parting words were: “You keep him wrapped tight around your finger.”
A few hours later, when I knew B would be awake, I called her. She explained that Jenny had misunderstood my strength of female persuasion with Mr. Knight, but cautioned that I should not enlighten Jenny or her friends as she sounded like a gossipy windbag. She added that the better Jenny thought of me, the better off I would be. When I mentioned that I had accomplished this high opinion through no calculation, and could therefore not replicate it, B said to just keep on being myself (which provided no clarity whatsoever). B did, however, say that if accepting the apartment bothered me (she thought long and hard on this, it seemed to me), there was nothing wrong with me staying there until I found a more affordable option.
I did not inform B about the Sullivan Blaise date, or his demand for my espionage services in exchange for continued residency, since there was nothing B could do. And knowing her reaction to any threat on my safety, I felt it best to protect her from such knowledge. She was deep in student loan debt, constantly overspending, or so it seemed (I found it odd how occupied she was with money), and was the type of person who would not hesitate to put five thousand dollars for a plane ticket on her line of credit to rescue me. Also, I was managing, somewhat successfully, to pretend it had never happened.
I did, however, mention to her that I was having unsettling sensations in the proximity of Mr. Knight—and attempted to describe the colors. B said I was clearly hot for him, but provided no relief when she added that, “Horniness isn’t a handicap, Charlie. You just need to get some!” I assumed matters would be taken care of when I found myself an eligible bachelor and began dating.
After catching up on her plans for the day, I wrapped up the call, asking about the job perk Mr. Knight was thrusting on me. B said she thought it was a good thing Mr. Knight was teaching me how to swim, as, and I quote her, “Visiting the Barrier Reef is an incredible opportunity.” She surprised me, greatly, as over the years I had developed a guide for reading B’s tonal variations, and, while her approval had been sincere, it was mirthful.
When I questioned her on this, she denied it. Confusion should be my middle name.
Chapter 6
Saturday morning I woke up at seven a.m. like clockwork, and longed for the ability to sleep in. Perhaps I could have slept through Mr. Knight’s swim lessons. That seemed a legitimate mistake to make.
Alas, there was no suitable way to avoid it. On Thursday evening, from Melbourne, he had emailed a number of diagrams and pointers and told me to read them thoroughly.
I ate my breakfast of yogurt parfait and a side of turkey bacon while reading a selection of online newspapers. Miss Moneypenny loves Saturdays because I always give her a sodium- and fat-laden treat. It had been more than three weeks for her, so I gave her an extra tidbit.
We were both rather enamored with our new apartment, never having had so much room, or modern furnishings. This past week, I had organized a few outings after work to choose personal touches, such as a throw pillow, a vase for my paper flowers (I am an origami addict), a bath towel and a placemat for under Miss Moneypenny’s food dishes. My financial situation was not ideal (though I had seen worse), and I was counting the days to my first pay.
On the whole, my work week had been uneventful. I met Jenny’s friends, three women who gave me a cool reception and chose not to engage me over our sandwiches. I even resorted to attempting to initiate conversation. Jenny apologized later, said it was an “Oz bitch attitude thing” and invited me to a movie on Sunday. I agreed.
Unable to postpone the inevitable “job perk experience,” I had a quick shower in order to shave. B had reminded me, rather needlessly, not to forget to shave before my swim lesson. (There were times when B’s treatment of me is not unlike a parent’s. I try to overlook it as she is a very devoted friend.)
I dressed in my one-piece bright blue swimsuit, not heeding B’s proclamation that one-pieces are for Frigidaires.
Bikinis are only for sunbathing. I do not sunbathe. And frankly, it is one of the most irrational activities humans do. Consider for a moment what aliens, landing on Earth, might make of a species that strips off clothing, rubs itself in oil and places itself directly under exposure of harmful UV rays, thus increasing risk of skin cancer threefold?
I slathered on SPF 50. While I usually apply eye makeup to draw out the black circles around my light
gray irises (a girl at the Buffalo Macy’s makeup counter showed me how), it would be silly to do so when it would simply smear in the water.
A wave of nerves thrummed through me, originating in my gut and spreading out through my hands. Water. One of the most dangerous elements on Earth. How would I prevail? Had I not endured enough testing of my resilience by moving here? Would it never end?
I took a deep breath and shouted “Hooroo!” into the apartment, a common Australian slang way of saying goodbye.
Miss Moneypenny did not even look back at me. She was pouting by the window. I could relate, completely.
I set out toward the Sydney Plaza with my satchel, trying not to feel gray by enjoying my surrounds. The area, mostly downtown business offices, hotels, and residences, was relatively quiet. A few locals, tourist couples and solo business travelers, could be seen out exercising or grabbing coffee. It was a typical Sydney morning—dewy pavement and slightly-off seawater melded into a unique urban scent. The sun was so high and bright (as a result of falling on the Tropic of Capricorn line) it made your eyes hurt.
Ten minutes later, after navigating the Plaza’s hectic lobby area (a tour bus full of guests was departing for the outback) and traversing through the adjoining corridor to reach the offices, I saw Mr. Knight had left his double office doors ajar. I took a deep breath and knocked lightly. When I did not hear a response, I pushed them open.
The room was empty. I moved to the windows, and, as the porch doors were similarly ajar, I ventured out into his garden. The pathway was what might be described as a verdant paradise, composed of tall, thick, high tropical trees and shrubbery, which stood watch over a much shorter white flowering genus that ran along the cobblestones. It was the same garden style featured in the Plaza’s public pool area.
I greatly appreciated the work that had gone into it. I had once tried to plant flowers outside our trailer in Niagara Falls. They had not made it through the summer. I suspected our neighbor’s poodle had urinated on them, but I never obtained the proof necessary to make an accusation.
I heard someone splashing before I turned the bend in the path. A moment later I took in a long, narrow, azure lap pool. Mr. Knight was swimming, of course. I headed toward the two lounge chairs at the end and sat on the edge of one with my satchel on my lap.
I could do this. Certainly I could do this. One hour—tops. I would simply listen and apply his advice. I had motor skills. And above average spatial reasoning. My high school guidance counselor even recommended air traffic control as a potential vocation, for Pete’s sake—
Mr. Knight’s head popped up at my end of the pool. “Beautiful day, isn’t it, Charlie?” His black close-cropped hair glistened with water.
“I suppose, Mr. Knight.” I was unsettled he had used my first name. It was unprofessional enough that we were here on a Saturday.
“Glad you’re here,” he added, heaving himself out of the pool using his strong arms.
“Strong” was perhaps too weak a word for his torso. In fact, the words that came to mind were a favorite of B’s: holy hotness. My breath grew shallow for all that glistening, bronzed, musculoskeletal perfection—because to be certain, this man and his trainers had identified every last substructure and worked it out to attain the ideal amount of strength and presence. Furthermore, his black swim trunks clung to him to such an extent that his penis was distinguishable: I estimated five inches long, positioned downward to the left. I wondered if it was erect, since Cosmopolitan magazine said the average penis size, erect, is 5.57 inches. No, his couldn’t be erect right now, I realized, since B said an erect penis points straight ahead or up. In that case, stunned, I wondered what the average distended penis length was based on the flaccid length. Was there a mathematical formula for that? Perhaps I would google that, strictly for research purposes. Above his genitalia, emerging from his trunks, was a line of black hair that led up to his belly button, though the rest of his chest was bare.
He was standing in front of me. When I glanced into his eyes, they were alight. “Everything alright, Charlie?”
“Yes. Fine.” I stewed in my own outrage. He was clearly inappropriately dressed. “Do you have a shirt you can put on?”
His brows knitted together though he wore a large smile. “Why would I do that?”
“As a professional courtesy.”
“Charlie, you won’t learn anything if you don’t have the right attitude,” he scolded me gently, sitting down beside me on the lounger. I glanced over. He was still smiling. Long, shapely forearms (and biceps!) casually draped over his knees, elbows open to the side, he wiped away the water trickling down his face.
“You don’t need to teach me anything, technically,” I told him, unable to control the resentful tone in my voice. “I know all the motions one must make to be buoyant and move in water.”
His eyebrows shot up. “But you said you didn’t know how to swim!”
“Yes, well, it was a partial truth. My mother started me out in lessons, but we were unable to finish. So I have solid grounding in theoretical knowledge.” (Which, in fact, I had brushed up on in advance of the flight to Australia in case we crash-landed in the ocean). “I lack the practical application.” I hugged my satchel to me.
“Why’s that?” he asked quietly.
I took a moment, resentful I was forced to provide this humiliating confession.
“Because I was too frightened during the first experience, when I had to put my head under the water, to continue. My mother was unable to assist me further as my dislike of water rather overwhelmed her, which was perfectly understandable.”
There. I had clarified things. Perhaps he would abandon the task now that he knew the parameters.
“Do you miss your mother?”
I glared at him, quickly, flashing back on the now perfectly still pool. Why would he ask such a question?
“That’s a very personal question, Mr. Knight.”
“Yes, it is.” His voice thrummed—literally. It was like a didgeridoo. One of the first things I did upon arriving in Australia was go to a live musical event featuring the didgeridoo. I am fascinated by music, all kinds, and in my free time marvel at the poetry of its mathematical foundations.
He had not said another word, and, it would seem, required an answer.
“I am unsure as to whether I should answer that truthfully, Mr. Knight.”
He chuckled, and I took in his amused face. Up close, he had a perfect matching set of dimples.
“Ah, God, you’re such a pleasure, Charlie, I gotta say.”
I felt myself flush, and then, experienced a second unsettling sensation of flushing further, simply because I had been flushing in the first place. Ridiculous.
“Piece of advice: next time you think about lying, don’t give warning.”
I was forced to smile. I nodded. “You are right. That was silly.”
He waited for the answer. “The truth is . . . I don’t miss her as much as I should.”
It had been weighing on me terribly that I had missed Miss Moneypenny, while she was in quarantine, more than I missed my mother. I reasoned that that was because our cat was alive, whereas what was the point of longing for the impossible? It hurt, physically, to do so, somewhere, near the heart, in the solar plexus.
I glanced into his eyes, wondering how he might take this news. In my experience, people say they want the truth, but often don’t like it.
“I understand fully, Charlie.” Relieved, I resumed relaxed breathing. “Family is both a strength and a weakness,” he added, gritting his teeth and staring off into the distance.
I wondered what family he spoke of, since I had thought he was an orphan. But we were already compromising our professional integrity by simply being here, so I said, “That is a very apt observation, Mr. Knight.”
“Why don’t you call me Jace. Just for today,” he added quickly. “I’m about to help you get over your greatest fear, Charlie. Surely that warrants us being on a first-name b
asis.”
“Water is not my greatest fear, Jace.”
“Oh. What is?”
“You first,” I said, attempting to irritate him with a question for a question. However, he seemed . . . amused.
Confusing.
“Loneliness,” he answered baldly, placing his hands on his knees, sitting up.
“Really? I would not have expected that Mr.—I mean, Jace.”
“Not many do,” he said in his deep, even-toned voice. “People assume wealth’s a potion for all kinds of things, like friendship and love. It’s actually a pretty nasty poison. Takes a strong heart to withstand real power, Charlie.”
I glanced into his eyes and they hugged mine, holding us both on a tightrope even though I was teetering madly.
“So, what’s your greatest fear, then?” he asked finally, releasing me.
“Failure,” I answered readily, having identified it at the age of six when I was informed I did not play house correctly by one of the many children who had come and gone from the CrissCross trailer park. “I need to succeed in all things.”
“Why are you smiling?” I heard myself ask. I’d never asked anyone about the meaning behind their facial expressions, frankly, preferring not to bother. But with Mr. Knight, I cared very much in that moment.
“Because there are two kinds of folks in this world. Those who are shit-scared of death, and those who are shit-scared of failure. I prefer the latter.” He stood up and reached out a hand. “So, are you ready to succeed at swimming, Charlie?”
I put my satchel on the ground, took his hand and rose up, anxiety swelling in me. “Just so you are aware, Mr.—Jace. I do not perform well in high-pressure, time-intensive situations. My brain is hardwired such that it requires gentle exposure to new undertakings. I tell you this in case you are among those who believe in a trial-by-fire learning approach.”
“Good to know. We’ll start off slow. Take off your dress, assuming you’ve got your cozzie on underneath.” He eyed me, speculatively. “And sit on the edge of the pool with your legs in the water.” He dove in, creating a perfect arc. I spotted something on his back, scars of some kind, and made a mental note to examine them later. I pulled my jersey dress up and over my head as Mr. Knight’s head emerged from the water. He cleared his eyes of moisture and watched me walk to the edge.